Page 86 of Wicked Beasts
It is day after day I find myself peeking into more windows than I should, trying to distract myself from the ache in my chest.
I miss Tristan.
I miss the manor.
My father doesn’t ask why my job apparently ended so suddenly. He’s just happy I’m home. I try to explain the job isn’t over, not exactly, but the words mostly stick in my throat. I think he can tell I’m upset. I want to explain, but how does one even begin to explain I fell in love with two versions of the same man?
He brings up Tucker once or twice, which I am quick to dismiss. I haven’t thought of him in what feels like ages. Rather than trying to coax me into speaking about my time at the Black estate, my father frequently encourages me to try writing, something to help pass the time, but I can’t focus. As much as I want to write, as much as I want to have something for Tristan to read when he returns, I just can’t seem to start. Instead, I find myself staring blankly at the glaringly white screen, the blinking cursor a cruel reminder of my inability to form a single coherent thought.
The ache in my chest grows heavier with each passing day, swelling until it feels as though it might consume me. Some mornings, it’s so overwhelming, I feel anchored to my bed, unable to summon the strength to sit up, trapped beneath the weight of it like a little demon sits on my chest, not letting me up.
I keep my phone plugged in and fully charged, awaiting the day someone calls for my return. But the days seem to drag on, and my phone remains silent. The Black manor begins to feel like a cruel dream slipping further and further away from me, but the collar of bruises on my neck tell a different tale.
My father openly expressed his concerns when he saw them, and even though I constantly reassured him it wasn’t Tristan’s fault, I could tell he didn’t quite believe me, not fully. I know there’s a part of him that blames himself, I can see it in his eyes, but he never speaks of it, and I don’t either.
Kehau called at first, but after so many missed texts and voicemails, I think she figured I was avoiding her. I’m not exactly—it’s more that, after life in the manor, life here feels like a dream. Insubstantial. Temporary.
This house is bright, with its whitewashed walls decorated with beautiful ocean paintings framed in bamboo. Even as I sit nestled into the couch, nearing the witching hour, no light but the illumination glowing from my laptop, there remains a sense of brightness surrounding me. After the beautiful gloom and decay of the haunting Black manor, where shadows draped every corner and the very walls seemed to breathe beneath the peel of the wallpaper, this light feels too bright, almost offensive.
A sudden movement catches my eye, drawing my gaze toward the window. The streetlight outside flickers violently, casting erratic shadows across the living room, and a cold wind seeps through the air, brushing against my skin. A chill sinks deep into my bones, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. My father went to bed hours ago, and I’m struck by my isolation. I tilt my head slightly, straining to see outside from my seat, but after a few seconds, I set my laptop aside on the couch and force myself to stand.
My hand instinctively rubs the back of my neck, trying to calm the growing unease in the pit of my stomach as I approach the window. My steps are slow and hesitant, each one dragging me closer to the unsettling scene outside, as if pulled by an unbreakable tether of curiosity. The dark street below seems to stretch on endlessly, its stillness broken only by the flickering streetlight.
A wave of unease crashes over me as I watch the streetlights flicker and sputter, one by one, fading into nothingness at unnerving speed. Soon, the entire street is swallowed by an impenetrable darkness, nothing visible except the faint, erratic glow of the lone streetlight outside my window illuminating nothing but the immediate space below it. It casts long, distortedshadows, leaving the rest of the street engulfed in a suffocating abyss.
A sudden figure appears beneath the dimming light—a woman, her dull blonde hair obscuring her face. I take a cautious step back from the window, my jaw clenched tight, my eyes wide with dread.
She’s here.
Her name barely escapes my lips, a whisper of my terror.
“Cordelia.”
And then, with a final flicker, the bulb dies.
The ghost of her face inches from mine on the other side of the glass is the last thing I see before everything goes dark.
But then, my body begins to move.
As if I’m a puppet and she’s holding the strings, I feel my arm reach for the door, andshe leads me, barefoot, out of my front door and down the front steps.
I find myself stepping onto the cold, hard pavement of the street, my feet meeting the ground with a strange, instinctual rhythm as I compulsively twirl beneath the moonlight, my hands gently grasping my thin, white nightgown as I sway in the night. My heart beats erratically, matching an unheard rhythm that moves my feet in harmony with silent music.
The world around me blurs and twists, the edges of everything growing soft and distant, as if I’m dancing through a dream. The pavement is rough against my feet, blistering them gently as I disappear down the dark, dead street, the night air biting at my exposed skin. Time seems to stand still as my legs carry me further, drawn by the melody of the nature surrounding me.
My bare feet sink into suddenly muddy ground, each step deeper than the last, and still, I dance. Twigs snap and branches crack underfoot, sharp splinters biting into my skin, but I feel none of it—not the pain nor the discomfort. The rhythm flowsthrough me, guiding me forward, as if my body is following the strings of a marionette.
Trees rise around me, as though suddenly sprouting fully grown from the ground, their branches reaching out like skeletal hands, brushing against my arms as I spin and stagger between them. My feet slip on wet leaves, nearly sending me tumbling to the ground, and a cold grasp grabs my arm to steady me—catching me by my icy strings.
The world is spinning now, a dizzying blur of shadow and moonlight, the rhythm in my chest a steady drumbeat that harmonizes with the rustling of the trees. The night is alive, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, and still, I dance—spinning and turning in a trance-like haze, only the pull of strings to guide my movement. The branches rake against my skin, sharp and unforgiving, but I feel no pain, only the surge of energy driving me forward.
I don’t know what I’m dancing toward, but the feeling consumes me, and I can’t stop even as my feet begin to ache and tire. The night presses in, the darkness becoming all-encompassing, as though the very forest is swallowing me whole. And yet, I continue, lost in the rhythm of something I can’t understand, something pulling me further and further away from everything I know, toward something I desire but cannot comprehend.
My fingers trace the cold, twisted lines of the wrought-iron gate as my dance slows, the rhythm fading from my limbs. Slowly, the world sharpens around me.
Through the black gate, I see the familiar silhouette of a large manor house against the first hints of morning light. My body trembles.
She led me right back to the Black Manor.
