Page 21 of Madness Blooms
I change out the batteries on the second flashlight and work on doing the same for the third when I hear the front door creak open. Momentarily, I become rooted to the spot, my knees wobbly. I want to speak, to ask who’s there. Against my better judgment, I flip on the flashlight and shine the beam into the hall. My pulse quickens, and I wipe a clammy palm on my shorts.
This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening …
Tightly gripping the flashlight, I cautiously make my way into the hall. “Is anyone there?” I ask, my voice shrill with fear, dreading a response. My leg muscles tense as I approach the foyer. The sound of wind chimes from the neighbor’s porch startles me, causing me to hesitate before poking my head outside.
Nothing but darkness.
I’m about to shut the door—when a hand snatches my wrist and pulls me outside. I try to scream, but a gloved palm covers my mouth, and I’m quickly moved out of sight on the porch. My captor holds me in a tight embrace and strokes my hair in a mockingly soothing manner. I tremble, too scared to look up.
Because I already know who it is.
“I didn’t see anyone down there,” Kyla says as she returns from the basement. “It was probably just an animal.”
“An animal?” he whispers, clucking his tongue in disapproval. “That’s not a very gracious thing to say to your guests.”
The voice of the monster that has terrorized my existence and haunted my nightmares makes me nauseous. I want to dig my nails into his flesh or blind him with the flashlight, but I’m powerless against his strength. I can’t even speak properly, my words stifled.
Kyla appears out of nowhere, like a savior sent from heaven, and I silently thank her sharp instincts. “Who thefuckare you?” she snaps, pointing her knife at the killer.
He eyes the weapon and laughs, the sound derisive. “Wouldn’t you like to know, sweetheart?” His facade turns on a dime, his tone shifting to that of an eerie, vicious calmness. “You’ll know soon enough.” Then, violently, he pushes me toward her and tears out of the property.
Kyla lets out a frustrated growl of anger as if she wants to give chase, but he vanishes into the night. I whimper, tears sneaking down my cheeks. Her hardened expression softens, and she kneels, gathering me into her arms. I sob, releasing all the emotions I’ve pent up.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
Soon, my sobbing turns to full-blown weeping. She holds me until my crying subsides into quiet sniffles, then pulls away slightly as I wipe my eyes, fatigue weighing down my lids.
She’s silent for a moment before standing up. “I’ll take care of the fuse box. In the meantime, you call that damn boyfriend of yours and get his ass over here.”
I swallow and nod, then she heads back to the basement. I drag myself to my feet and head to the phone, dialing Luke’s number and listening to it ring before he finally picks up.
“Hello?”
“Luke, it’s Grace. I …”
“Are you okay? You sound upset. Did something happen?”
I feel my lower lip quiver as I struggle to maintain a semblance of composure. “Yes, something happened. But I’m okay. Can you come over and stay the night?”
The power flickers back on as Luke replies.
“Of course. I’ll take care of you, Grace.”
Chapter
Ten
HIM
Ihave a date with a rabbit.
As I wait in her living room, I watch a news segment about the recent murders in the New England region. It’s mostly factual, but incredibly sensational, presented by people who want to stir fear in the populace to keep them compulsively tuned into the endless news cycle. It’s good for advertisers—especially now that they’ve started comparing my work to that of the Lakestone Reaper.
It’s flattering.
He’s the closest thing I’ve had to an idol and a role model.
My fingers tingle and flex; I’m feeling antsy. It’s been over a month since I last killed. Instead, I’ve been playing the attentive boyfriend, making sure Bunny takes her meds and eats three square meals a day. She clings to me, unable to live without me anymore. I’ve made sure of that. And in the meantime, I’ve been monitoring that bastard, Briar Blackwell—or should I say, Norman Atticus Clark.