Page 15 of Where the Dark Things Bloom

He took the documents, slipping them back into the yellow envelope.“Very well,” he said, turning toward the front door.

But he paused. Something held him there. And then, he turned back to me.

“Don’t you want to know what happened to them?”

“I do,” I said quietly, my gaze falling to the floor, landing on my worn-out All-Star sneakers.

But the truth was, I didn’t want to know what happened tohim. Not really. Because the moment I knew, the moment it became real, my heart would break all over again. And now, I had to be here. In this house. With the ghosts. Withhisghost.

“Their bodies were never found,” Cameron started.

But I cut him off. “Then how do you know they died?”

He met my eyes. “Blood. So much blood,” he said, shaking his head. He stepped onto the porch like the memory clung to his shoes. “The detective said there were signs of twenty-threepeople. The walls were painted in blood. The floorboards were soaked. But no bodies. None.”

“Twenty-three?” I whispered, glancing around the hall, the staircase, the silence.

“Who cleaned the place up?”

His face went pale.“That’s the thing,” he exhaled, like it cost him something to say it.”No one did.”

A cold chill crept along my spine, curling over my skin in slow, crawling waves. Goosebumps bloomed down my arms. The air felt suddenly thinner. Heavier.

“Oh,” was all I could manage.

“If you need anything else,” he said, voice quieter now, “anything at all… call me.”

“I will,” I replied, stepping toward the front door. “Have a nice day.”

He raised one hand, a slow wave, then turned and walked away. And just like that, he was gone.

I reached for the door. But before my fingers could touch the handle, it slammed shut with a bang. The wind howled through the cracks. I stood frozen, watching the fog press against the windows, watching my breath rise in the air like a ghost of its own. I rubbed my arms, trying to warm myself.

The house had already begun to remember me.

I walked into the living room. The old brown leather sofa still sat in front of the fireplace, unchanged by time. I brushed my fingers across the leather—faded, cracked, but familiar.

And then I was back.

Back in 2012.

A month after Dorian moved in.

One of those nights when sleep was impossible, when your body refused to stay still, and your soul needed to moveanywhereexcept the direction of your bed. That night, I found myself walking toward the living room.

The light was still on. I heard the soft crackle of firewood burning, and the pop of embers. I stepped silently down the stairs, creeping in slowly. And then I saw him.

Dorian was lying in front of the fireplace on a dark blue blanket, his back to me.

And his back—His back was covered in scars. Burns. Cuts. Words carved into flesh:bastard,brat.

I slapped a hand over my mouth to stop the sob that tried to rise.

They had treated him like he was an animal. Like he didn’t deserve kindness. Like he belonged in pain.

I moved closer, my hand brushing against the sofa, breath caught in my throat.

I heard him growl, “It’s not polite to stare.”

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