Page 57 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
All I see is the cold fog leaving my mouth until Shane lifts the tablecloth.
“What is it?”
“A clown.” No sound comes out of my mouth, just more air.
“Lancie, we’ve talked about this. Earlier, when you told me there were shadows walking around the reading room and talking to you. I took you out, and the second we come home, it happens?—”
“I know.” I rub my face and wipe the tears from my eyes. “And I know it’s ridiculous.”
“Do you think it’s time to talk to someone?”
Before I can answer, a noise echoes in the distance, and I know it’s the front door.
“Did you hear that?” I find myself asking because, honestly, I’m not sure what’s real right now. “It was the front door.”
“We wouldn’t hear the front door from here.”
“But you did hear it?”
Shane nods, then the tablecloth drops. The sound of his footsteps gets quieter and quieter as he drifts through the house. I crawl out from beneath the table, avoiding the muddy prints he left behind.
Standing in the kitchen, a chill runs down my spine. It causes my body to tremble harder.
Seconds pass before Shane is back, his voice before his body.
“There’s no one there. I checked the music room to see if something had fallen, but nothing. We do need to paint in there, too, though.” He appears in the doorway. “Also, the front doors were loc—” he cuts off.
“What?” I follow his gaze to the window behind me. To the crack that caused a chill and the bloody handprint that put it there.
“I’ll call the police.”
CHAPTER 15
Ambrose—present day
Today’s shift was decent—quiet, but decent. The early finish was appreciated until I began my journey home.
The cold air was the first thing to attack me, blowing through my open shirt. There was no fake blood on me tonight—that’s not part of this Saturday’s attire, and before I left, Valaria talked to me again about a change that wouldn’t trigger anyone’s PTSD. By anyone’s, she meant mine.
No more fucking clowns.
Well, no more clown makeup. The town is full of clowns.
Tonight is proof.
Real blood drips from new wounds that will one day stain my flesh silver and join the many others.
I could have—should have—driven and avoided all this.
There’s a beat-up old car parked in that eerily dark cave under my house. No doubt, the antique mechanisms are seizing with each step I take.
Perhaps nerves play a part, as I only got my license two weeks ago. But I’ll be wiser next time. Shaking behind a steering wheel isn’t half as bad as getting hit in the face with a bike chain while another is wrapped around my throat, pressing into scar tissue.
I swallow, and it hurts.
My breaths come out heavy, creating a fog around me as I hobble on.
All the hate spat at me still lingers in my head.
