"A WARNING''
A sharp knock jolts me upright.
I clutch my chest, heart battering against my ribs. Do they know? Have they found out?
"Yes?" My voice comes out tighter than I intended.
"Can I come in for a second?"
It's Ethan.
Why is he outside my room-at this hour?
"Uh… just a minute."
I spin around the room, panic rising so fast it makes me dizzy.
Everything feels out of place, exposed, incriminating.
Clothes from earlier lie draped over the chair like abandoned skins, and I grab them with shaking hands, shoving them into the closet without folding, without thinking. Hangers knock together with sharp metallic clacks that sound far too loud in the silence. The leather diary follows, jammed into the desk drawer so hard it nearly snaps shut on my fingers. Papers crumple. Something falls. I don't stop to see what.
My pulse pounds against my ears, heavy and frantic, like footsteps running right behind me.
My palms are slick when I reach for the doorknob.
Before I can turn it, it rattles.
The sound slices straight through my chest.
For a second, I just stand there, staring at the handle, convinced it's moving on its own. Then I force myself forward and twist it open.
Ethan stands in the doorway.
The hallway light frames him from behind, turning him into a dark shape with a face that doesn't look right. His smile stretches too wide, too stiff, like it's been carved there. His blue eyes glimmer strangely, unfocused and trembling, as though something inside him is shaking the glass.
"It's your turn now," he says.
His voice is calm. Pleasant, almost.
That calmness terrifies me more than if he'd screamed.
He steps inside.
Instinctively, I step back.
The air feels colder around him, thick with the faint metallic smell of something I don't want to recognize. My gaze drops before I can stop it.
There's a knife in his hand.
The blade catches the light with a clean, indifferent shine.
"No… please… don't," I whisper, but my voice comes out thin and broken. My throat tightens until it hurts to breathe. My legs feel rooted to the floor, useless and heavy.
He tilts his head, studying me like I'm something fragile he's about to break.
"What, Odessa?" he asks softly. "Remember… you're the one who killed her."
The words don't make sense. They slide past me at first.
"What…?"
Something warm drips down my wrist.
I frown and look at my hands.
I'm holding something heavy and wet.
For a second, my brain refuses to understand what I'm seeing, like it's protecting me, but then the shape becomes clear and my stomach twists so violently I think I might faint.
It's her head.
Only her head.
Blood coats my fingers, thick and dark, seeping into the lines of my skin. Her hair is tangled around my knuckles. Her mouth hangs slightly open, lips parted as if she was about to say something and never finished. Her eyes stare upward, wide and glassy, fixed on nothing.
On me.
"No… no, this isn't real…"
My hands tremble so badly the head almost slips.
Then her jaw moves.
Just a little.
A soft, wet crack.
I freeze.
Something shifts inside her mouth, pushing against her teeth from within. At first I think it's more blood, but then something pale wriggles into view.
A thin, slick worm drops onto my hand.
Another follows.
Then another.
Suddenly they're spilling out in clusters, crawling over her tongue, sliding between her teeth, pouring down her chin in a writhing mass. They squirm across my fingers and over my wrists, cold and alive, their tiny bodies twisting against my skin.
I try to fling them off, but there are too many. They crawl up my arms, disappearing into my skin, burrowing into the warmth of me like they belong there.
My chest tightens. The room tilts. Ethan is still smiling and watching, as if this is something he's been waiting for.
And then the scream tears out of me before I even realize I'm making it.
"Odessa?"
He stands there in a cool gray T-shirt and loose trousers, hair damp as though he's just showered. His face, as unreadable as always, seems misplaced against the backdrop of my room. He steps inside, and the air instantly feels smaller. His eyes sweep over the dolls with thinly veiled distaste before landing on me.
Fuck. I was imagining it.
His gaze lingers. Travels briefly over what I'm wearing. Then stills on my face.
"You look just like her," he murmurs.
My heart is about to burst out of my chest, and my breathing is ragged.
"Pardon?"
"Them. Your aunt… and her."
Her. My mother.
Why does he speak her name like that, avoiding it, tucking it behind vague syllables? Maybe it isn't strange to him. But to me… it's everything. A knife twisted in silence.
"Yes… well, what did you want to say?" I ask, forcing composure.
He doesn't answer right away. His stare sharpens, pinning me to the spot.
"You've been… off lately. Don't you think so?"
"No. I don't think so." My words come too quickly, too defensive.
"You know what I mean." His voice hardens, flat and dangerous.
"I—"
Suddenly, his hand clamps around my arm. He leans close, breath grazing my ear, his tone harsh, meant only for me.
"Whatever you're onto—stop. Now."
The chill of his words burrows into my bones. And then, as abruptly as he caught me, he lets go. Straightening, he strides out and shuts the door with a decisive snap.
I stand frozen.
Then the rage rises, molten and uncontainable. I want to scream, to break his skull, to tear apart this room piece by piece. My hand snatches the sketchbook from the bed, ready to hurl it at the dresser, to hear glass explode and cosmetics shatter.
But I stop.
Breathing ragged. Knuckles white.
No. Losing control now would ruin everything. Every step I've taken. Every secret.
I force the sketchbook back onto the bed, fists trembling, lungs heaving as if I've run miles. My head feels unbearably heavy, my body feverish. The edges of the room blur—then collapse inward.
I hit the floor.
And everything goes black.
Again.