by Kat Ellis
While I wait, I check out the local news stories about Claire Palmer. There isn’t a lot of fresh information. No mention of her eyes. A crawling sense of unease comes over me as I picture the girl churning over and over in the basin of the waterfall, her eyes gone . . .
Like Sadie.
I close the browser and instead flick through the sketches for my art project, but my mind is elsewhere.
What was Freya talking to Hamish about earlier, when Carla saw her coming out of his office? Why did he speak to her after me? If she was pissed, like Carla said, then he can’t have been telling her she was the top candidate for the art program . . . right? And I’m completely disregarding Daphne’s reading of the whole thing as a creeper situation—I think even I would pick up on that. But Freya’s almost on a par with Carla grades-wise, so why else would she be getting called in to see the guidance counselor?
I jump as an alert pops up on my phone saying there’s a new Haunted Heartland upload. Before I can talk myself out of it, I click on the post, praying to all that’s dark and unholy that I’m not too late, and they haven’t put my mural out there for the world to see.
“Hey, Hauntlanders!” Freya’s voice comes out loud as a bullhorn, and I frantically lower the volume on my phone. It’s only her in the frame, red hair blazing and lips to match, like a Disneyfied version of the devil. “Just here to give you all a heads-up: The next episode we upload is going to be our most EPIC one yet! You will NOT want to miss it. Coming in just a few days, so keep those eyes peeled. Love ya!” She winks one bright green eye, then the video ends.
Well, I don’t need three guesses to figure out what the subject of their next upload will be. I had an awful feeling they’d zero in on Dead-Eyed Sadie the second they moved into the manor, and Claire Palmer washing up right next to the waterfall gives them a perfect lead-in.
I drop my phone, letting my head fall into my waiting hands. Why did they have to buy the manor? Why did I have to paint that damn mural? And why did I have to put Sadie in it?
I lift my head at the sound of someone else in the local-history section. I almost curse when I see who it is.
Dominic Miller.
He’s not looking my way—instead craning back through the archway leading into the main area of the library like he’s looking for someone. Then he strides across the room and stops next to a door marked private. It’s set back among the bookshelves, and I’ve never paid much attention to it. But now Dominic tries the handle, finds it unlocked, then pauses to take one last look around. That’s when he sees me.
We lock eyes, the moment stretching until it becomes super weird. Then I swear he actually smirks before turning back to the door he’s obviously not meant to be going through, and slips inside.
I sit in my corner, staring at the door. It’s still open a crack, almost like he’s daring me to go in after him. But of course he isn’t. No, it’s just a sign of his goddamn arrogance, leaving the door open like that, showing he doesn’t care if he’s caught.
What’s he even doing in there, anyway?
It’s almost painful how slowly the pieces come together in my head.
Their new Haunted Heartland video. He’s probably in there riffling through old town archives. I know they keep some stuff about local families back there, away from the prying eyes of neighborhood gossips. I bet Dominic’s looking for dirt on Sadie, and the manor, and the Thorns to use in their stupid show.
I slide out of my seat and cross to the door he just went through.
“Hey, Ava!” I whirl, wide-eyed, to find Liam peering in at me through the archway. “Thought I saw you back here.”
“I . . . uh . . . I was just working on my art project. It’s going to be a graphic novel.” I wave back at the table where I laid out my sketchbook. “Just stretching my legs while I think about the next panel. What are you up to?”
This is, admittedly, the most I have ever said to Liam. So maybe I shouldn’t be surprised when he leans against the nearest bookshelf like he’s settling in for a long chat.
“Mostly trying to keep out of Mr. Maitland’s way. I’ve had a raging hangover all day, and that seems to be his cue to give me a ton of work around here.” I smell stale beer on his breath as he speaks, so I guess he’s not kidding about the hangover. He seems excessively proud of it, actually. After living with Uncle Ty and his hangovers for a year now, I should let Liam know it’s not a cute look. But I don’t get a chance.
