Page 65 of Sinners Atone
With Google letting me down, I grab my cell off the side table, open the Instagram app, and type his name into the search bar.
Nothing.
So how the hellwas he looking at my Instagram page?
Something between frustration and fear prickles behind my eyeballs, and a lump the size of a golf ball forms in my throat.
Iloathethat man. From his buzzcut to his steel-capped boots and everything between. I hate his stare and how it sours when it touches me. Hate his shadow and how it looks on the edges of mine.
I hate he was the one to save me from the creepy man in the phonebooth, hate the lecture that followed. Hate that he tossed me into his trunk like I was destined for a landfill, just to prove that hecould, and that he showed no remorse or sympathy when he finally let me out, a crying, blubbery mess.
I hate that his cryptic words—If it happened in the dark, it didn’t happen—echo around my head when it’s quiet. Hate that they fascinate me, and that black hole in the center of my soul swells at the sound of it.
Most of all, I hate myself. Because now he’s consuming my thoughts. He floods through my veins and fizzes in places he shouldn’t.
It feels all too familiar.
Before I can spiral, I stab the volume key on my laptop and turn “Does Your Mother Know”up to full blast. Then, before I can stop myself, I go back to Google and type in another name.
The Boogeyman.
My heart pounds in my ears as I wait for the Wikipedia page to load. And when my eyes skim over the first sentence, it slows to a stop.
The Boogeyman is a shadowy, amorphous ghost who hides in dark places to frighten unsuspecting victims.
Unease works its way down my back, chilling every knot on my spine.
His power is neutralized by bright light.
I read the page from top to bottom, back to front. Then I go back and click on all the other search results too, working my way through fables, myths, cautionary tales. I stare at every sketch of ominous figures seeping out of dark corners, until I swear, I see green eyes, ink, and scars within their black mass. Until they leap out of the screen and climb my own walls.
When the “low battery” sign blinks on the corner of the screen, I glance up to the window for a respite and realize that so much time has passed darkness has swallowed the sun.
Blowing out a trembling breath, I reach for the lamp on the bedside table and turn it on.
Nothing happens.
I click it again, and when it still doesn’t work, I roll over to try the one on the opposite side.
Nope.
Muttering under my breath, I get up and try the main switch.
A quietclick—no light.
A whisper of fear raises the hair on the back of my neck, but I force it aside. The power cut has nothing to do with my Google search history and everything to do with the fact that the wiring in my house is in shambles. The kitchen light only turns on if I punch it, and the other day, I switched on the stove and the shower upstairs started running.
God bless Uncle Finn, but if he did build this house, he built it with a YouTube tutorial, sticky tape, and good intentions alone.
Shuffling into the hallway, I feel my way along the wall and press every light switch my fingers brush over, to no avail.
Dammit.I consider going back upstairs and grabbing my cell to call Finn but decide I’ll walk over to his house instead. I’ve been horizontal for hours; I could use the exercise.
I descend the stairs and awkwardly hop around on the welcome mat, tugging on my rain boots. As I slide into my puffer jacket, a sense of foreboding crawls up my shoulders and squeezes my nape.
No.
Dread moves through me like a slow-moving tide. I fight against its current to lift my gaze to the door, though in my heart, I already know what’s behind it.
