Page 74 of Our Darkest Summer
Braxton’s lips curled into a victorious smile. “Right.” He grinned, seeing us out.
???
The roads were abnormally dark on our way back to the Rhodes’ house. I was sitting in the back as Connor took over the passenger seat. My eyes flickered between the forest passing by outside and the stretch of road ahead. My thoughts were still wrapped around the newspaper, Bellford, and the town’s eerie events. The urban legend ofThe Watcherreminded me ofsomething else. I pulled out my phone and typedLizzie in the trees.
I hit search—but besides a few tree paintings and random websites, I came up empty. At least no one was spreading the so-called legend online. My thumb hovered over the screen, the silence in the car pressing in. The haunting melody had been stuck in my head since I heard it over the phone.
The car slowed, and I looked up to see we were already at the turn that led onto the side road. The trees hovered over us like hooded figures, and goosebumps rose on my arms as we moved closer to them. Another car suddenly shot out from the road, its headlights off, its tires screeching against the pavement.
Thomas cursed and yanked the wheel. The vehicle shot past us, missing our front bumper by inches. I barely had time to register the sleek, dark shape of it before it was gone, vanishing down the highway at breakneck speed.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“What the hell was that?” Connor asked, his voice sharp. “They almost caused an accident, shouldn’t they stop?”
Except, it didn’t feel like an accident. No headlights and driving at that speed… The way Thomas’ jaw flexed, I could tell he was thinking the same.
The rest of the drive was silent, the unease pressing in around us like the darkness beyond the trees. When the house finally appeared between the tall pines, a sinking feeling settled in my stomach.
The three of us walked up the stairs, and Thomas stepped up to the front door. He hesitated, his fingers hovering over the lock, his shoulders tense, like he was listening for something. Then, with a sharp inhale, he turned the key and pushed it open.
I was too tired to even think about discussing what just happened. Instead, I headed upstairs, Thomas’ quiet footsteps and Connor’s ringtone following behind me.
“Kev,” Connor said into his phone. “I was just about to call you.”
I didn’t hear the rest of their conversation as I turned the key to the guest room and stepped inside, closing the door behind me. The thought of turning on the light felt unnecessary. I was too exhausted to do anything but collapse into bed, clothes and all. I sat on the edge of the mattress, then shifted toward the center, before jolting back.
Something warm coated my palms. Thick.Wet.
I frowned as I lifted my hands, my fingers slick with something I couldn’t quite place. Slowly, I reached for the wall, my fingers fumbling for the switch.
The moment the light flickered to life, I wished it hadn’t. A strangled sound left my throat, acid rising as my stomach twisted. The white sheets were soaked in red. Blood. So much blood. And feathers. Green feathers, everywhere.
My breath hitched. I was seven years old again, watching my parrot, Doctor Watson, fly straight into our neighbor’s bicycle wheel. The sickening thud, the limp body, the bright smear of color against the pavement…
My stomach lurched. I slapped a hand over my mouth to keep myself from throwing up, only I forgot about the blood. The warm, sticky fluid smeared across my lips. I choked on a gasp, wiping at my face, but I only made it worse.
“Thomas,” I rasped, turning away from the bed, and?—
The words slashed across the mirror with jagged red letters, like a scream.
The door burst open, and Thomas stormed in.
“What ha—” His voice cut off, his body tensing as his gaze flicked between me, the bed, and the mirror.
I looked down at my hands, at the blood staining my skin, sinking into every crease and line. My pulse roared in my ears. I rubbed my skin, frantic, but the red only deepened, spreading over my arms. I couldn’t breathe.
“It doesn’t come off,” I whispered, gasping for air as my lungs seized. Too small. Too tight.
I could smell it. Metallic, thick… it was everywhere.
“It doesn’t come off!” Panic filled my voice.
Thomas moved fast. He pulled his shirt over his head, the white fabric bunched in his fist as he cupped my chin. His touch was firm, but careful, wiping my mouth, my cheeks.
I was shaking. Gulping down air, I blinked hard, realizing just then, I had been crying the whole time.
“It’s okay,” Thomas murmured, his voice steady, grounding. “You’re all right.” He tried to clean my hands, but no matter how much he wiped, the red wouldn’t fade.
