Page 62 of Buried in the Woods Below

After dinner, my mom boats back to her hotel still steaming about Vivek, and the Parkers head upstairs for the evening. I close the door of my guest room and exhale. Relief washes over me. I hit my socializing limit hours ago. My head swims in vodka and gin. Eric’s drinks pack a punch.

Outside, the crickets screech, an unrelenting chorus. It’s not even eleven o’clock, and I can feel the hangover crawling through my gut, waiting to unleash hell. I kick off my shoes and slide open the window, hoping the cool air will settle my stomach. The scent of leaves and mist fills the room. A lone frog croaks, swallowed by the crickets’ cacophony. He sounds lost. Out of place. Like me.

I flip on the light, the fan whines, and I meet my reflection in the full-length mirror. I’m still young, but I can see the beginnings of age. Small cracks run through my skin, a glass that’s been dropped and glued together. My blond hair, wild from the lake, looks thinner than before. A curled vein juts out beneath my left eye, and a faint age spot lingers beneath the right. This afternoon’s scratches peek out through the bronzer. No one else would notice, but I do. I see my future self. And I wonder if I’ll always be alone.

I stumble into the bathroom, grab my electric toothbrush, and scrub away the alcohol residue and the negative thoughts from my mind. It was that fear of being alone that led me to Vivek. Is it what’s leading me to Eric now? My memory snaps to Vivek in the woods, and the hairs stand up on my neck. His predatory smile. His hands on my back. The way he eyed me, like I was something he could take. Like prey in the forest.

I splash cold water on my face, trying to cool the rage beneath my skin. But it continues to divide and multiply, fogging my perception of everything around me. The floor beneath me shifts, and I clutch the towel bar to steady myself.

I stumble into bed, pulling the covers to my chin. The room spins. I close my eyes.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

* * *

A sound wakes me.

Crunch.

I blink, groggy, my head thick with booze. For a moment, I wonder if I’m dreaming.

Crunch.

I bolt upright. My eyes flick to the window. The curtains flutter in the breeze.

It’s open.

My body tenses, and I rub my eyes, attempting to clear the sleep and drunkenness from my vision. The curtains blow back and forth, obscuring the view outside.

I listen carefully, frozen in place in my bed, my pulse racing.

First the wind. Then the rustle of the trees. Then the crickets. Adrenaline rushes through my body, and my senses heighten. Beneath it all, something else.

Crunch.

Footsteps on gravel, the same as two nights ago, delicate and stealthy.

My mind scrambles for an explanation. Heathcliff? But then I remember.

Heathcliff is dead.

The sound grows closer.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Sweat beads along my legs. I sink deeper underneath my comforter as if I dive far enough, I can disappear. I check the clock. It’s 12:15 a.m. Who could be outside at this time of night? My thoughts tornado. Did Laelynn come back early? Russ Neuman, finally fed up? Vivek, back for revenge? My eyes flick to the drawer of my nightstand—the hunting knife.

Then movement. A figure drifts past my window. Shadowed, weightless.

And then it’s gone.