by Emily Henry
Light flickered once more across the floorboards, and a low hum buzzed directly over my head.
Slowly, I lifted my gaze. The frosted glass dome mounted to the ceiling flickered again, faster, brighter, denting the pitch-black of the hallway. My hair lifted out from my head and my skin prickled, and all was quiet except that intermittent buzz.
And then the sound of movement rose from the room again.
Something was definitely here with me.
Remy was wrong. The thing wasn’t in me.
Or maybe there were more.
I tightened my grip on the flashlight, like I could bludgeon whatever came running out at me with this half pound of plastic, and slowly, careful not to make a sound, I reached into my pocket for my phone.
The screen fuzzed. The overhead lights flickered faster, as if in response. The thing inside the room moved closer to the doorway, and the light went wild.
I stood there, alone, waiting for it.
TWELVE
ON THREE I WAS going to run.
Through the flashing lights, the buzz of current surging through the house.
I wouldn’t look back. I’d get as far away as possible, then call the others, warn them not to go near the house.
Except then Arthur would beeline for it. So maybe not.
One.
More thunking movement. Clumsy, belabored.
Two.
I braced myself.
Three!
I sprinted for the stairs just as the thing came flying out of the room, the lights flaring so bright the hall washed white. Overhead, the bulb exploded, glass shattering, the light winking out.
I screamed and smacked into the wall as a mottle of colorful dots spun across my vision, superimposed over the sudden darkness. I swung the flashlight defensively, and the thin beam of light struck my shrieking attacker and its wild black eyes.
“Raccoon,” I gasped, clutching for the missing necklace as the animal barreled back the way it had come, striped tail bobbing.
Just a raccoon.
My heart slowed. I caught my breath, shone the flashlight on the floor, searching for shattered glass.
The frosted glass dome had caught the pieces of the bulb when it exploded.
The bulb.
If the thing in that room hadn’t caused that power surge, then what had?
Me? I thought.
The thing in me?
The hall rocked. I closed my eyes until the feeling passed. I couldn’t think about this right now. I needed to get down to the fence and find the necklace. That was the only thing I had control over.
After that, I’d get more information from Black Mailbox Bill. I’d figure out how to . . . fix this.
I went to the top of the stairs and peeked through the doorway the terrified raccoon had darted into.
It was a kid’s room, complete with unicorn wallpaper that had been peeled down, words scrawled in red on the blank space left behind. On the far wall stood a baby-blue wooden vanity with a warped mirror, beside a twin bed whose blankets had been thrashed, its pillows bleeding feathers across them and onto the floor.
Through a skinny doorway on the far side of the room, there was a pink-tiled bathroom, and when my flashlight hit the mirror, the words BLOODY MARY lit up in red lipstick on the glass.
I turned away, and my flashlight stumbled over a shattered window. Its gauzy drapes were pulled to one side, dancing in the sticky breeze.
That must’ve been the raccoon’s entry point.
I turned back toward the hall, but the flashlight lit on something else, lacquered and cherry red.
Chills slithered down my spine at the sight of the undersize piano.
The gold catch of the light over the brand etched into the top of it: Schicksal.
Nick’s voice drifted across my mind: I dreamed about pianos . . . hallways made of them that ended in little red kids’ pianos with German words written in freakin’ gold leaf.
Schicksal could be German, couldn’t it?
My skin had started crawling again, but then the obvious occurred to me: Nick must’ve caught a glimpse of this the night of the crash. His subconscious wrapped it into a dream.
There was nothing creepy about it.
I set my backpack down and took out one of the rubber gloves I’d borrowed from work, slipped it on, then took a picture on my phone and sent it to Nick.
Then I gathered my stuff and headed back downstairs to search the fence line.
Every ounce of optimism I’d started this night with had turned to lead in my stomach. I couldn’t possibly make it to where we’d climbed the fence without walking through the light, possibly in the path of a hidden security camera.
Another one of those power surges would come in handy right now.
There’s no way you did that.
I felt stupid, but I tried anyway: I stepped up to the edge of the light coming off the temporary fixtures, held my hands out, and thought as hard as I could about the shattering light bulb in the hallway. About energy and electricity and lightning. I even summoned the memory of the white light.
A dark pool ahead of me. Nothing but solid black, and then suddenly, light on every side of me in shimmering streaks of color and—
I opened my eyes. Nothing. I huffed and dropped my hands. Whatever had happened in the Jenkins House, I wasn’t its cause.
At the end of Jenkins Lane, a pair of headlights swung onto the gravel, and within seconds I’d placed the shape crawling down the street as a cop car.
Not only was I out of time to search, but if I didn’t hide, I’d also ruin any future chance to get back here and find my necklace.
I darted back to the house and crouched against the side of it with my bike as the car slid to a stop. The door popped open, and the sheriff stepped out, rounding the hood of the cruiser.
He touched the radio clipped to his shirt, and his words reached me in bits. “. . . appears to be empty . . . Sure they said the house on Jenkins Lane? It’s dark now.”
