by Kat Ellis
I find “joy-vacuum” harsh, even by Carla’s standards, but she’s not entirely wrong about my birthday. “I’m not sulking,” I say. “I’m just not having a birthday is all.”
“But it’s your eighteenth!” Daphne protests, like that makes a difference.
“I just had to move out of my home, I have no money, and”—my parents are dead—“I don’t really feel like celebrating.” But Daphne isn’t about to let it go. I shoot Carla a killing look for bringing it up, though I suspect she did it to distract Daphne from the tarot.
“We’ll arrange a danse,” Daphne insists, and I groan. “You won’t have to do anything but show up and have a good time.”
Danses macabres have become a tradition in Burden Falls. Ever since Covid, when we couldn’t all gather inside, kids at Burden Falls High arrange a danse macabre to mark big events like a death, or occasionally a birthday if the kid is popular. Danses are masked parties, usually held somewhere outdoors like the woods or the cemetery, where we all get dressed up like it’s Halloween, only fancier. How else do you party in a mask?
“Can you please not?” I say, grateful when my phone pings with a message, ending the conversation. It’s from Ford, who I also rage-texted last night to tell him about the Millers invading my old home. Damn, I still can’t believe Uncle Ty sold it to them.
Ford: Millers are on the move. Four trucks so far.
My throat tightens. The Millers are actually moving into my home. My old home.
Ava: Are the twins there yet?
Dominic and Freya Miller aren’t actually twins, but everyone calls them that because Freya—who is allegedly some kind of genius, though I’ve never seen any evidence of it—got bumped up to the same year as her brother when they moved to Burden Falls High last year, right before the crash. Unfortunately, that puts them both in my class, so I get a faceful of Miller nearly every damn day.
Daphne, Carla, and I have a certain level of notoriety at school, but the Miller twins’ clique are like celebrities.
The four of them—Dominic and Freya, plus two other guys from school named Mateo Medel and Casper Jones—star in Haunted Heartland, a cheesy online series that’s basically a Most Haunted rip-off. They post videos of themselves all running through abandoned buildings and screaming into wells and shutting each other inside dark rooms. It’s fake as hell, yet somehow they have over a million followers across a bunch of different platforms, and get offers for acting and modeling work and all kinds of stuff because of it. Dominic and Freya’s parents also run a movie-location scouting business, and the twins act like that makes them Hollywood insiders or something.
Ford’s reply comes through:
Ford: Saw Freya, no Dominic yet.
Ava: Which room is she in?
I immediately want to claw the message back from the ether. I don’t want to know if the viper will be sleeping in my old room. But, when Ford replies, it’s to say he doesn’t know. Of course he doesn’t—he’d need a super-telescopic lens to see through the manor windows from his bedroom.
Ford: Mom’s making me take over a cobbler. Come hang at mine later and I’ll give a full report.
That’s so typical of Ford’s mom. Ms. Sutter would offer the Dark Lord himself a slice of pie if he showed up at her door. But I wish she’d rein in the niceness just a smidge where the Millers are concerned.
I wonder what Ford will find when he gets there with his cobbler. The place is bound to be crammed full of tacky furniture. I mean, their last house in Burden Falls was a nice red-brick Victorian, which they ruined by taking out the feature bay windows and putting in ground-to-rafter tinted glass, like an ugly gray stripe obscuring all the character of the house. That tells you everything you need to know about their taste. I got a good (virtual) tour of the place after the Miller twins threw a New Year’s Eve party there and basically livestreamed the whole night.
How long have the Miller twins known they’d be moving into the manor? Before I did, that’s for damn sure. I’m surprised they haven’t taken the opportunity to rub it in my face at school. Although there’s still plenty of time for that, I guess.
I picture Freya in my room now, overseeing some minions while they paint the walls gold. And then ice-cold dread washes through me.
Painting . . .
Shit!
