Page 54 of Where the Dark Things Bloom

DORIAN

Iknewshewasobsessedwithme—just as I was with her. But I? I was a reckless fool. And I had no control left in me. I could’ve snapped her neck in an instant—no hesitation, no remorse.

Of course, I wanted to love her. But not before she paid.

She needed tolearn. She had tounderstandI was the axis her world spun around. Call it narcissism if you want—but that’s who I was. If she wanted my love, she had to fall for the blackest corners of my soul first.

That’s how you know someone’s yours. If they love your darkest parts without flinching, they’re meant for you. If they ran, they were only chasing a dream. And me? I don’t do halfway. I’m all or nothing, baby.

Troy was gone. Just a memory now. Next, her father. Then my mother. Once they were out of the picture, it would just be us. Alone. And finally, the house couldbreatheagain.

But the house… it started pushing back.

Rooms she wasn’t supposed to enter cracked themselves open. Secrets I’d buried clawed their way to the surface.

Shewasn’tsupposed to see it. No one ever had. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t fix it. I was breaking apart. And she couldn’t stitch me back together.

My hands still wrapped around her throat. She gasped, clawing at my wrists.

“I had to take them all,” I whispered, breath hot against her skin. “They told me to.” My jaw clenched. Teeth bared. “If I didn’t take them… they would’ve taken you—“

I faltered. ”—from me.”

“Who?” she coughed as I loosened my grip. “Who, Dorian?”

“Them.” I turned toward the corner of the room, eyes wide. “You don’t see them?”

She scanned the room—blank walls, silent air. No one.

But sometimes, even I wasn’t sure anymore if they werereal—or just shards of my own broken head.

“Ghosts of the psyche,” I muttered, pinning her against the wall again. “They chant it over and over—kill, kill, kill—and chop, chop, chop—until there’s nothing left but pieces.”

I leaned in, voice a hiss. “And I won’t let them take you too. I won’t let you be another damn poster.”

I shoved the dollhouse aside.

Beneath it, twenty missing posters. Faces of children. Vanished since 1978.

“Someone took them,” I rasped, voice cracking with a sob I couldn’t let out. “Right here. In this room.”

She stared in horror.

“They’re calling me,” I whispered. “They want me to free them.”

“Dorian… no one’s here,” she whispered, stepping closer. Her hand brushed my cheek, soft and trembling.

“They’reeverywhere,“ I breathed, carefully placing the dollhouse back over the posters.

She didn’t believe me. No one ever did.

Only I saw them. Only I heard them.

Something inside me was splitting wide open. Something rotting behind my eyes. One second, I’m sane, fine. The next?

Acrazy, crazy, crazyman.

My eyes rolled back again—I always did that when the breaking point was close. And she saw it. But this time, instead of pushing me away and running, she stepped closer. She pulled me into her, brushed her lips against mine, and kissed me.

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