I looked up the side of the house. Someone must’ve seen the electrical flare when they were driving past and called it in.
“. . . I’ll take a look,” Sheriff Nakamura said. “Go ahead and send another cruiser for backup, but it was probably unrelated . . . just kids getting into trouble . . .”
He started up the yard, and as my heart rate sped, something happened.
A light flashed in the window directly over me.
The sheriff’s chin snapped upward, his gaze locking on to where the light flickered.
Shit.
Was I doing this?
At the end of the street, more headlights appeared, and when the sheriff turned toward them, I took my chance: I ran along the side of the house, dragging my bike and trying for a magical mix of speed and quiet that didn’t exist.
Any second, he’d spot me, and if he didn’t, he’d hear me.
I reached the back of the house and dragged my bike behind it.
“Who’s there?” I heard.
I climbed on my bike and took off. Branches whipped my face, caught on my clothes. My front tire jerked and stumbled over roots.
Voices called through the dark behind me, and I risked a glance back. Spears of light crisscrossed the night, interrupted by the slim silhouettes of trees.
At least three officers were spreading out behind the house, following me, calling out words I couldn’t hear over my own pulpy pulse.
My front tire slammed into something, hard, and jerked sideways, the bike skidding out from under me. I hit the leaf-strewn ground on my side, my breath and a grunt knocked from my body.
The flashlights snapped toward me. I staggered onto my feet, ankle throbbing where it had hit the ground, and the front tire of my bike bent at an ugly angle.
A rocky outcropping, bl
ue-black and easily ten feet high, cut back through the woods in a mossy zigzag disappearing into a forested hill.
If I’d been looking straight ahead, there was no way I’d have collided with the ridge of stone, even in the near-total darkness.
I tried to climb back onto the bike, but it wasn’t rideable, and the echoey shouts were moving closer.
I leaned against the boulder and hobbled around it, hauling the bike along with me.
“This way!” someone shouted, and as she did, I spotted it.
An opening in the rock.
It wasn’t just a rocky ridge; it was a wide-mouthed cave, its opening hidden under an outcropping about three feet off the ground. From here I couldn’t tell how deep the nook was. It might’ve been more of a hollow than a cave, but it was low and angled away from the house, and if they walked past it, they’d have to stoop to see me.
It was the best option I had.
I dropped onto my knees and backed into the cave, dragging the bike in on its side after me.
It unnerved me, backing into total darkness, not even trying to see through it, but I couldn’t risk a flashlight this close to the opening.
I crawled backward and pulled the bike about three feet before the damp, crumbly leaves lining the stone floor gave way to smooth stone and the metal bike frame scraped loudly against it.
Pulling it any farther would just risk drawing attention. I released the handlebar and leaned against the stone wall on my left, its damp, uneven surface soaking through my sweatshirt to kiss my shoulder blade.
I looked toward the entrance, a barely lighter square of black. If the sheriff stood far enough from the cave mouth and shone his light this way, I’d be in full view.
In the stillness, a steady drip echoed from deep within the stone walls.
Which meant the cave went deeper.
There was nothing I could do about the bike, but maybe if I followed the tunnels, I could find another way out of the cave. I could sneak out, report my bike missing, pretend it was stolen—whatever it took to separate myself from what was happening on Jenkins Lane.
I reached up through the darkness, feeling for stone overhead, but my fingers met nothing but cold, wet air. The ceiling was higher back here.
I pushed myself up from the wet ground, slowly straightening my neck until I felt the cold graze of stone. I ducked again, slid my bare hand along the rock on my right as I moved deeper.
One small step, then two, three. I kept moving.
A few yards in, I paused and listened. The drip had grown louder. I took another few steps. The earthy smell of loam and tangy sulfur hit the back of my nose as the wall led me around a sharp right angle, leaving watery grit behind on my fingertips. Now the drip was nearby, ahead on my left, growing into a soft trickle.
I looked back the way I’d come but couldn’t make out the entrance. A few more steps around this corner, and it would be safe to get out my flashlight.
It was cold in here, a true bone-cold, and when the slick ground dipped suddenly, I lost my footing.
For the second time in ten minutes, I hit the ground. I managed to bite back a grunt, but the contents of my hoodie pocket went flying, the zing of metal and plastic against rock as my compass and flashlight skated down the sloped ground.
For a beat, I lay frozen where I’d fallen, splayed out on my stomach, listening for voices.
But I was deep enough that the sound of the outside world was cut off; I could only hope the reverse was true.
I pushed myself onto all fours and felt over the ground, the glove on my left hand and the bare fingers of my right splashing through shallow puddles as I crawled. I found my flashlight first. The plastic was cracked but the light came on when I flipped the switch, slicing through the black to catch the copper-streaked rock face across from me and the water trickling down it from a crack above. The ceiling lifted even farther here, and I could stand upright with a yard to spare.
As I hoisted myself to my feet, I trailed the light along the miniature waterfall and found my compass halfway between it and me. My ankle stung as I hobbled over to it, steps echoing off the cavern walls, and bent to grab it.
