by Isla Jones
Her car shone beneath the white light from the sky. Nobody else was there, still. Not that she could see, at least—the burn of eyes piercing into her flesh told her otherwise.
Blake stuffed her shaky hand into the pocket of her dress and fished out her car keys. She ran to the Jeep, wrangled the key into the passenger door, and looked over her shoulder. The vacant lot whispered with her shuddering breath.
When she wrenched open the door, she snatched her phone from the seat and dialled Zeke’s number.
Ring, ring.
“Come on, Zeke,” she murmured.
Ring, ring.
“Pick up, pick up, pick up.”
Click. “Hi, this is Zeke.”
Her breath caught in a gasp. “Zeke! Oh, thank God—”
“Sorry I couldn’t answer the phone.” His robotic voice interrupted with the unchanged message she’d known for years. “Leave a message and I’ll get back to you. Unless this is Bethany, in which case stop calling me.”
Beep.
Blake lowered the phone and hit the red button. At the top of the screen, the time showed 6.36pm. The party would begin soon. Zeke had stood her up, ignored her call, and hadn’t even texted her to let her know he wouldn’t show.
It just wasn’t like him.
The note he’d left her was tucked in the front pocket of her denim jacket. She’d tossed the jacket into the backseat on her way to the reservoir. Had she misread it? Deciphered it incorrectly? She had to check it again.
Blake turned to reach for the door, but stopped when a snap came from behind. The noise shattered the silence that engulfed the lot.
Blake whipped around.
Her breath caught in her throat. Twirls of terror roped down her spine. Her wide eyes swept the area.
No one was there.
Blake knew what she’d heard. It’d sounded like a twig snapping in two.
Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, thump, thump, thump, clotting in her throat.
She took a step forward, slow and steady.
“Hello?” she rasped.
The trees groaned rustled. She took another step. Beneath the thin soles of her sandals, dried leaves crunched. In the quiet, the sound was like a foghorn giving away her position.
“Is—Is that you, Zeke?”
A light draught brushed against her shoulder. It scratched against her prickled skin, warm, like a gentle breath. With a gasp, Blake spun on her heels and staggered backwards. She almost slipped, and held her hands out for balance. Her wild eyes locked onto the open door of her Jeep.
Her gasp turned into a cry.
There, beside her car, loomed a dark figure.
6
The Grandmother
Blake clenched her fingers around her phone, ready to use it as a weapon. The shadow towered ahead, veiled in shadows.
“Wh-Who are you?”
The figure treaded out of the gloom.
Moonlight flooded him, gleaming off his sharp paleness. “Not Zeke.” His voice was soft, yet sharp; a knife slicing into warm butter. She recognised that voice and those eyes like a frozen pond—icy, with depths buried far beneath the surface.
It was Theodore.
Blake exhaled, a shaky sound somewhere between a curse and laugh. But relief didn’t envelope her. The legs beneath her still wobbled, and her trembling fingers tightened around her phone. The edges dug into her clammy palms. “What’re you doing here?”
Theodore blinked; his eyelashes moved with the grace of a feather floating in the gentle breeze. “I followed you.” There was no kindness in his voice, no shame. He simply stated it.
“You followed me,” she repeated, glancing at the car door behind him. The keys dangled from the lock. Ornaments hung from the loops, little figures from her travels. Her gaze lingered over the miniature Eiffel tower, given to her by Rachel years ago. It was small, but if she reached it she could use it against him.
“It has become a hobby of mine,” he said.
Blake took a discreet step to the side. She masked it with an attempt to scrape some dirt off her shoe against the gravel. The fleeting smirk that graced his lips went unnoticed by her.
Jack had given Blake a can of mace a while ago, days after the murder of Zeke’s parents.
Where is it? Where did I put it?
It could be in the glovebox, or underneath the driver’s seat in her car. Either way, she didn’t have enough time to reach it. The keys were her best chance. They were closer.
“Why?” she whispered. “Why are you following me?”
His pale lips spread into a wide grin. Her shoulders jerked from the shiver that raked down her. His steely eyes remained sharp and secretive.
