Page 9 of Marked

But as I heated water in a suspiciously functional microwave, I couldn’t help but wonder: if the Stones had maintained everything so perfectly, why? What did they want with this place?

What did they want withme?

The stairs loomed before me like a challenge. Each step felt like a page turning in a book I wasn’t sure I wanted to read.

“It’s just stairs,” I muttered, gripping my cup of ramen like a shield. “Just normal, creaky, possibly haunted stairs in a perfectly normal cottage maintained by a suspiciously attractive member of the town’s mysterious founding family. Totally fine.”

Don’t run on the stairs, sweetheart. They’re old.

Mom’s voice, clear as day. I gripped the banister—right side, the left is loose—and started up.

Three bedrooms. I knew that before counting them, just like I knew the master bedroom was at the end of the hall—Mom’s room, don’t go in without knocking—a small guest room that smelled of mothballs on the right, and…

My room.

I stood in the doorway, heart hammering. The furniture was different—generic guest room setup now—but the dimensions were the same. The window still had that weird diamond-shaped pattern in the glass that used to cast strange shadows on the wall when the moon was full.

Don’t look at the shadows, honey. Just close your curtains and go to sleep.

My scar tingled as I stepped inside, nearly spilling my ramen. There used to be glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, I think. And a bookshelf by the window where I’d hide with a flashlight after bedtime. The bed was in the same spot, though not the same bed. Not my old race car bed with the squeaky spring in the left corner.

Something scratched at the edges of my memory—a night, a sound, Mom’s voice urgent and scared…

“Don’t look back, baby. Just run.”

I backed out of the room, shutting the door maybe a little too quickly. My ramen sloshed dangerously.

“Okay, that’s enough memory lane for one night,” I announced to the empty hallway, voice only slightly shaky. “Time for some quality time with my cup of noodles and absolutely zero thoughts about mysterious maintenance men or weird childhood flashbacks.”

But as I descended the stairs, my scar still tingling, two thoughts wouldn’t leave me alone. Why did the Stones care so much about this place? And why did Mom never want me to look at the shadows?

I eyed my duffel bag where I’d dropped it by the door. The sleeping bag strapped to it suddenly seemed like the best decision I’d made all day.

“Sorry, mysterious upstairs bedrooms,” I muttered, unrolling the sleeping bag on the living room floor. “You’re a bit too horror movie for my taste tonight.”

I’d planned to rough it anyway, not expecting working utilities or maintained furniture. Now, despite the perfectly good beds upstairs, something in me rebelled at the thought of sleeping in any of those rooms. Especially mine.Formerlymine.

“This is perfectly normal,” I told myself, wedging my makeshift bed into the corner between the couch and coffee table. The position gave me a clear view of both the front door and the stairs, with solid furniture at my back. Perfect for a quick escape, if needed. “Lots of people prefer to sleep in their living rooms instead of their perfectly good bedrooms because of totally not creepy childhood memories and weird feelings about shadows. And lots of people definitely arrange their sleeping bags like they’re setting up a defensive position in a horror movie.”

I tried not to think about how natural it felt, picking the most defensible spot in the room. Or how my body seemed to remember the exact angle to position myself—close enough to the door to run but protected enough to see anything coming.

After hours on the road in summer heat, the shower felt like heaven. The water pressure was surprisingly good—yet another Stone family miracle—and I finally felt human again, the sweat and travel grime washing away. I changed into my favorite space-themed pajamas, the ones Luke always said made me look like Area 51’s least threatening escapee.

Speaking of Luke… I grabbed my phone and dialed his number. He picked up before the first ring ended.

“YOU’RE ALIVE!”

I held the phone away from my ear. “Indoor voice, Luke. And yes, surprisingly not murdered yet.”

“Why didn’t you call earlier? I was about to send in the National Guard. Or my eomma. She’s scarier.”

“My car broke down,” I said, settling into my sleeping bag, feeling refreshed but exhausted. “But fear not, I was rescued by a suspiciously helpful local named Caleb who offered to tow me to the cottage.”

“You got into a stranger’s car? In the middle of nowhere?” Luke’s voice went up an octave. “Please tell me you at least had your location sharing on.”

“Before you start, yes, I know every horror movie ever begins this way.”

“Kai Chen, I swear to God—”

---