Page 3 of Lost Echoes
My throat nearly closes as I open my eyes.
I knocked over the tray of food. The drink spilled onto me, and now everything is on the floor.
Click.
The door opens.
A man steps inside. He looks at me with brows arched. One eye is cloudy, and there’s something vaguely familiar about him.
He holds my gaze. Opens his mouth slowly. Says a single word. “Milkshake.”
Everything goes fuzzy. At least the screaming finally stops.
Milkshake…
That’s my trigger word.
What does it trigger?
I think I’m about to find out.
2
Billa
The long, dark hallway looms before me like a taunting, laughing clown at a carnival funhouse. Since moving to the Brannon property, I’ve always avoided this wing. To be fair, I keep away from most areas in the mansion—but this wing in particular gives me the creeps.
I’m not even sure why. It isn’t like it’s any spookier than the rest of the giant house that my narcissistic paternal ancestors built so long ago.
Soon, I suspect I’ll have the answer. I glance down at the handwritten journal tucked under my arm. It’s one from my childhood I don’t remember writing.
I didn’t even know this existed, but an old landlord tracked me down after having found a box of my and my mother’s things in the attic of a house we rented when I was a kid. The lady couldn’t find Mom—no real surprise there, as I haven’t heard from her in ages myself. I stopped counting at the three-year mark.
The timing of the journal’s return is especially haunting. It makes me think it isn’t simply by chance. Part of me thinks Laurel Radley is behind it somehow, even from prison. I don’t know how, and I know it makes little sense, but it’s the only explanation. I don’t believe in coincidences.
Now that I know I spent time in the mental institution as a child, it changes everything I thought I knew about my time spent here at the Brannon house as a little girl. The last pages of my journal cryptically mention this wing, and that I’d find answers there when I need them.
Another box of my things, perhaps? Or something much, much worse?
A shiver runs down my back as I glance down the hallway again.
Maybe I shouldn’t attempt this alone. But with Kenzi in the psychiatric hospital, I’m pretty much stuck. I’d ask Ember to join me, but Graham is already watching me like a hawk. Ember would love nothing more than to explore more history of this mansion, but my brother-in-law is still mad at me for dragging her into all the Radley stuff.
It wasn’t my fault his daughter secretly climbed into the trunk of my car and went exploring on the grounds of the old mental institution where I’ve been working—speaking of people watching me carefully. Nobody there trusts me farther than they could throw the old theater. Not that I can blame them, but at least they allowed me back to work as the laundry girl. Once I regain their trust, I’m going to start digging for information again.
The abandoned theater is now condemned, but I still hope to get back in and find anything we missed before. So far, there is no actual timeline for demolition, so I’m not worried.
Not yet.
My phone rings in my pocket. I nearly jump out of my skin. Gasping for air, I yank it out and check the screen.
Ryker. He’s my nephew, who’s barely younger than I am. Like me, he’s a Brannon by blood but wasn’t accepted to be an actual part of the family as a child. In a way, that makes us kindred spirits.
I accept the call. “What’s up?” I try to sound calm, but I’m out of breath. Between staring down the scary wing and the journal, I’m about as on edge as I could get.
“New memory unlocked.”
We’ve both been dealing with spotty recollections of our time spent working at Radley recently. Both of us think they gave us something to mess with our memories. I’m still there, but he left and never plans to return. We’ll still find answers, one way or another. I thought going back would help, but I’m having no more luck than he is, and he refuses to return to the place. “Anything useful?”