I forgot to finish painting over the mural in the pavilion. My whole gory personal history is laid out on its walls. If the Millers see it, they’ll think I’ve lost my mind. Not only that, but they’ll probably do one of their gross little online ghost stories about it, and let the whole world see inside my head.
No. I can’t let that happen.
I need to go back.
FOUR
Uncle Ty is watching Jeopardy! when I get back to the cottage after my shift. I pop my head into the living room.
“This South African city has the nickname Jacaranda City.”
“What is Cape Town?” Uncle Ty says, eyes still glued to the screen, even though he must’ve heard me come in.
“What is Pretoria, actually.”
Now he does glance up. “Oh yeah?” His smirk says he thinks I’m wrong, but it also tells me he’s forgotten all about storming out after yesterday’s bombshell. At least one of us has.
“What is Pretoria?” the contestant says.
“That is correct!”
I turn to go, and Uncle Ty laughs and throws a cushion at the back of my head. “Hey, are you home for dinner? I’m making risotto.”
I pause. It’s been quite a while since Uncle Ty bothered to cook, and he’s phenomenal at it.
“How come?” I ask warily.
“To make up for last night’s shitty revelation,” he says. I guess he hasn’t forgotten. “I’m sorry it came out that way.”
I nod. I’m still mad about the situation, but it’s shitty for all of us, not just me. “Sure, I’ll force down some of your awful risotto. But I’ll go hang out at Ford’s after dinner, if that’s okay?”
“I’m not your boss.” Uncle Ty waves me away, his focus already recaptured by the quiz.
* * *
* * *
I tell myself it’s a nice evening to be out walking, the ground crisp with frost, and the stars overhead seeming ten times brighter than normal. Truthfully, it’s cold as balls, and I’d much rather be driving, but Bessie didn’t want to play tonight. I probably need the walk after wolfing two helpings of Uncle Ty’s risotto anyway.
The path along the river’s edge is the most direct route back home—to the manor, I mean. It follows the river a half mile or so, then cuts away and joins the road uphill to the lane where Thorn Manor and Ford’s house sit.
I reach an oak tree with an evil eye carved into its trunk, the carving grown shallow and faint with age. This tree marks a point where the river widens around three enormous rocks known as Copper Bell Dam. It’s hard to say whether the rocks were placed there intentionally to slow the water’s course or just dumped by a glacier passing through, but the dam looks like it’s been here since the dawn of time. When you reach it, you feel like you’ve stepped into something not quite real, as if passing the carved tree takes you through some invisible barrier.
It’s a shadowy place, even in summer when the sun is shining. Now, with the crackle of frost trying to settle in the trees, something about it sets my teeth on edge. Like I’m not alone, except there isn’t anyone else nearby. I’m sure I’m just imagining another set of footsteps echoing mine, or maybe it’s the sound bouncing from the rocks or the water, but I find my steps quickening all the same.
They say the Red Road Witches used to gather here to cast spells over the water, ringing their copper bells to keep evil at bay. Some people still hang bells from the tree branches leaning out over the water and carve evil-eye symbols onto their trunks, like the one I just passed.
But ther
e are hundreds of eyes in Burden Falls—carved into almost any markable surface. There was even one inside the manor, hidden away in a dark corner of the cellar. I have no idea how the eye-carving started, but pretty much everyone does it. You stop noticing them after a while.
I hurry on along the bank until I have to veer away from the river, then make the trek uphill to where the manor sits. I shake out my hands as I trudge the last few yards to Ford’s house. The scars on my palms sing a sharp protest at the movement.
Ford’s cottage sits right across the lane from the manor’s east gate, and I’m glad when I reach it and see the lights shining out from the windows.
“Ava, love!” Ford’s mom answers my knock at the door as if we haven’t seen each other in years.
“Hi, Ms. Sutter. How’s it going?”
Her eyes are tired, but her smile couldn’t be warmer. Neither of these things is unusual for Ms. Sutter. Or for Ford, either, now that I think about it, although his tiredness is due to late-night gaming sessions and the occasional joint rather than long shifts at work.
