Page 8 of Where the Dark Things Bloom

I hit “Call.”

The line rang once.Twice.And then—

“Hello.” A deep voice cut through the silence.

His voice was calm, and smooth, like someone who never rushed for anything.

I swallowed. “This is Lenore Thorn.”

Silence.

Then, he said softly, “Miss Thorn… I was hoping you’d call, but not hoping you would call at 3 a.m. on Saturday.”

Fuck. It was Saturday.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, my voice cracking. “I just…”I stopped.”Never mind. I’ll call tomorrow.”

“No, I’m awake now,” he replied. “When would you like to meet?”

“Meet?” I repeated, my breath catching in my throat.

“Yes,” he said. “There are a few documents you’ll need to sign.”

“Oh. Right, of course.” I let out a shaky breath and smacked my palm against my forehead.”I’ll be there in six hours or so. I’ll catch the next train to Boston, then take the local line into Massachusetts.”

“Call me once you arrive,” he said with a sigh. “I’ll stop by the manor.”

“Thank you. Good night,” I murmured and hung up the phone.

I kept walking, arms wrapped tightly around myself, my steps quickening with every block. Part of me felt like Troy could wake up at any moment, figure out I was gone, and come after me. But I couldn’t keep living like that—flinching, waiting, pretending.

Not anymore.

After two years, I finally hadsomewhereto go. And maybe, just maybe, Gloomsbury Manor was the answer. A second chance. Or the end of the first act.

The train station was almost empty when I arrived. A few people were slumped on benches, asleep beneath flickering lights. One man had a knit cap at his feet, and a few coins inside.

My chest ached. I used to be one of them.

I dug into my tote, pulled out what little cash I had, and tucked it into the hat. It wasn’t much, but it could buy a warm meal. And sometimes, that was everything.

The train to Boston wasn’t scheduled to arrive until four. I found a spot near the corner, leaned against the wall, and let my eyes close.

Darkness flickered behind my eyelids. But every few seconds, flashes of passing train lights blinked through—interrupting sleep, and pulling me backward. The memories came like old film reels.

I was back inApril 2012.

The house smelled like boiled onions and bitterness. My stepmother’s voice came from the kitchen, mid-fight with my father. Again.

And I was sitting on the stairs.

Fourteen years old.Playing with a doll I’d long outgrown. Pretending. Pretending I was her—anyone but myself. Anyone but a girl trapped in Gloomsbury Manor, waiting for someone to rescue her from a family that never cared enough to try.

The doorbell rang. Through the rippled glass at the top of the wooden door, a tall shadow shifted, its outline stretching far above the frame. I froze halfway up the stairs, one foot planted on the next step, breath caught. We weren’t expecting anyone.

The bell rang again—sharper this time. The shadow moved, hand rising to brush fingers through its hair.“Can you answer the damn door?” Dad’s voice cut from the kitchen.

I flinched.

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