My yellow-gloved hand froze in front of me. The flashlight cast a glare across the compass’s face, but it didn’t wash it out entirely: A shock of color was visible beneath the light.
The thin red needle.
It was spinning wildly.
My neck prickled.
I drew my hand back but kept the light trained on the compass, and the spinning didn’t slow.
The prickling slithered down to my tailbone as I lifted the flashlight, across the glistening floors, into the dark ahead until it hit the back wall of the cave.
The elongated stalactites pointed accusingly down at the twisted metal stacked in front of it. The tower that the disc had lopped off, the massive steely coil, a loop of cables, a stack of metal beams.
I picked up the compass and moved closer.
The needle accelerated into manic spirals.
Something caught under my boot, and I stopped, dropping my light to it. My skin chilled at the sight of the sleek metal cylinder.
I bent and picked the bullet up between gritty fingers.
Something scuffed heavily behind me, and I spun, flashlight extended protectively and bullet clenched in my other fist.
“Is that the same kind you found the morning after the crash?” came a serious, feminine voice.
Dark green eyes, ringed in white. Long brown hair, wet in spots where the ceiling had dripped, and a fire-truck-red flashlight clutched in one hand.
“Sofía,” I gasped. “You scared me.”
She tipped her chin toward the bullet, and her mouth shrank. “Is it? Do you think whoever dropped that stole the wreckage and hid it here?”
I looked back at the careful arrangement of debris.
Did this mean someone had witnessed the whole thing?
Did someone else see what Remy had? The farmer, St. James? Someone else?
Black Mailbox Bill’s warning reverberated through me.
People in our situation have a habit of vanishing without a trace . . . waste no time in erasing your tracks.
But what if someone else had access to those tracks?
Someone with enough interest in all of this that he or she had hidden the wreckage here?
“Wait.” I turned back to Sofía. “How did you know about the bullet?” She’d been by the car when I found that first one, and if she’d seen me pick it up, why hadn’t she mentioned it? Then again, I’d been so dazed the last few days I’d forgotten to tell the others about the bullet too.
Sofía’s mouth opened and closed a few times. “Franny, I think something—”
The sound of more footsteps and voices cut her off, and moments later Levi and Arthur rounded the bend in the tunnel.
Levi’s mouth fell open at the sight of the stockpiled debris.
“Shiiiiiiiit,” Arthur said, tracing his flashlight over the steel beams. “Way to go, Franny.”
I shook my head. “How’d you find me?”
“Sofía texted us,” Levi said.
Sofía gave a one-armed shrug. “I saw you go in, but the sheriff was too close for me to follow you right away. Once he’d turned back, I texted the others.”
Arthur’s mouth screwed up as he studied my hands. “Why are you wearing one rubber glove?”
“Um.” I looked down at the practically glow-in-the-dark yellow.
I couldn’t tell him. There was nothing he could do about it anyway, and if Black Mailbox Bill was telling the truth, even knowing could put Arthur—all of them—in more danger than we might already be in.
“I was afraid the metal might shock me.” It wasn’t totally untrue.
Arthur had already lost interest. He was fixated on the bullet now. �
��What’s that?” He plucked it from my hand and held it aloft.
“It’s a bullet,” Sofía answered.
I glanced at her. Something was still bothering me—her knowing about the bullet, her showing up in the cave.
She continued: “Franny found one just like it when we woke up after the . . . you know.”
Was it possible she already knew about the cave? That she wasn’t looking for me after all, when she found my bike just inside the entrance?
I was being paranoid.
Wasn’t I?
“What does it mean?” Levi asked, wide-eyed, as he took the bullet from Arthur’s hand. “Our alien has a gun?”
“It means whoever moved this wasn’t an alien at all,” Sofía replied. “It was someone who saw the whole thing go down and probably figured he could hawk memorabilia of a close encounter for way too much money to UFO-weirdos like your YouTube commenters.”
Arthur’s brow wrinkled. He shook his head and took the bullet back. “No. Something else is going on here, something bigger. I can feel it.”
Sofía shot me a knowing look, like, Oh, he can feel it, right?
“Besides,” Arthur went on, “Sheriff Nakamura told us that whoever took that wreckage did it during another weird power surge that knocked out the fence and the security cameras.”
“See, Sof? That’s not something your average eBay salesman can do,” Levi said.
But if what had happened in the Jenkins House was any indication, it might’ve been something I could do. Or the thing in me, at least.
Only I hadn’t, so who had?
“If our alien is capable of all that,” Arthur said, half to himself, “why’s it carrying around human ammunition?”
Sofía grabbed the bullet and carried it a couple of yards away from us. She held it with her compass in one hand and shone her flashlight on it with the other. “Look, it’s magnetized, just like the other stuff. Maybe whoever—”
“Whatever,” Levi said, right as Arthur blurted, “Our alien!”
“—put it here wasn’t the person who dropped it,” she finished. “It’s just one more piece of evidence they wanted to sell, or maybe hide.”