Page 65 of Sinister Legacy
Amongst all of my fucked-up emotions keeping me up at night, I miss him.
I miss how we laughed until we cried when we were alone and how he used to brush his fingers against mine as we walked into the classroom. It was only a light touch, but I felt it down to my core.
Sliding out from beneath the sheet, I place my feet on the cold floor. One look at the alarm clock confirms it’s three in the morning.
With my elbows on my knees, I drag my hands through my dark hair before sliding them back down over my face and blowing out a ragged breath. Sleep deprivation is now my nightly visitor.
Every time I close my eyes, I’m assaulted with memories from the night when we found him in the woods. I struggle to merge that vivid image of horror with the laughing, blonde-haired boy I fell for.
“Screw this,” I mutter, rising to my feet.
As I step out into the hallway, I’m met with the sound of my father’s loud snoring. It’s a mystery how my mom can sleep in the same room as him.
I make my way downstairs to the kitchen, bleary-eyed and exhausted. The cold air bites at my bare skin, and I regret leaving my room in my boxers.
After switching on the light, I pause when I spot a box on the kitchen island in the middle of the room. It’s a small, square box wrapped in black tissue. It sits there, ominous and chill-inducing.
I hesitate, looking left and right. My eyes sweep over the tall windows. It’s pitch-black outside. Darkness presses in against the glass, lined at the edges with a layer of frost, like thick smoke.
Inhaling a steadying breath, I walk up to the island with slow, careful steps.
On top of the box is an envelope with an image of the devil. I stare at it for too long. The crimson face contrasts brightly with the crisp white envelope, and the cruel, sinister smile reveals fanged teeth and a slithery forked tongue.
I recognize it for what it is—the killer’s calling card. A devil’s mask was found near Jasper’s body.
Against my better judgment, I reach for the card, turn it over in my clammy hands, and slide a finger beneath the sealed flap. A blood-red card peeks out from inside, and I slide it out while my heart pummels my chest.
As I open the card, a polaroid picture falls onto the marble surface. I stumble back, staring wide-eyed at the photograph of Jasper bound on the ground. Strips of gray duct tape cover his mouth and eyes. He was still alive. The killer stands over his body, photographing him.
My eyes flick to the card that lies beside the photograph. Icy dread slithers down my spine as I carefully pick it up and read the scrawled handwriting.
You stole his heart and toyed with it like a selfish little fuckboy, and now you get to keep it, like your very own souvenir.
With a shaky hand, I place the card back down and reach for the box, the tissue crinkling loudly in the silence while I carefully unwrap it.
My heart beats viciously behind my ribcage, and my throat is so clogged with a mixture of gnawing fear and trepidation that it’s a miracle I manage to slide the lid off and place it down carefully beside the photograph. There’s more tissue inside, hiding its contents.
A rancid, stomach-churning smell hits my nose, and I press my hand against my mouth, gagging behind my palm. My insides twist and coil.
Lowering my hand, I hold my breath so as to not empty my stomach content on the kitchen floor while I shift the tissue out of the way.
Inside are the remains of a rotten, decomposing heart.
Jasper’s heart.
My own heart slams its fists against my chest, and I scramble back, only to fall on my ass. The pain in my tailbone is the last thing on my mind when I roll over and proceed to puke until my stomach lining burns and there’s nothing left but bile.
I should hear the approaching heavy footsteps as they cross the kitchen floor to where I lie in a pool of my own vomit, but I don’t.
Not until it’s too late.
A sharp blow to my head knocks me out, my body collapsing to the floor. Darkness seeps in at the corners of my eyes, blackening my vision. A pained groan slips from my lips as my ankles are grabbed, and I’m dragged through the kitchen, leaving a trail of half-digested carrot pieces and sweetcorn behind.
* * *
I wake to the sound of an insistent drip. To my left is a hole in the roof, where the rain is leaking through. My head throbs, and blinding pain shoots through my skull when I look around the empty room.
Where the fuck am I?
