Page 33 of Wicked Beasts
Yet it’s fascinating to me to think about what might be happening past what I can see. My imagination takes the idea by the throat and runs with it as I consider the possibility of a mad scientist just on the other end, experimenting with reanimation, a haunted mansion in the opposing direction, dilapidated and rotting as it gets reclaimed by the Earth, forgotten by time. No one considers the chilling fear of the Night Marchers blaring their conch shells and the beat of their drums so loud, their bass rattles your heart while the stench of their decay rots in your nose, or the wailing green woman eager to snatch your children and drown them in the gulch as she mourns from grief of herown loss. What could be lurking between the acres of sugarcane stalks and across the pineapple fields?
Maybe it’s for those reasons tourists don’t wander too far from town.
Gisella’s giggle from behind tears me from the dark depths of my paranormal fantasies. I glance at her in the backseat, her eyes fixated on the illuminated screen of her phone as she fumbles with the silver charm hanging around her neck. She always finds such joy on social media. When she isn’t working, her eyes are always glued to that screen. I wonder if it's a coping method, a mere distraction from the horrors of her reality—or maybe she’s looking at more recipes. Either way, it’s not my place to ask, nor any of my business. I didn’t know what it was like to lose a man who was in love with me. I didn’t know what it was like to feel seen and to be loved for who I am, rather than for how I looked or what I could provide.
Her fingers fumble again with the charm, a delicate, unconscious movement that speaks volumes. It must have been love—the kind that leaves its mark on your soul, etched in the deepest recesses of your heart. I can only assume she feels that absence with every breath, every passing day since.
I shift slightly in the passenger seat, leaning forward to face the road, but not without a lingering glance at Mrs. Wong in the driver’s seat. Her posture is stiff, almost rigid, her hands gripping the steering wheel at ten and two, her elbows bent but taut with restraint. She stares straight ahead, unblinking, as though the road itself is an enemy to be watched. The tightness of her form makes my own back ache, but I slouch deeper into the seat, trying to find a comfort that seems evasive. Despite the stern set of her features, I can hear the faint hum of her voice—soft, almost imperceptible, blending with the gentle rhythm of the music drifting from the radio.
The drive to Pearlridge is a blur of concrete and steel, the relentless sun beating down from above, casting its fiery gaze upon the right side of my face. The heat sears through the window, roasting my skin and the front of my thighs right through my leggings. The light bounces off the surrounding cars and blinds me with its glare. I feel as if I’m trapped in some infernal contraption, a metal box hurtling down the freeway at seventy miles an hour, as though the sun itself is trying to burn me alive. But there is one small mercy—traffic is light this morning, and I can almost feel a pang of gratitude for the absence of congestion. If the roads had been crowded, the heat would have surely stripped away the first two layers of my skin long before we arrived.
Twenty-Eight
Pearlridge Mall is a haze of artificial light and indistinct faces. It’s almost suffocating, with the hum of too many people and too much noise compared to the silence of the mansion. It feels like I'm moving through a dream—or maybe a nightmare, gliding from one place to another, or perhaps being guided—or dragged.
The oppressive heat from the parking lot to the upper level presses harshly against my skin, though I can’t tell if it’s the stifling air or something else weighing on me that bothers me more. Maybe it’s just the sense of something being off, an undercurrent of unease I can’t quite shake.
Dr. Shadow still looms over me like a haunting presence, lingering in the back of my mind. The ghost of his lips and breath still warm my neck, his forbidden touch pressing up between my thighs.
I chew on the inside of my cheek, trying to ground myself in the mall, but it’s hard to focus.
Mrs. Wong has disappeared to the farmers market by Kamehameha Highway, leaving Gisella and me to wander around the shops. Her slender arm is looped through mine, clinging to me with a quiet desperation, as if she fears I mightvanish into the shadows of the mall. I hadn’t noticed before just how small she is—how fragile she feels, tucked so close against me. Not even in the house did she seem this delicate. Now, with her body pressed up against my arm as she clutches to me like a possession, her softness feels like something precious, something I should protect from the world.
A strange, almost bitter jealousy stirs in me. I envy her smallness, the way it matches her, like a delicate bird that could flutter away at any moment. She’s so effortlessly sweet, with her bubble-like laughter and that innocent smile, her wide doe eyes drinking in the world around her with an open wonder that makes the dull mall seem alive with color.
I almost resent it—the way she can still look at the world through eyes unclouded by bitterness or fear. Despite everything she's endured, she carries with her an innocence that feels impossibly fragile, like something I should guard at all costs. There’s something tragic about it, though, something that pulls at my chest. I want her to stay this way—untainted, unaware of the darkness that lingers just outside her view. But I know it’s already too late for that. I don’t know how she does it.
Her free hand fumbles with the charm around her neck, the delicate glass slipper glinting faintly in the harsh lights as her fingers tremble. She grips my arm tighter, almost possessively, as if my presence is the only thing keeping her grounded. It’s a strange, quiet thing, this bond between us, as if we’re both trying to hold on to something we can’t quite define.
“Are you liking it at the Black Estate?” Gisella asks, cutting through my thoughts.
I blink a few times, trying to register what she asked.
“What do you mean? The job?”
She nods as she glances at the cookies in the display.
“The house itself still spooks me, honestly,” she admits before asking the employee for a chocolate-dipped shortbreadcookie. She releases my arm and digs into her purse for her wallet. “Do you want one? Those and the peanut butter ones are my favorite. Oh, I’m just going to get you one—two, please!” she says, shifting from me back to the employee.
A chuckle escapes my lips as she hands me the small bag.
“This is going to go straight to my hips,” I mutter, glancing at the bag with mock dread as she puts her wallet away.
“Oh, please,” she says, waving her hand dismissively. Her eyes twinkle with the kind of innocent mischief that always seems to follow her. “Your figure is perfect. Now, be a good girl and eat your cookie.”
Good girl.
Her words slip into the air between us, light and affectionate, but they land somewhere deeper than I expected. It’s nothing more than a playful tease, but it catches me off guard for a moment. I blink, shaking off the strange flutter in my chest, and force a smile. “Right,” I say, taking a bite of the shortbread. It’s soft, buttery, and melts on my tongue—comforting.
“See? Isn’t it amazing?” Gisella watches me eagerly, her eyes wide with excitement, as if my approval is the only thing that matters.
I can’t help but smirk. “It really is,” I say just before I take another bite.
“I really need to learn how to make them. I can never find a good recipe online?—”
In the middle of nibbling on my cookie and listening to Gisella talk about baking, I turn around and accidentally bump into someone.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there?—”
