Page 36 of Carnival of Crows

I wanted to walk inside. I wanted to spend hours asking about every poster, every tape, every photograph she’d ever taken. But, instead, I looked down at the woman sleeping against my chest. Maybe later.

The second room was unmistakably hers. There were deep charcoal walls and heavy velvet curtains. Candles, unlit now, rested atop antique furniture. A massive black four-poster bed dominated the room, draped in sheer fabric that hung like shadows from the ceiling. It looked less like a bedroom and more like a vampire had hired an interior designer.

I crossed the room and lowered her carefully onto black silk sheets.

She barely stirred. I knelt long enough to untie her Vans and slipped them gently from her feet before setting them neatly beside the bed. One loose strand of hair had fallen across her face. I tucked it behind her ear, then leaned down and placed a soft kiss against her forehead.

“Sleep well, little bird.”

I turned to leave, but warm fingers wrapped gently around my wrist. I stopped and looked down at her. Her brown eyes were only half open, still heavy with sleep. She didn’t tug, she didn’t plead. She simply looked at me.

“Stay.”

Epilogue

LUCI

One Year Later

There was something about opening night. The air felt different in Butcher’s Bay in October.

I’d spent the last eleven months chasing horror all over the country. Five movie premieres, three horror conventions, enough panels and interviews that I’d finally stopped getting butterflies before walking onto a stage. I even ended up in a slasher movie.

Granted, I wasn’t the Final Girl. I was Victim One, Girl Who Opens the Basement Door.

My total screen time clocked in at four minutes and forty-three seconds before a masked killer enthusiastically introduced me to an axe. Personally, it was a dream come true.

Damien disagreed.

“You were robbed,” he’d declared afterward.

“You had Final Girl energy.” Jack had immediately nodded.

“A cinematic masterpiece,” my dad said, in the midst of a standing ovation.

Amber, my friend who claims she has no heart, cried. Actual tears. Not because my character died, of course, but because she was “so proud.”

Damien rented out an entire movie theater for opening night. He flew my parents in from Florida. Everyone dressed up. There was a red carpet, specialty snacks and drinks, and they all cheered for my death scene.

Then Boo Crew threw an after-party. Sam even made cookies shaped like little gravestones with my character’s name written in icing. I’d never felt more loved.

The last year had been impossible, beautiful, and completely wild.

Somewhere between all the premieres, haunted attractions, late-night editing sessions, and countless drives back and forth between Butcher’s Bay and Thirteen Hemlock Circle life had quietly become mine and Damien’s together.

Two weeks ago, Damien moved in. His records now shared a space with my horror movies. His boots permanently occupied one side of the front hallway. His coffee mugs had somehow multiplied in the cabinets. And every morning, without fail, he kissed my forehead before leaving for the park. He was my biggest fan and loudest supporter.

Tonight wasn’t about me though. Tonight belonged to him.

It was opening night of Graves Park. Season Six.

The Ringmaster was about to make his triumphant return. Only this year, I would be joining him.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror in our bedroom, turning slowly beneath the soft glow of antique lamps.

Cassie had insisted on designing my costume herself.

“You’re not a guest anymore,” she’d said. “You’re family.”