Page 65 of Corpse Roads

It’s still playing on repeat in my mind, and has been ever since, no matter how hard I try to forget about it. Telling them everything felt like scooping out the innards from inside my empty carcass.

Crack.

Throwing back the covers, I hug my plastered arm and creep across the room to the source of the noise. From what I can see of the driveway, it’s empty. Not a single soul in sight.

Leighton didn’t go out drinking, and I heard the others come home from another long day of work several hours ago. It must be my imagination. Lying back down in my huge bed, I fight to go back to sleep, but it’s no use.

I’m wide awake, as I have been every night this week. Absent-mindedly, my fingers twine with strands of my hair and begin pulling. I can’t resist the compulsion.

It’s becoming an addiction, tearing my hair out and revelling in the blissful familiarity of pain. Hiding it is becoming harder as the little voice infects every hour of my day, not just the moments I feel unreal.

Another half an hour of silence and I can’t stand it anymore. Throwing on a loose pair of sweats to cover my bare legs, I sneak downstairs after cleaning the hair from my pillow.

Moonlight is dappled across the polished tiles, lighting my path to the fridge. I grab one of the glass bottles of milk that gets delivered to the front gate every day. I swear, the real world is so weird.

As I’m retrieving my warm milk from the microwave, there’s another crash from behind me. The mug slips from my hands and shatters on the tiled floor, sending scalding hot liquid over my feet.

I yelp, slipping over and landing amongst the ceramic shards with a thud.

“You stupid, foolish child.”

Dread slips beneath my skin and lances through my heart with its icy shards. I’d forgotten how malicious his voice sounds, filled with holy determination.

“I’m asleep,” I whisper to myself. “This isn’t real.”

When I look down at my hands, blood is seeping from the slices that the mug inflicted. I absently smear the red spill, feeling its sticky warmth. It feels real. The pain is tangible. Do people bleed in dreams?

“Harlow. Kneel before your father.”

Breath held, I make myself look up. In the doorway, Pastor Michaels is staring at me with a smarmy grin. His processional robes are in place—rich, crushed-red velvet and gold thread that contrasts his silvery coiffe of hair.

I blink repeatedly, hoping he’ll vanish. How is he here? No. It can’t be. Screwing my eyes shut, I rub them hard before reopening. He’s still standing there.

“This isn’t real.”

His smile takes a violent edge. “I’m as real as you are.”

“You’re not here,” I reassure myself.

“Aren’t I? It was easy enough to break in.”

As I stare up at my father, fear slamming into me like tumultuous ocean waves, the room goes wonky. Everything is warping and twisting, the air seeming to reform in new visions of horror.

Pastor Michaels inches closer, drawing a long, curved knife from his robes. It’s still stained with Laura’s blood.

Drip, drip, drip.

“Harlow,” he repeats. “Kneel.”

Drip, drip, drip.

“Kneel before your father.”

Drip, drip, drip.

The blade glints in the moonlight, illuminating crimson stains. His footsteps approach. My heart somersaults, threatening to explode into pieces. Before his fists can meet my flesh, I scramble to my feet.

“I said kneel! Do what the Lord demands of you!”

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