“So you’re a comic nerd, huh? Wouldn’t have called that one. What kind of stuff are you into?”
“Mostly horror,” I say, expecting that to end the conversation, but he grins.
“Yeah, I can see that. It works with the whole goth-chick thing you have going on. It’s a good look.”
Okay, bad instincts or not, it’s time for me to nope out.
“Hey, I think Mr. Maitland’s coming over . . .” I grimace dramatically as I peer over his shoulder.
“Where?” Liam frowns, taking in the notably empty library.
“Oh . . . He was there a second ago. Anyway, I’d better get back to work on my project.”
I don’t wait for an answer, just retreat back to my corner and stare intently at my sketchbook until I’m sure Liam’s gone. Then I hear footsteps approaching, and look up—way up—at Dominic Miller. He really is unnecessarily tall.
He tucks his phone into the pocket of his gray coat.
“Thanks for running interference with the asshole,” he says, tossing a sharp look toward where Liam is now quite clearly hiding behind a shelf of romance novels. “I owe you one.”
“I—”
But Dominic doesn’t wait for my searing comeback, which was absolutely on the tip of my tongue, for sure. He just strides away, probably glowering.
* * *
* * *
After dinner, I walk north to Ford’s along the riverbank. It’s a clear night, and I don’t want my parked car to be a potential giveaway when I sneak onto the manor grounds later. There’s also some morbidly curious part of me that wants to pass by the basin of the waterfall, where Mateo’s dad found Claire Palmer’s body, just to find out if it feels different from when I walked past it a couple nights ago. For all I know, she might have been only a few feet away from the path then, submerged under the thawing ice.
It’s not long before I hear the bells chiming faintly at Copper Bell Dam. The footpath is frozen, crunchy with dead leaves.
There’s a stillness to the air tonight. Nothing stirs—or screeches—in the branches above my head. Even the river barely murmurs as it glides past. I take a deep breath, hoping that stillness will seep in through my lungs. Calm my blood.
Out of habit, I let my fingers graze over the evil eye carved into the tree that marks the point where the river widens at Copper Bell Dam. It reminds me of the carved eyes I found last night around the two windows in the mill. Both look out onto the river. Facing the direction I’m heading: toward Burden Bridge and the manor.
Instinctively, I turn to look up at the bridge, but it’s invisible from here—too many trees crowding in. I hurry on, suddenly frightened by the stillness. Rather than walk past the basin of the waterfall, I veer off and take River Road north until it branches onto Red Road, and toward Ford’s house.
It’s cold enough that my labored breathing mists the air around me after the uphill climb to reach the lane. I’ve only taken a few steps along it when something catches my eye. To my left, over the manor’s boundary wall, a light flickers. It seems like it might be coming from the bridge, though there are too many trees in the way to say for sure. I stop and watch the light for a moment. I should ignore it and continue to Ford’s as planned. It’s probably just one of the Millers out walking around the property—maybe Freya making one of her sneaky phone calls again. She might even be trying to sex-talk Hamish into giving her my spot on the summer art program.
&n
bsp; I try to shudder that nasty little thought right out of my mind. But some messed-up impulse sends me clambering over the wall, just to see if it is Freya on the phone.
I land quietly on the other side and stealth my way forward until I can make out where the light is coming from. There’s someone standing on the bridge. Not Freya. I can’t tell what’s casting the light, but the figure standing silhouetted by it has black hair, not fire-engine red.
Dominic.
He leans against the guardrail of the bridge, gazing out over the waterfall. There’s no way he’s making a call, I realize, because the sound of the water thundering into the basin below would make conversation impossible without shouting.
I’m about to turn back, no longer interested in what Dominic’s doing there, when I see something move in the shadows between me and the bridge. Another figure stands at the very edge of the trees lining the path on this side. I can’t see that well from my hiding spot, but whoever it is seems to be watching Dominic too.
