Page 36 of Traithorn

At first, I can’t make out what it is. Then, suspicion begins to creep in just as the wind ruffles the trees, allowing the moon to filter its light on the ground.

The color of red—the stickiness of it.

There’s no doubt about what it is.

Blood.

My stomach starts twisting and turning until I don’t know where to go, the silvery light casting a glow over the patches of blood on the forest floor, mostly covered by the foliage.

Struggling, I pull myself up and am left staring down at the blood pooling there.

But what sends my heart reeling, pounding ever harder inside my ribcage, is the body part lying right in front of me.

I almost think it’s the severed hand that was in my stone hearth before it mysteriously disappeared, until I catch a glimpse of the distinct birthmark between the thumb and forefinger. It instantly identifies who it is.

Nausea bubbles up inside me, almost corrosive as it rises up my esophagus.

A step back takes me nowhere, because something else is there, blocking my path.

With utter terror, I slowly turn around, waiting with bated breath for the wind to move the branches just the right direction again so that the moon can cast its gleam on the ground.

Thunder erupts inside me with the force of a thousand lightning strikes. A concoction of dullness and pain that sucks the oxygen from my lungs like a vacuum cleaner.

The scream builds deep inside me until it tears free, echoing through the trees. Revealing where I am, but I don’t care anymore.

Let them find me.

This reality is far worse than they could ever put me through.

I fall right back on my knees, legs unable to carry my weight any longer. For there, right in front of me, lies a severed head. Empty and lifeless eyes staring straight at me, blood dripping from skin that’s been slicked and cracked.

This was no ordinary death—this was torture of the highestorder.

“Liking what you see?”

I flinch, backing into a sharp object meeting my back, but unable to look away from the mutilated head spread over the forest floor, or from the red liquid staining the icy grass.

Gasping for breath, the smell of death locks me in a whirlwind, lingering with dirt and snow. Right on cue, snow starts falling. Slowly but surely covering the speckles of blood surrounding the gruesome scene.

A pointed finger distracts me, and my gaze shifts to a new direction.

To where the rest of his mutilated body is. This time, the nausea turns into vomit, and I expel everything I have inside of me.

No, no, no. This cannot be happening.

A cry rips through my throat as Vernon kneels behind me, his arm wrapping around me possessively, a knife in his other hand.

“Please, don’t touch me,” I beg, trying to push him away.

He doesn’t move an inch, his grip only tightening. The knife gently trails my arm until he presses down, causing skin to rip underneath his touch. I hiss, blood trickling down, blending with the morbid scene. Vernon watches in fascination.

“What the fuck have you done?” I cry out, staring at the body, vomiting again. Vernon only rubs my back in soothing circles, that knife teasing my skin.

I won’t lie—it offers the perfect distraction from the overwhelming nausea.

“We did this for you, darling,” Celine’s voice slithers through me.

This is all wrong—some sick and twisted nightmare that must have projected itself into my reality.

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