“Your scent,” he said. “You mightn’t know it, but you smell like them. My interest is piqued.” He slid his hands into his trouser pockets, and watched her chance another side-step. “I don’t often find myself curious,” he added.
Her brows furrowed as a thought struck her. It tugged at her brain, pulling and twisting at her memory. Hunter had mentioned her scent too.
‘You smell like them,’ he had said. ‘I can smell them on you.’
Blake didn’t try to hide it this time—she moved closer to the Jeep. “Why does everyone keep telling me that?” she asked shakily. “Who do I smell like?”
The mask vanished; the grin faded from his lips, until only cruelty emanated from him.
“The others,” he hissed before he lunged at her.
Blake didn’t have the chance to run. He moved in a blur, and her eyes couldn’t follow him.
One second, he was standing beside the passenger door; the next, his solid arm snaked around her waist and wrenched her against his chest.
Blake screamed. She flailed her legs and screamed, “LET GO OF ME! SOMEBODY HELP!”
“Shhh.” The solid arm locked around her waist held her in place. His other hand lifted to pet her dishevelled hair.
If she hadn’t been so terrified, she might’ve sobbed. But her only focus was to flee, to run away from the lunatic stranger, to save herself.
“You can’t kill me!” she screamed, squirming in his hold. “My friends know I’m here! They know about you! You won’t get away with it!”
“You are so frightened,” he hushed gently. “But of the wrong one.”
Blake reached back and raked her nails down his face. The damp texture of his eyeballs touched her fingertips—she’d almost scratched out his eyeballs. Yet, he didn’t flinch. He didn’t wince or release her.
Blake threw her arms back and tore at his flesh again, thrusting her legs out at nothing.
Unfazed, he grazed the tip of his nose over the nook of her neck.
“Perfume,” he said. “Coco butter.” He paused, repeating the gentle touch of her neck and savoured the scent. Blake bucked, barely able to hear him over her own thunderous heartbeat. His lips travelled up to her ringing ear before he whispered; “And filth.”
Suddenly, he let her go.
Blake cried out as she collapsed to the gravel. The stones scraped her hands and knees, but the only sting she felt was the one in her eyes, burning with the tears that gathered.
Theodore stepped in front of her, his shoes at her fingertips.
Blake glared up at him, tears clouding her vision.
Dried blood was streaked down his face in trails—but not a single cut marked his skin. The blood from her attack was smeared all over his cheeks and eyes, she saw, but the wounds were gone as if they hadn’t been there at all…
Blake sprung to her feet. She raced to her car and wrenched the keys out of the lock.
“You truly are oblivious.” He mocked her with dark amusement. “Are you ignorant … or naïve?”
Blake kicked the passenger door shut and scrambled around to the other side. He made no attempt to stop her.
As she yanked the driver’s door open, his threatening voice carried out to her: “You’re too late, Blake Harper. Your friend is gone.”
Blake jumped
into the car and smacked down every lock. Breathing a cry of relief, she looked out the window to where he was standing. Her watery gaze rested on nothing but gravel.
It was just like in the diner and when she’d first met him—He had vanished without a trace.
*
“Pick up, damn you!” Blake screeched into her phone, steering the car with her other hand. The wheels skidded as she hit the brake and swerved onto Bayou Boulevard. Her shoulder smacked into the car door and she cursed.
“Hi, this is Zeke—”
She’d reached his voicemail for the fifth time in a row.
When the beep came, she rambled into the speaker. “Zeke, it’s me. I need you to call me the second you get this. I went … where we were supposed to meet, but you weren’t there. Some Theodore guy turned up. He said something about … Never mind, I’ll tell you when I see you. I’m coming over.”
The voicemail ended. It cut her off.
“Damnit!” she shouted and hurled her phone at the passenger seat. It bounced on impact.
Headlights soared towards her from the other side of the road. Car after car zoomed by, headed for the reservoir. Blake flew past them, guiding the steering wheel with one hand, stretching out her other to fumble with the handle of the glovebox. It dropped open with a crack.
