I slip into a seat with it, pulling open the pages, my eyes trying to devour the words my mother once read.
But I’ve only gotten to the part where Jane proclaims that she hates long walks on cold afternoons when I hear something.
I feel something.
I feel a growl in my bones.
It’s low and threatening, and it vibrates my ribs.
I startle upright, looking around, but of course, I’m still alone.
But the growl happens again, low and long.
My breath hitches and the book hits the floor, the pages fluttering on the rug.
A sudden panic overtakes me, rapid and hot.
I have to get out.
I don’t know why.
It’s a feeling I have in my heart, something that drives me from my mother’s rooms out into the hall, because something is chasing me.
I feel it on my heels.
I feel it breathing down my neck.
Without looking back, I rush back down the corridor, through the house and out the front doors.
I’ve got to breathe.
I’ve got to breathe.
I’ve got to breathe.
Sucking in air, I walk aimlessly around the house, over the cobblestone and down a pathway. I draw in long even breaths, trying to still my shaking hands, trying to gather myself together, trying to assure myself that I’m being silly.
There’s no reason to be afraid.
I’m being ridiculous.
This house might be strange and foreign, but it’s still a home. It just isn’t my home. It’s fine. I’ll get used to it.
I look behind me, and there’s nothing there.
There is no growl, there is no vibration in my ribs, there is nothing but for the dim twilight and the stars aching to burst from behind the clouds.
The house looms over me and I circle back, only to find myself in front of a large garage with gabled edges.
There are at least seven garage doors, all closed but one.
To my surprise, someone walks out of that door.
A boy.
A man.
His pants are dark gray and he’s wearing a hoodie, and he moves with grace. He slides among the shadows with ease, as though he belongs here, as though Whitley is his home too, even though I don’t know him.
“Hello,” I call out to him.
He stops moving, freezing in his tracks, but he doesn’t turn his head.
Something about that puts me on edge and I tense, because what if he’s not supposed to be here?
“Hello?” I repeat uneasily, and chills run up my spine, goose-bumps forming on my arms once again.
I back away, first one step, then another.
I blink,
And he’s gone.
I stare at the empty space, and shake my head, blinking hard.
He’s still gone.
He must’ve slipped between the buildings, but why?
I hurry back to my room, too nervous to find out.
I’m still unsettled as I wash my face, so when I’m finished, I poke my head out into the hall. There’s nothing there.
With a sigh, I lock my bedroom door and I’m chilled from the wet English air. Glancing at the clock, I find it’s only six thirty. I can rest for a few minutes more, and I’m thankful for that.
Because clearly, jet lag has made me its bitch.
I close my eyes.
It all whirls around.
I stand in the clouds and spread my arms and spinandspinandspin.
No one can touch me here.
It’s not real here, but it is there.
Down there, it’s cold and wet.
It’s uncomfortable there, silent and awkward and rigid.
The eyes are the worst, each of them turned toward me… watching me, waiting for something. For what?
My skin crawls and I scratch it til it bleeds because I’d rather not have it than let it crawl away.
They can’t get to me.
I won’t let them.
I don’t know them.
And I don’t want to.
Chapter 5
Dinner at Whitley is a formal, uncomfortable affair.
I feel horribly underdressed as Eleanor sits at the head of the table in a tailored skirt suit and the same strand of pearls. I’m fidgety, a tell-tale sign that I feel out of place. If anyone knew me here, they’d know.