Page 17 of Where the Dark Things Bloom

I lied.

He leaned in, his voice a murmur. “I think you do. You just don’t want to say it. Saying it makes it real.”

His stare pinned me, too long, too intense.

“I’m not scared of anything,” I said again, but softer. Less sure.

His smile was slow, almost pitying. “Not even me?”

Silence dropped. The fire popped. Outside, the wind stirred. Inside, the air tightened.

“I’m afraid of my dad,” I blurted.

He didn’t flinch.

“Did he…” Dorian’s voice faltered, then steadied. “Did he do something to you?”

I pulled back my sleeve. Showed him the burn scar on my wrist. I’d been twelve.

His jaw clenched as his eyes scanned me, searching for more. But he didn’t say a word. Instead, he reached out, fingers brushing against mine, holding onto me.

“You don’t have to be scared anymore,” he said. His hand stayed on mine, grounding me. He leaned closer and pushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear. And then—

Creak.

A door opened somewhere down the hall. A gust of cold air slid from the basement, brushing over us like a cold breath.

“Did you hear that?” I whispered, backing away.

We moved together, quiet. At the wall, we leaned in, listening.

Whispers. Steps.

Then they appeared.

Four men in black robes, hoods tall and triangular, gliding out from the basement like they had always been there.

I gasped. Dorian’s palm clamped over my mouth, his body pressing mine into the wall. “Quiet,” he whispered against my ear.

Voices drifted from them:

“…the offering must be made after she turns eighteen. She must not leave the house.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. Dorian’s breath was warm on my cheek, but his body was stiff like he’d known this was coming.

As they disappeared into the west wing, he slowly removed his hand from my mouth.

“Go to your room,” he whispered, “and lock the door.”

I didn’t say a word, I just nodded and ran. He stayed below, watching. When I reached my door, I turned the lock and stood still, pressing my back against the wood.

What is happening?

I stared down at my hands—nails dug so deep into my palms, they left bruises. This wasn’t a dream.

I used to hear whispers in the hallways at night, but I told myself it was just my imagination. That maybe the house was old. That maybe it was haunted.

But houses don’t haunt. People do.

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