My skin creeps like I’ve just brushed against something dead and feathery.
The figure steps out of the shadows. In the moonlight, I can make out some type of cloak or long coat. It billows slightly as the person walks toward the bridge—not quickly, but with the assurance of someone who knows they haven’t been spotted. That, and the fact that Dominic still seems to be unaware of anyone approaching him, sets my nerves on edge.
But he must be expecting whoever it is, right? That’s probably why he’s here—to meet up with someone. Except who wears a cloak the wrong side of Halloween? I don’t, and I’m a poster girl for goth chic.
No, the only people who casually wear cloaks are weirdos. And if it were me I wouldn’t want a weirdo creeping up on me as I leaned out over a sixty-foot drop.
What if it’s not just some rando, though? What if it’s actually . . . ?
I’m not even aware I’m moving toward the bridge until a twig snaps under my boot. There’s an answering screech up in the branches overhead. Heart pounding, I look to see if the cloaked figure heard me, but they’re probably too near the waterfall now to hear anything above the water’s roar. I know that must be all Dominic can hear because he still hasn’t turned around. And there’s something about the way the person in the cloak is moving that I don’t like.
I inch closer. I’m at the edge of the treeline now. If I run, I can probably reach Dominic before the figure touches him. Miller or not, I have to do something.
The figure raises its arms, sleeves falling back to expose long, slender fingers. That creeping feeling intensifies as my mind paints the face I can’t see beyond the cloak—one with a gaping mouth and black holes for eyes.
It’s as though everything slows—my heart, my breath, even the waterfall itself. It all distorts, getting sucked in by those twin black voids.
Her fingers curl into claws, reaching for Dominic from behind. He still doesn’t sense her. How can he not? Every nerve in my body is shrieking in panic.
I have no choice.
“Dominic! Run!”
TEN
I scream the words as I rush from the shadows, hoping he’ll hear me. Hoping I’m not too late.
Dominic answers with a yell of his own as her clawed fingers dig into his eyes. He bucks, trying to shake her off, but in doing so leans back too far against the guardrail. I shove Sadie aside as I reach out to pull him away from the edge.
I’m too late.
My fingers close on nothing but vapor. Dominic falls, vanishing into the bellowing void.
“What the hell are you doing? You completely ruined the shot!”
I’m turned roughly, but the girl facing me isn’t the one I’m expecting.
Of course it isn’t.
Freya Miller glares at me, strands of fake-looking black hair sticking to her face where the water has misted it. Her eyes, usually a vibrant green, are now black lid to lid. Thick dark makeup fills in the surrounding sockets. She’s wearing contacts, I realize numbly. It’s a costume. She’s dressed up to look like Dead-Eyed Sadie—a prank-store version of her.
As I’m taking all this in, Freya’s lips curve upward.
“Oh my God, Thorn—I thought you were just screwing around, but you actually believed I was a ghost, didn’t you?” She laughs, her voice loud enough that I hear her clearly above the waterfall’s roar. “You’re so weird.”
“But . . . your brother . . .”
I’m vaguely aware of more people joining us: Mateo Medel carrying the set light from where he must’ve been crouched with it on the far side of the bridge; Casper Jones holding up his phone, probably still recording my reaction. And behind them is Ford, his hands tangled in his hair like he’s seconds away from tearing it all out. Of the four of them, Ford is the only one not smirking at me.
I feel something moving at my back, and turn in time to see Dominic dragging his lanky frame back over the guardrail. He stands up, looming over me. But it’s only now that I notice the cord hanging from his waist—a tether that’s connected to the rail.
Oh God. How can I be so damn slow putting the pieces together? They’re filming for their Sadie special. I mean, I knew it was in the cards. It’s the whole reason I’m here: to cover over the painting I left in the pavilion.
My cheeks blaze, despite the chill. I can’t believe I actually thought Dominic Miller was in danger from a ghost. I can’t believe I cared.