“Oh, same as always, you know! Mom was having a good day today, though, so that was nice.”
Ms. Sutter’s a nurse. Last year she switched from working at the local hospital so she could work at the nursing home her own mom moved to, just so they’d have more time together. Ford doesn’t like to talk about it, but I get the impression his grandmother doesn’t have long left.
“Ford isn’t home, though, sweetie. Does he know you’re coming over?”
“Yeah, but I wasn’t super specific on the time.” I try to hide my annoyance. It’s not like Ford is a habitual flake or anything. (He absolutely is.) “Do you know where he went?”
“He’s over at your place.” Ms. Sutter stops, looking mortified as she corrects herself. “Sorry, I meant at the manor. I asked him to take over a welcome plate.”
“I thought he went to do that hours ago?”
Ms. Sutter nods. “I guess he’s hanging out with the Miller kids. But if he knows you’re coming I’m sure he won’t be much longer. Would you like to come in and wait?”
It takes me a second to formulate an answer, my brain still tripped up on the fact that Ford—my Ford—has seemingly spent the whole day chilling with my enemies.
No. He’s probably somewhere else, and just didn’t tell his mom.
“That’s okay, Ms. Sutter. I’ll catch up with Ford at school tomorrow.”
“All right, I’ll let him know you stopped by.” ’
I make sure the Sutters’ door is closed before I walk across the lane to the manor gate. That swirling ironwork has always looked so inviting with my family’s name wrought into it. It made it seem as though we were a permanent fixture—there forever. But now the gates loom over me in the moonlight.
Get a grip, Thorn.
I only pause for a moment. The glinting lens of a camera above the right gatepost is a reminder—not that I need it—that I’m not supposed to be here. But this is probably my last chance to cover over that damned mural in the pavilion before one of the Millers finds it. I mean, it’s possible they already have. But it hasn’t been plastered all over their Haunted Heartland feed yet, so my gut says I’m not too late.
There’s a tall brick wall surrounding most of the property, so I follow it around the side to where a little practiced shimmying allows me to climb over it under the cover of trees. Luckily, I know this spot isn’t within camera range. At least, as long as Madoc Miller hasn’t added any extra security yet.
The trees here are mostly red oak, but they only shroud my path as far as Burden Bridge. There I’ll need to make a dash to the far side and into the orchard, hoping nobody happens to be looking out from the upper floor of the house at the wrong moment.
I have to keep reminding myself that I can’t get caught here, sneaking around what just yesterday was still my home. But even as I near the bridge where I’ve spent so many hours of my life, and see the shape of the manor in the distance, I realize something feels different.
Maybe it’s that I know the Millers are crawling around inside it, like the bottom feeders they are. Or maybe it’s just me—maybe in the last twenty-four hours I’ve become Ava from the drafty old mill instead of Ava, last daughter of the Bloody Thorns.
I walk quickly to the bridge, drawn by the familiar thundering of the waterfall below it. Even though I know it’s vital I’m not spotted here, I pause for a moment at the center of the bridge. This is where I thought I saw someone walking across it in the dark last night—just like I am now.
A sudden chill burrows its way into my bones. I admit it can be a little spooky here at night, where so many people claim to have had ghostly encounters. But I’ve always loved this spot all the same. When I was little, I used to think I could see the whole world from right here. It turned out I could—at least all the parts that mattered to me.
I glance over the edge, watching the torrent pour sixty feet straight down to the churning basin. If I stand here for a minute, I know my skin will mist, as though something cold and ghostly is breathing down my neck. I’ve seen more than one visitor to Thorn Manor start to shake on this bridge and have to be yanked back from the edge.
I don’t linger tonight. The mist recoils from me as I continue across the bridge and steep myself in the waiting shadows of the orchard. I haven’t taken more than a few steps, though, when I spot a figure walking toward me, following the perimeter of the blood-apple trees.
My mouth dries so completely, my throat clicks when I swallow.
It’s . . . I mean it can’t be, but I think it’s actually her.
