Page 22 of Where the Dark Things Bloom

The room was silent except for the soft song of a music box. It sat neatly on the bed, its lid open.

But the figure from it was gone.

In her place was a thumb. Pale. Severed. Twistingin slow, jerky turns to the rhythm of the tune.

I slapped my palms to my mouth, nausea rising fast and sharp. I staggered back a step, eyes locked on the thing—onit. And just beside it, a folded piece of paper rested on the edge of the bed.

A note.

I reached out with trembling fingers, brushing it lightly before picking it up.

My name.

Written in his handwriting.

My breath caught. I unfolded it slowly, hands shaking.

One line.

“You buried me, but I’m still here.”

My knees buckled.

Buried him?

No. That wasn’t true. I didn’t. I wasn’t even here. I didn’t go to the—

His body was never found.

“Dorian,” I whispered.

The room started to shift around me.

Everything looked the same but felt wrong. The rocking chair in the corner moved slightly, creaking, though there was no breeze. Just like it used to when he sat in it, taunting me in silence, staring out the window with that faraway look. But he wasn’t here. Not anymore.

And yet I felt eyes on me.

A pull, like a thread winding tighter around my throat.

I backed out of the room slowly, keeping my gaze locked on the chair like it might leap at me if I turned. The hallway seemed darker now, narrower. The wallpaper was peeling at the seams like something had been scratching at it from the inside. I passed a mirror—myreflection wasn’t quite right. My face looked… older. Tired. Like someone who’d been here much longer than I had.

Then—

A whisper. Right in my ear.

“You were never supposed to leave.”

My eyes closed, and I was back inJune 2013.

It was a summer night.

I was sitting on the back steps, barefoot, legs curled to my chest. The moon was high, bathing the yard in that silvery glow that made everything look like it was waiting to be remembered.

He lit a cigarette beside me, the flame briefly lighting his face—those sharp cheekbones, the haunted eyes, always too old for his age. He didn’t look at me at first, just exhaled smoke into the night like it was something he’d been trying to get rid of for years.

“You’re up late,” he said.

“I could say the same about you,” I replied.

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