“Ava?” Dominic yells. “What are you doing here?”
My gaze darts toward the orchard on the far side of the bridge, and the pavilion that’s all but hidden by it. But then Ford steps into my line of sight.
“She’s here looking for me,” he says. “I lost track of time—we were supposed to meet at my house to watch a movie.”
Next to me, Freya pulls an odd face, and I think she might be rolling her eyes, though it’s impossible to tell behind the black contacts. The sight of her is freaking me out, though, so I turn my focus to Ford.
“Why are you here?” With them? I’m pretty sure he hears those last two words and the accusation in them, even though I don’t say them aloud.
Ford takes my elbow and ushers me back over the bridge, toward the boundary wall. When we’re far enough away to speak at a normal level, he leans in and says, “I’ll explain everything later, but it’s not how it seems. I need to stick around here for a little while, but if you wait at my place I’ll meet you there, okay? And I won’t let Casper use that footage he recorded just now, I swear. Trust me. Just fifteen minutes, I promise.”
“You also promised you’d never ditch me for the Millers again,” I hiss back.
Ford has the nerve to look stung. He really just expects me to go wait for him like a meek little sheep.
When I glance back toward the bridge, Freya, Casper, and Mateo are laughing and jostling each other, Freya making dramatic clawing motions while Casper seemingly wards her off with the flash of his camera.
But Dominic is looking right at me—watching me with this intent frown, as if he’s trying to figure something out. That look bothers me more than Freya and the others acting like dicks.
“They’re just goofing around,” Ford says. “Maybe if you tried—”
“Ford, shut up.” I cut him off before he can make me completely lose my shit. “I don’t want to hear it.”
I turn away from him and stomp back to the boundary wall. I manage to climb it without falling on my ass, thank the Dark Lord and all his little minions—no doubt Casper’s phone is still tracking my every move, hoping for some extra little nugget of hilarity at my expense.
Just as I’m about to jump down the other side, I feel a touch on my arm. I jerk away from it, thinking it’s Ford come to grovel, or at least explain himself, but it’s Dominic. He has the sleeve of my coat in a firm grip, as though he’s about to make a citizen’s arrest.
“Why are you real
ly here?” he asks brusquely.
I huff out an exasperated—and sure, embarrassed—breath. “Look, I covered for you at the library earlier, right?” Technically not really true, but he doesn’t argue. “And you said you owe me one. If you meant that, don’t drag my family on your show, okay?”
He frowns, letting my sleeve slip through his fingers, but says nothing. I should’ve known there was no point trying to appeal to Dominic’s better nature. He obviously hasn’t got one—he’s a Miller.
I half jump, half tumble from the wall, and leave without looking back.
* * *
* * *
Not only is my best friend a back-stabbing snake, but I’ve failed to cover up the damn mural—again. I’m still seething about it all when my phone rings later that night. It’s Ford, of course. I don’t answer. The ringing stops when my voicemail kicks in, then starts again a second later. I send him straight to voicemail this time.
My text alert pings.
Ford: If you don’t answer your phone, Ava, I’ll just come over there.
Ava: I don’t want to talk to you. Stop calling.
My phone is silent for a couple minutes, and I think he’s actually got the message. But then it pings again. And, when I open the text, it’s a whole goddamn essay.
Ford: Stop being stubborn and let me explain! I’ve been hanging out with the Millers to make sure they don’t put anything shitty about you in their videos, but then Freya asked me to join the crew, and I couldn’t really say no—they get all kinds of job offers and promo ops out of it. Did you know Freya even has a small part in a movie? It’s gonna be on Netflix next year. Imagine if I got offered something like that! You get why I said yes, right? And I’m sorry I was late for our movie night. I really did just lose track of time. I need a watch, OK? Please stop being mad at me. I’m not cute when I grovel. I’m an ugly groveler. Forgive me?
