Page 283 of Primal

Come on, move. You’re not this weak.

The mirror shudders. This time, I see it clearly—a figure lurking behind me. Porcine snout. Glossy black eyes.

Not real. Not real. Not—

The door.

I reach for the handle twice before I realize my hand’s already on it.

Locked. Of course it’s locked.

“Hilarious,” I slur, kicking it.

My leg moves too slow—as if I’m underwater, dreaming with my eyes open.

My head snaps to the vents.

Small. Discreet. Whatever’s drifting out of them now … it’s not bergamot.

I throw my weight against the damn door. Once. Twice. The frame shudders but holds.

Behind me, a wet snuffling sound.

“Nope.” A giggle leaks out—high, manic, giddy. “Nope, nope, nope …”

Glass fractures. The snout grins wider in every jagged piece.

YOUR REFLECTION LIES.

YOUR GONNA SCREAM.

YOUR GONNA DIE.

I blink. Shake my head.

YOU’RE ALREADY DEAD.

I laugh. Maybe I am.

The walls are pulsing. A faint buzzing in my ears—mosquitoes? No, giggling. Not mine. It’s coming from above. Inside the vents.

Think.

Move.

Don’t fucking die here.

I scrabble at the handle. Useless. Pepper burn on my tongue. Every breath sawing glass down my throat.

Not like this. Not choking on my own spit in some glorified trailer.

The candelabra. Iron. Heavy. Probably bolted down by the same pretentious fuck who thought ‘Cleanse Your Filth’ was a cute theme for a murder shack.

I wrench it free, tendons screaming.

First swing.

The iron glances off the doorframe near the hinges—wrong angle. The jolt up my arms rattles my teeth. My shoulder pops. Pain down my spine. I crash into the sink.