“C’mon,” she groaned, her splayed fingers searching around the glovebox. “Where are you, mace?”
Perhaps she would need it. Her plan to go straight to Zeke’s house wasn’t safe. Who knew what she was getting herself into? After all, Theo had said he was gone.
‘You’re too late … Your friend is gone.’
He had to have meant Zeke. Had he known she was there to meet him? Blake had never felt so stupid in her life. He was the one Zeke had been afraid of. Theodore—the stranger, the stalker, the serial killer…potentially.
Cold metal touched her fingertips. The mace.
“Gotcha,” she said, driving over the rusted rail tracks.
The car whizzed into town. The sole of her heel slammed against the brake as she neared Honey Drive. She yanked the cracked steering wheel to the side.
Five minutes later, she reached Kindle Court—where the Prescott manor was. The tyres on her Jeep slowed as she drove up the narrow street. Five houses formed a crescent around the cul-de-sac.
The Prescott manor loomed ahead, standing alone on untidy grass. Its wide gardens and fenced-off land pushed the other four houses closer together. If houses could talk, the Prescott manor would’ve said, ‘Do you see me? I live here—I rule this land, this street. It’s all mine.’
Blake parked her car on the road, beside the pavement at the front of the old manor house. It had once been a grand structure, built in the early settlement of Belle-Vue.
Now, as Blake had always known it, the black wood had faded to a ghostly grey, the coloured windows were chipped and forsaken, and the iron fence had rusted to rot.
Blake slipped out of the car and nudged the door shut. She left the keys in the engine in case she needed to make a quick getaway. But the can of mace—she’d tucked that into her cleavage.
The wrought-iron gate dangled off its hinges and pressed into the overgrown path. The path—broken and fractured by protruding weeds—led up to the decaying steps at the front of the house. Blake crept up to the entry, but hesitated when she reached the once-grand double doors. Unopened envelopes bulged out of the mail slot in the door, browning and stained from the damp nights.
It was as if no one had lived there for years.
Blake crouched and unfastened the straps of her heels before she slipped them off. She had no intention of knocking. If Bethany answered, she would send her away. Also, she had no idea if anyone was inside at all.
Fingers coiled around the brass door handle; she twisted her wrist and opened the door. The familiar creak of the door greeted her. Blake crinkled her eyes and peered inside. The hallway was drowned in pitch black; it faced her through the doorway, holding a promise of unwanted adrenaline rushes. And it delivered.
Just as her dirty foot flattened against the cold floorboards, a jolt of regret rushed through her. In the shadowy manor, all that Blake could hear was her own hoarse breaths, threatening to break the eerie calm inside. It wasn’t too late to back out, she told herself. But, she surprised herself—she took another step inside.
The floorboard groaned beneath her weight—she stilled, her breath hitching.
A third step. Her ragged breath returned, prolonged, dragging out in raspy whispers; a melody in comparison to the loud heartbeat pounding in her ears. Blake stopped in the centre of the hallway.
Silhouettes loomed around her—the cloak stand, the buffet table against the wall, a dusty family portrait circled in a brass frame. They all reached up in shadows to the high ceiling.
The ancient black staircase loomed ahead, curving from the ground floor to the second and third levels. Zeke’s bedroom was on the second floor, attached to Bethany’s by a shared ensuite. Blake knew the house almost as well as she knew her own. The blueprints were etched into her brain, and had been since childhood. She had to go upstairs.
Blake reached out and rested her trembling hand on the banister. Then, she tip-toed up the stairs. The soles of her feet, caked in dust and mud, treaded up the crooked steps. The creaks of the ancient wood raked over her body like bony fingers, triggering a shudder to jolt her tense muscles.
The light within the dim manor oozed from the painted windows in patches. Shadows licked and danced around her, following her up to the first landing.
Blake crept over the mouldy rug on the landing to the second flight of stairs. Before she took her first step, something winked at her from beneath a table against the wall. She crouched down and reached under the table, wrapping her fingers around cold sharp metal. With a wince, Blake suffered the fumbling noise as she slid the metal object toward her.
