Page 103 of Jayson
Only tonight, the reel jumps.
The rhythm breaks.
It doesn’t stop at the door.
It skips forward—like my brain’s finally decided I’ve earned the rest of the horror. I see the wine cellar, stone walls dripping with condensation, bottles glinting like rows of empty eyes. The light’s yellow and thin, dust-choked.
A man is waiting at the bottom.
A silhouette carved in shadow.
His hand clamps down on my shoulder. Heavy. Proprietary. Like I’m not a child, just something he’s already decided to own. His fingers dig in, and my knees buckle. I’m too scared to cry.
From the shadows, Father’s voice cuts through—twisted by fear, sharp with fury.
“She’ll keep quiet.”
The man doesn’t flinch. “You’d better hope so.”
Then the screen goes black. And I rocket upright with a scream lodged in my throat. Sweat drips down my back, my chest, pooling at my collarbones. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I’m drowning in heat, and the air tastes like mildew and memory and powerlessness.
I blink at the bedside clock. 12:47 a.m.
The room feels wrong. Off-balance. Tilted. Like the past bled into the walls and now it’s watching me.
My legs move without asking.
One second I’m clawing the quilt off my skin like it’s on fire, the next—I’m standing. Barefoot. Shaking.
The door is open. Open. Didn’t I lock that?
I know I did. I heard the snick of the lock, felt it click into place like a ward against whatever waited on the other side. But now it gapes, a yawning mouth in the dark, and I can’t remember opening it. I can’t remember anything after the dream started.
Or maybe… maybe I didn’t lock it.
Maybe I wanted it open.
My body pulls forward, a marionette on strings strung bytrauma. The hallway is cold. Dim. Each step is silent, but inside my chest, my heart is pounding slow and thick—like syrup dragging through my veins. Like my blood forgot how to rush. Forgot how to protect me.
I’m descending the back staircase. One hand trails the bannister, knuckles white.
I’m in the mud-room now. The keypad is blinking soft green. The alarm isn’t enabled.
The bolt turns with a hiss so quiet it sounds like guilt. Like the house wants to let me go.
And then I’m there. Door half-open. Night air slashing across my skin like knives dipped in winter. My breath catches. But I don’t step outside. I just stand in the threshold like I’m waiting for something. Or someone. A memory. A ghost. A voice in the dark that used to call me by name.
Keira, be good.
Keira, be quiet.
Keira, smile.
But I’m not that girl anymore.
Am I?
The lawn isslick beneath my bare feet, cold and unwelcoming. Every step stains my skin with dew and dirt, but I keep going, pulled forward by something I can’t name. Something that hums in my bones, old and feral and aching. Like a compass that’s been cracked, spun too many times, and finally given up pretending it knows which way is north.
