Page 61 of Where the Dark Things Bloom

I turned—slow, terrified—and saw him.The masked one.

Still inside.

Still watching me.

I reached out, tried to move toward him, tried to grab him, to unmask him—but my body wouldn’t move. I was frozen, paralyzed, like I’d sunk beneath ice.

And all I could do was watch.

Watch as that figure crept closer.

The mask grinning.

The blood smiling.

And I was ready.

Ready to die.

SEVENTEEN

LENORE

Iwokeupina bed.

Dorian, my father, and my stepmother stood above me, framed in soft white light leaking through the slats of the blinds.

They didn’t move. Just watched me like I was a stranger who’d wandered into the wrong house. My father’s jaw clenched like it always did when he didn’t have the right words. My stepmother’s nails tapped against her thigh in a rhythm too slow to be nervous.

I blinked. My eyes burned.

I pinched my arm beneath the covers. Hard. The sting was slow to register, but when it did, it settled in. Stayed. The kind of pain that doesn’t fade. The kind that leaves a bruise.

“Lenore,” my stepmother said, tilting her head. Her voice was low like she’d practiced saying it in a mirror over and over again. “You woke up last night. You were screaming at us. Do you remember?”

No clock ticked in the room. No sound but the hum of something I couldn’t name.

“What?” I croaked, my throat paper-dry. “I saw…”

But my voice collapsed on itself, like even it didn’t believe me.

She crouched at the edge of the bed, resting her manicured hand on the blanket. Her skin smelled like lavender. Expensive. Fake. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “You had an episode. Again.”

I didn’t ask what that meant.

I just looked at Dorian.

He leaned against the doorframe, jaw working a piece of gum like it owed him something. He was barefoot. Always barefoot. He didn’t look concerned.

When they left the room, he stayed.

Just a breath longer.

Then he winked, slow, crooked. “Welcome home, little stepsister.”

He popped his gum.

The door clicked shut behind him.

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