Then the moonlight catches on a woman’s short blond bob, and I realize it’s someone even worse than a ghost.
Lucille Miller—Madoc’s wife. And with her is their enormous dog, Pilot.
I melt against the trunk of an apple tree. Rotten bark bites at my cheek, but I keep perfectly still. I don’t think Lucille’s noticed me, but then Pilot’s ears twitch in my direction.
Nothing to see here, puppy. I close my eyes, like that’ll help telegraph the thought. Just keep walking.
The dog lets out a short growl, and a bark. My eyes fly open, but he’s not looking at me—he’s sniffing the ground. Will he smell me? Or do I just smell like his new home? It’s been so long since I had a dog of my own, I’ve forgotten how they work.
“Shh, Pilot. No chasing squirrels tonight, okay?” Lucille croons to him. He casts a last suspicious glance at the tree I’m hiding behind, then they carry on along the gravel path that sweeps in a circle around the manor.
I wait a couple of minutes before unpeeling myself from the tree, just to be safe. When I’m certain Lucille and Pilot are gone, I turn and have taken exactly two more steps into the orchard when I hear a voice.
Damn it, she’s circled back!
But it’s not Lucille this time—it’s Freya. I can’t see her, but I’d recognize that obnoxious tone anywhere. She seems to be muttering something. To herself? To me?
Then I spot her up ahead, leaning against one of the smaller blood-apple trees. She’s holding a hand up to her ear. Of course—she’s on her phone.
I wait, hoping she’ll finish her call and fuck off, not necessarily in that order. She’d only have to go a little way for the sound of the waterfall to keep her from hearing any twig-snappy noises I might make as I wrestle my way through the orchard. But she doesn’t do that, of course. I almost curse out loud when she circles around the trunk of the tree and stops right on the other side of the one I’m now hiding behind. She’s so close I can smell the orchid-scented shampoo she uses. (Freya really must slather her whole head in it, it’s so strong.)
“. . . I thought you’d like that last pic . . . Yeah? I bet I know some other parts of me you’ll think are pretty lovely too.” She giggles, and I throw up in my mouth a little bit. “Uh-huh . . . I took it while I
was at school, thinking about you so close by . . . Of course I was careful. But I’m tired of just sending nude pics—we are gonna be together soon, right? You know I’m not the kind of girl who waits around forever for a guy.”
You’d probably think she was teasing just from her words, but there’s a steeliness to her tone that makes me think whoever she’s talking to had better take her seriously.
I do not want to be listening to this. Whatever’s going on between Freya and her—sext friend?—I don’t need to know about it.
“Of course I believe you. I just want us to be together for real, you know? And my parents are going out of town for work Wednesday morning, so we could have the whole afternoon . . . You mean it? Okay. I can’t wait.”
Freya ends the call and lets out a happy little whoop. It’s so un-Freya-like, I know she’d be pissed to know I’m listening.
Her phone screen lights up, casting the shadow of the tree on the snow in front of me. If I move even a couple inches, I’ll be lit up like a star on Broadway.
I hold my breath, waiting for her to turn and catch sight of me. But she doesn’t. Instead, she pockets her phone and ducks to avoid the low hang of spindly branches as she leaves the orchard and heads back in the direction of the house. I wait where I am, watching as the glow from the windows lights her path to the manor, urging her to hurry the hell up so I can finish covering up my mural in the pavilion.
Freya lets herself in by the front door, her long hair swishing at her back. My fingers clench against the trunk of the tree I’m still hiding behind.
It’s not your house!
But it is now, technically. I hiss as one of my fingernails bends back painfully against the trunk. My eyes tear up, and I have to blink several times before they clear. When they do, I notice something in one of the upstairs windows of the manor. Inside my old room, I see three figures. One of them is Dominic Miller, which I realize with a stomach-roil probably means that’s his room now. His dad, Madoc, is standing next to him, and he seems to be laughing at something. I suck in a breath. He has no right to be standing there, laughing.