Page 15 of Traithorn

Then, I see it. Faint smears of red leading from the bed to the hearth.

My stomach twists as I scramble to it, flames roaring like a wild beast out to hunt its victims. As if trying to give off a warning. Swallowing my unease, I follow the trail to the other side of my room.

White floors adorn the room along with grey walls, a stone hearth before my queen-sized bed with its plush pillows, and a wardrobe pushed up against the far wall. Everything looks the same, yet everything is somehow different. Be it a feeling or a lingering knowing.

The heat from the fire hits me like a blast as I crouch down, staring into the flames that only make the sweat cling to my body. It’s way too hot here. Almost suffocating, making it impossible to breathe steadily.

Something is buried underneath the embers, but I cannotquite see what it is. A frown mars my eyebrows, but it doesn’t matter how much I lean into the glass gate; my view is restricted at best.

A shrill ringing resonates through the room until I realize it’s my alarm, indicating I have to get going. It startles me enough that a gasp escapes me as I quickly whip around to face the clock.

There’s something wedged between the books on my nightstand, almost invisible and blending in like a chameleon. The hair on the back of my neck rises as I spot what appears to be a card, my trembling hands growing worse while panic coils around my throat like a snake squeezing the oxygen from my lungs.

The number ‘3’ is written on the front of the card, and lead drops in my gut. Every instinct inside me screams to drop the card. Not read it. Yet I’m already turning the card, eyes scanning the ink.

A little gift.

For you.

Five words. That’s all it takes for the world to feel like it’s once again ending. I’m forced to grip the thick paper with both hands to stop it from curling back together or crumpling in my hands.

My vision blurs at the edges as the words burn into my mind, dragging forth shadows. The handwriting feels so familiar, but it’s beentoolong.

There’s no name. No signature.

I’m certain I know who left it for me because it’s the same handwriting as the last letter I received. They were never supposed to get out again, sent miles away from here.

Something with the sprawled words urges me to turn to the stone hearth again. The fire resembles an inferno, flames twisting and swirling like the devil’s breath. Devouring with aninsatiable hunger that cannot easily be tamed.

Once more, I crouch before the fire, staring into what’s hiding underneath the embers and the logs.

Fear ignites in me. Dark and primal, like a presence on my irises, a stain in the corner of my eyes, seeping blackness everywhere.

I’m left staring at something lumpy and hard, unmoving.

Carefully opening the hearth door, I grab the prod standing to the side to get a better view of what’s inside. A wave of nausea rolls over me until I scramble backwards, the flames roaring, an odd odor instantly spreading through my room.

Lightheadedness makes me feel fuzzy as I stare at what’s lying there, and the voice on the radio comes back to my mind.

Because there, burning up into embers, is a sawed-off right hand. The wrist has been severed, jagged flesh exposing the tissues of the muscles. Bile rises in my throat, twisted and raw. The faint smell of charred meat filters through my room. I fight the urge not to vomit right then and there.

Unease lingers inside me as a loud bang comes from my hallway. I hurry my way there with legs feeling as if they might collapse at any second, and my mind a little lost without being able to comprehend anything. The front door stands wide open, when it was closed, even locked, when I slept. A single black rose—the one I left on my parents’ grave—is on the doorstep, blood draping it in rivulets.

Chapter 7

ONE DAMNED ESSENCE

Isolde

Darkness meets the emptyhallway as I make my way through the counseling center. Muscles tight with the nervousness pounding in my ears, the symphony of doom is all too clear, greeting me with damnation.

I can’t stop pacing back and forth.

After the events of the past week, I’ve realized I can’t skip my group therapy anymore, and I absolutely could not stay inside my apartment after what I found this morning.

Ever since my parents were murdered, I’ve been going to therapy, trying to process it all. Trauma is funny like that—it sometimes hits you out of nowhere, making you lose a part of yourself, and a part of your mind. I haven’t been able to tell them the whole truth—the part whereIwas involved. But it has helped.

A little.

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