Page 41 of A Pack of Pumpkins
The scent of baked bread swirls once more, and he’s gone. The air around me is suddenly cold and empty, leaving me breathless and aching.
Victor
EditingthecontentI’vebeen working on for the last week is mind-numbingly repetitive. The same scene has been in front of me for the last hour, and it’s still not quite right. We sent in a diving crew to get shots of the ferry wreck. Some shots are unusable. Weird interference making it too fuzzy. I snort thinking about what Bram and Clara said. They'd probably blame ghosts for this too. Ridiculous.
I’m in the living room area. Just to get out of my room really. No one’s awake this time of night. Coffee sits next to my computer. I keep reaching for a cigarette that isn’t there. I've been threatened with homelessness if I smoked in the house because of the omega's delicate sensibilities. I normally wouldn't care, but Bram looked like he probably wasn't fucking around so I opted not to risk it for now.
I’m on the verge of a breakthrough with my edit when the screen blinks. My heart fucking stops. Thankfully, when it comes back, my video is still there. I move to save the file when the screen blinks again.
For the split second the monitor is black, my reflection stares back at me—only I’m not alone.
A pale face under a newsboy cap with cold, pale-blue eyes peers from over my shoulder.
I shoot up from my chair, toppling it to the floor. But when I whip around, the room is empty. My heart hammers in my ears.
It’s the graves, I tell myself. All that bullshit with Bram on the bluff. It got in my head. I was probably nodding off when I thought I saw it.
I glance back at my computer—and die a little inside.
The screen is pitch black except for a single blinking cursor.
I tap at the keys. Nothing. Then the cursor begins to move. Each letter appears painfully slowly, like it’s being typed by an arthritic old man who’s never seen a keyboard before.
B. R. E. A. T. H. E.
“What the fu—” I start, but the wordBREATHEbegins to copy and paste across the screen in endless rows.
I just stare.
Some of the letters are red instead of white.
It takes me too long to notice the pattern. The red letters begin to form a shape—like one of those photo mosaics where a million tiny images make up a bigger picture. And when I pull back, my stomach turns to ice.
A face. Sharp jaw. Narrowed eyes. The outline of a newsboy cap.
Every hair on my body stands up.
This has to be Jack. Some kind of program he cooked up. If he messed with my files, I’ll knock him into next week.
But then the facesmiles. It’s malicious. Twisted. A smile that wants me gone. Impressive, I think numbly, until the face of letters begins to push. The screen bulges. The letters warp unnaturally. It's as if a person were trying to escape the computer.
“Fuck!”
The words warp and ripple as black shadows churn beneath them, seeping out like smoke.
“Finian,stop.” The voice cuts through the air, soft, but commanding.
Clara.
She’s standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at me with a calm, unsettling stillness.
I whip back toward the computer. The screen is clean. Empty.
When I glance at the stairs again, all I catch is the sweep of her hair as she disappears back to her room. And I swear, an alpha shaped shadow follows her.
Clara
I’mmorenervousthana vampire around garlic as a pickup truck from the Evergreen Pack makes its way up the bluff. They’re the first to arrive for the barbecue. I’m waiting in front of the house with Bram, Jack and Dagan just behind me.
