Page 86 of Home Before Dark

First is me outside Baneberry Hall, smiling and guileless. The girl I never thought I was but now worry I might truly have been.

Second is my mother and me stepping into the forest behind the house.

Third is the sleepover, and fourth is the shot taken in the kitchen.

The fifth, the selfie of my father, could have been taken at any time, although it strikes me as being toward the end of our stay. He looks haggard. Like something had been weighing on his thoughts.

I know there was a bandage at some point because Chief Alcott told me she noticed it when interviewing my father at the Two Pines. Also, I have the scar to prove it.

If it wasn’t on our third day here, which is what the Book claims, then when did it happen?

And how did I get it?

And why did my father fudge the facts?

A rhetorical question. I already know the answer. He did it because the Book is bull—

I’m stopped mid-thought by a voice from elsewhere in the house, singing a song that roils my stomach.

“You are sixteen, going on seventeen—”

I grip the table’s edge, buzzing with fear. Hannah’s words again streak into my thoughts:It’s all true. Every damn word.

The song keeps playing, louder now, as if someone’s just cranked the volume.

“Baby, it’s time to think.”

Bullshit. That’s what I think.

There’s no ghost in this house.

But thereisa ghoul.

“Better beware, be canny and careful—”

I bolt from the dining room and pass through the great room. The chandelier is on again, even though I’m certain I haven’t touched its switch in days.

When I reach the front door, I find it’s still locked. The slip of paper I stuck in the doorframe when I returned from the Ditmers’ remains in place.

“Baby, you’re on the brink.”

The windows are also locked. I checked them earlier. If this is a ghoul—and of course it is—how did they get inside?

There’s only one way to find out.

The song continues to play as I tiptoe up the stairs, trying hard not to make a sound. If I’m going to catch whoever’s doing this, I need surprise on my side.

The music gets louder when I reach the second floor, which actually works to my advantage. It covers the sound of my footsteps as I pad into my bedroom and take the knife from the nightstand.

I move down the hallway, gripping the knife so tight my knuckles turn white. They remain that way as I climb the steps to the third floor. On the other side of the closed study door, the song continues to pulse.

I throw open the door and burst inside, announcing my presence with a primal scream and a jabbing knife.

The study is empty.

Almost.

On the desk, suddenly back again, is Buster.

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