Page 35 of Ethereally Redeemed

“Do you see that poster?”

I nod, though she cannot see me with her back turned.

“The illustration looks eerily like Grimhill Manor,” she mumbles.

“Looks like any other old building.”

She shakes her head, her chestnut brown hair shifting with the motion, some strands falling over one shoulder. “No, I’d recognize it anywhere.”

“Redeemed.” I read the title aloud, attempting to make out the waterlogged letters on the poster that’s soaked through.

“I saw a poster like this when we were buying groceries.”

She straightens up once more, still gazing down at the posterand the murky water around it.

“Probably just an advertisement,” I suggest, trying to dismiss the unease creeping into me at what she’s implying.

She turns to me then, her mismatched eyes drawing me into their depths.

“It’s too similar to Grimhill Manor,” she insists as she takes my hand in hers.

“Odd,” I answer, with a knot of worry forming at the bottom of my chest.

As we continue our walk back to my childhood home, the sense of unease lingers.

“Very odd, indeed.”

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NIGHTFALL COMES WITH ITSoverwhelming darkness, far from civilization. Naya is sound asleep in the rickety bed, her breathing steady and deep. I know I won’t risk waking her when I leave. Because I have to leave—not only because I’ve finally found a way to contact the person Vortex mentioned, but also because we need more money if we’re ever going to survive. This is the quickest way.

I’m out of the house as soon as I can, sticking to the shadows of the trees and buildings to avoid detection, while I make my way to the other side of the town. The streets are just as filthy as they used to be, and when I’m far inside the town, having turned three lefts and five rights—as I’d memorized—I finally reach the crumbling apartment building, looking as if it might collapse any second.

Fear has no place in me as I take a few steps toward it. He knows I’m coming, though I never told him when, wanting to catch him off guard, just in case he tried anything.

I steel my spine, shaking off the nerves as I knock on the door. It creaks open just an inch, held by a chain, and a single dark eyepeers out at me, unblinking.

“Who are you?” he demands gruffly.

“Fury. We spoke on the phone.”

The door closes without another word before swinging open again, fully this time. I step inside, greeted by the pungent smell of weed and decay. The walls are grimy, and the man’s posture is hunched slightly as he pinches a cigar between his fingers, though I doubt it’s anything legal.

“It’s late,” he grunts.

“Didn’t think it’d matter.” I nod at the open bottles, scattered pills, and half-eaten snacks on the coffee table, all indicating that he wasn’t sleeping and I didn’t wake him.

He grunts again in irritation before leading me to the kitchen. It’s in even worse shape than the rest of the place, with cupboards barely hanging on and the wood scratched. The stench here is stronger, forcing my nose to scrunch despite my efforts to hide my obvious disgust.

Taking a long drag from the cigar, he exhales its acrid smoke, before tossing it out the open window. Yet even the fresh air does little to clear the suffocating stench.

“You got the photos?” he asks, and I nod, bringing up the burner phone I got a few days ago for the money I earned at the underground club.

I bring it to him, having him look through the photo I took of Naya after our graveyard date. She wasn’t aware I took it—too occupied by nature’s beauty to notice the phone I’d bought. He transfers it to his computer, nodding toward the old camera before him. I step in front of it, and he snaps a picture of me, quickly transferring it to his computer as well.

Unease makes my skin crawl inside this apartment, knowing that my little doll is all alone at the old house without anyone to protect her. I swallow away the doubts, forcing myself to stay focused. I cannot show that I’m distracted, weak, or evenscared. Men like the one before me feed on those emotions, like monsters sizing up their prey in a deadly sea.

He works swiftly, fingers moving with efficiency as he works the images and manipulates them as he wishes. It’s clear he has done this a thousand times over. I can do nothing but just stand there in silence, waiting for him to adjust the photos. My patience is wearing thin, but I know I can’t stress him on this.

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