Shock slackened her face as she gazed down at the item.
It was the diadem.
It winked up at her. The stolen relic from Town Hall had once been grand, but it was now smothered in dust bunnies. The jewels still held their sparkle, even if a little faint. Tucked into a crevice on the diadem was a crumpled piece of paper—the torn edge of which told her that it’d been ripped out from a book.
Blake lifted the diadem to inspect it and ran the pad of her thumb over the metal to clean it. It felt almost blasphemes to treat a Belle-Vue relic in such a way—to leave it, neglected, beneath an old table.
As she caressed the white-gold twists and gems, she realised: Zeke’s note, the clue, the code; ‘diadem’. Had Bethany stolen it? Had he?
Blake remained uncertain, but embraced the determination that surged through her. She was going to get to the bottom of it. Blake plucked the piece of paper out from the diadem, then she turned it over in clammy hand.
Thud!
Blake sucked in a sharp breath.
Her head jerked to the side and he stared, wide-eyed, at the wall. The noise had come from beside her, through the wall.
An ornament crashing to the ground? The wood stretching in the heat? Or…someone moving?
Blake exhaled in a steady whoosh and stood. She tucked the piece of paper into her dress-pocket. The urge to flee gnawed at her insides, but she couldn’t leave—not now, not after she found the diadem.
Who knew what else she would find.
The shadows, undistracted, followed her still; they mirrored every step she took up the second flight of stairs. Silhouettes stretched over the peeling wallpaper to her left, danced over the grey wooden bannister to her right, and licked her heels. At the top of the creaky steps was another landing. She stopped at the brink and inched closer to the wall. Her shoulder pushed against the moulded wallpaper as she peered around the corner to hallway.
The gloomy walls reached up to the tall ceiling. The corridor seemed longer than she’d remembered. Longer, darker, spookier. It struck a chill through Blake, straight to her toes and fingertips.
> Blake turned the corner.
Heavy black doors lined the passageway, leading to many rooms. Old bedrooms, unused parlour rooms, a library—all empty, save for the dust bunnies that lived inside. It looked like those dust bunnies had migrated to the entire manor. The red runner rug, stale and stinky, appeared snowy from the layer of sprinkled grey glazing it.
Straight ahead, the last door on the right, is where she needed to go. That was Zeke’s bedroom.
Blake’s fingers coiled around the diadem as adrenaline reignited with a vengeance within her. The farther she stepped down the corridor, the more she doubted her actions. The smell, the atmosphere, the gloom—they all screamed at her to leave, to run and never come back. The same urge she endured around Theodore. But she tip-toed farther and farther down the corridor.
The neglected family portraits on the wall, painted recently and eons ago, seemed to watch her. Their cold beady eyes trailed her every step, unaffected by the squeaks of protest rippling over the floorboards. Halfway into the corridor, Blake froze. The door to left, the tearoom, was ajar; the only open door in the hallway. The thud she’d heard might have come from that very room. But as she neared the threshold and peeked through the gap, she saw that it was just as dark inside as it was in the hallway.
Blake cursed herself for leaving her phone in the car—she could have used the flash in that moment. Her hand pushed the door open a little further, enough to make space for her to slip inside. Through the gloom, she could see the faint outline of an upholstered armchair. It faced the unlit fireplace on the opposite wall. A frizzy grey ball hovered above the back of the armchair.
Blake squinted at the wiry grey fleece. Hair, she realised. Zeke’s grandmother.
“Ms. Prescott?” whispered Blake; though, it came out as more of a raspy choke. The hair didn’t move—it didn’t sway, or bounce. The seated old woman didn’t respond.
Blake approached the armchair with slow footsteps. “Ms. Prescott,” she whispered again, nearing the back of the armchair. “I’m looking for Zeke. Is he here?”
Silence pushed down on her as she stopped beside the armrest. Gazing down at the old woman, Blake’s stomach churned and mashed. Nausea crept up her throat and burned; and her eyes bulged out of her alarmed face.
