Page 99 of Buried in the Woods Below

A gust of wind sends the curtains billowing. Lightning cracks across the lake, flooding the room with a cold, white glow. I brace myself to see her—or someone worse—lurking in the shadows.

But there’s no one. Just the doll. The miniature version of me. Staring. Watching.

I hear footsteps.

A slow, deliberate creak down the hall. My grief shatters, replaced by terror.

I whip my head toward the window, but it’s too far a drop. My pulse slams through my skull. The only weapon within reach is—

The knife.

I clench my teeth and rip it free. The steel scrapes against bone. A wet suction sound follows as it slides from her flesh. A wave of nausea crashes through me, but I grip the hilt harder, ignoring the warm blood pooling in my palm.

My dad’s blood. No, Penelope’s blood.

The footsteps close in.

Five feet.

Four.

I slip behind the door, pressing into the shadows, my breath like miniature blades in my throat. I hear him before I see him. The slow creak of the floor plank. Then his shadow spills through the doorway.

Eric.

A kitchen knife gleams in his fist, reflecting the moonlight. His broad shoulders rise and fall with each breath. Sweat glistens on his brow, running down his temples in jagged streams. His eyes are wild, empty of reason.

Sweat slides down my spine. The icy breeze bites at my neck.

He takes a step inside into the semidarkness.

Another.

Now.

I slam the door into him. Wood meets bone with a sickening crack, sending him sprawling into the girls’ miniature table and chairs. I don’t wait to see if he recovers.

I run.

Bolting down the hallway, I fly down the stairs two at a time, my bare feet skidding on the slick floor. Behind me, I hear a sound.

A scream. Eric’s scream.

A symphony of rage and pain. Followed by an almost interminable silence. Then—the crash of wood splintering.

He’s coming.

I reach the patio door and yank it open, my fingers slick with sweat and blood. My breath sticks in my throat. I leap into the night. The lake? The woods? There’s nowhere to run.

The wet grass is icy against my bare skin as I sprint around the side of the house, my grip tightening on the knife. I leap over the chrysanthemums and see a path through the moonlit forest. I push forward, leaves shifting beneath me, each crunch like an explosion in the quiet void between thunderclaps. Then—

The slam of the patio door. The pound of footfalls against wet wood. He’s moving fast. Faster than I thought he could.

I don’t know where I’m going. Just away.

The trees loom ahead, thick and endless. The path beyond is a blur of mud and darkness.

I run.