Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 113051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
It’s a grave.
It’s the dog’s grave that Lauren and I stumbled upon.
It’s been unearthed.
And I’m crawling in it.
Nope, nope, nope, I think as revulsion rolls through me, about to pull my hand out when something in the soil starts to wrap around my wrist.
I scream.
I rip my hand out in a panic, frantically crawling through the grave, crushing the mushrooms, dirt flying everywhere, until I finally reach hard ground. I stagger to my feet, running straight into a tree that nearly knocks me backwards again, and I look wildly for the light.
I push off the trunk, lungs squeezing, heart galloping as I try to run through the dark forest, branches scratching at my body, pulling at my hair like they mean to hold me captive. I can’t help but feel like something is still around my wrist and I keep touching it to make sure there’s nothing there, brushing all the dirt off me as I go, zigzagging through the trees.
I’m close to the light when suddenly the air changes, and I feel something heavy at my back.
A dark presence, suffocating and ominous.
Dread personified, looming behind me.
Coming after me with the snap of branches and a low, hungry growl.
I yelp and push myself to run harder and faster than I ever have, until I burst through the trees and find myself behind the Panabode cabins. I’ve never been so happy to see Madrona Lodge before.
I keep running though, down the winding paths, straight to the ramp. I clamor down as it shakes wildly, then speed along the dock, nearly slipping twice before I reach Kincaid’s boat.
I scramble onboard, half crawling, my slippers nearly coming off as I fall onto the deck.
“Kincaid,” I cry out, my voice hoarse.
The sound of the salon doors swinging open.
“Sydney,” he cries out, and then he’s wrapping his arms around me, pulling me to my feet.
I collapse into his arms. “Oh god. It was awful.”
“You’re shaking like a leaf,” he says, running his hands down my arms. “Your skin is ice cold. What happened?” He pulls a few leaves from my hair and stares at them in amazement.
“Didn’t you hear me scream?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Come, let’s go inside, I’ll make you a tea.”
I nod as he leads me over to the doors and helps me down the steps. He grabs a blanket and puts it over my shoulders, then sits me down on the couch.
“What happened?” he asks again, going to the sink and filling the kettle with water. The boat’s cozy low lighting and the warmth from the heater is already making my heart slow, the fear seeming further away. I have to look down at my nails, at the dirt embedded in them, to remember what happened was real.
It was real, wasn’t it?
I take in a deep breath, slowly exhaling before I start. “I woke up in the forest. I have no idea how I got there. I went to bed early after I packed for the camping trip and the next thing I knew, I was lying on the forest floor.”
He pauses. “I see.” He puts the kettle on the stove. “And then what happened? You said you screamed.”
“I got up and saw the light from the lodge, tried to find my way out when I…” I decide not to tell him about the wind and the trees whispering my name.
Telling me I was home.
“Yes?” he prods, lighting the stove and coming back to sit across from me, hand on my knee. “What?”
“I fell into a grave. That dog’s grave that Lauren and I discovered. Grover. It was covered in the glowing mushrooms. It was empty, like someone had dug it up or…whatever was buried had crawled out.”
If it was even dog, I think. I know I heard a growl of something behind me, but that could have been anything.
Anyone.
Oh god.
I look at Kincaid fearfully. “I know you must think I’m crazy.”
“I don’t,” he says but he’s frowning, breathing in deeply through his nose. “I’m just trying to tackle this one step at a time. The first and most important thing is figuring out how you woke up in the forest.”
I nod. “Yes. Exactly. So how did that happen?”
“If only I still had cameras in your room, we could see for ourselves,” he says quietly. God, he’s right. Maybe he should put them back. “But we can only speculate. Do you have a history of sleepwalking?”
“When I was younger.”
“Just like your nosebleeds.” I nod. “Have you had any more?”
I think about when Amani had hit me in the face with a snowball. Had the snow cut me or was my nose bleeding?
“I’m not sure.”
His brows knit together. “You’re not sure?”
“Maybe. I was hit in the face with a snowball. It’s hard to say if the ice cut me or not.”
He blinks slowly, then sits up straight. “A…what? A snowball?”