The job wasn’t quick. Finding straight sticks of equal width was nearly impossible, and Guy’s numb fingers were soon coated with sap and tiny nicks as he stripped the leaves off and tried to screw the lengths together. He chose a very basic raft shape—twelve branches the width of his arm strapped together to create a flat platform. It wouldn’t protect him much from either the weather or the river, but when he tested it by applying pressure, the raft seemed sturdy enough, and he was confident it would float.
Guy made a final trip back to Rookward to collect supplies. He took the bag he’d left outside the kitchen door—it still held two tins of soup—and re-filled the water jug from the tarp in the back of the pickup truck. As he strode away from the building, he threw a glance over his shoulder. A tall, thin figure pressed against one of the second-floor windows. Guy couldn’t see her features, but he could feel the intensity of her gaze on him. He hitched the bag up his shoulder and pushed his exhausted body to limp to his escape point.
The river was swollen and running quickly thanks to the deluge of rain. Guy fashioned himself a pole from a long, thin sapling then tied his bag of supplies to the centre of the raft. He pushed the structure halfway into the river then crept onto it. The water dragged at the wood, making it shake and lurch before it was even afloat, and Guy felt a twinge of misgivings.
He couldn’t see more than twenty meters ahead before the river twisted out of sight. Trees hung low over the rushing water, and Guy knew he was running the risk of hitting another trunk fallen over the stream. If he got tipped out of the raft before reaching any kind of civilisation, he could very well freeze overnight.
But it was better than returning to Rookward. Guy crouched low in the centre of his raft and used the stick to push away from shore.
The river snatched the small craft up easily. Water rushed through the gaps between the logs, frothing around Guy’s legs, but it was buoyant and large enough that it didn’t immediately overturn. Guy kept his centre of gravity low and clung to the stumps of the small branches he’d sawn off. The raft picked up speed alarmingly quickly, and Guy soon had to release his hold so that he could use the stick to keep the craft from becoming jammed in patches of weeds or on either of the riverbanks.
The plan was working, though. A spike of adrenaline made Guy hysterical with excitement, and a wild laugh burst out of him, startling a flock of dark birds out of a nearby tree. The icy rain hitting his face and the rough wood digging into his sore leg couldn’t compare with the thrill of being rushed downstream.
There’s nothing she can do now. A rock jutted out of the water ahead, and Guy shoved his pole into it to keep the raft clear. He skated around and kept moving. She can’t reverse the river’s flow. She can’t confuse me or turn me back towards Rookward.
The slope took a sharp dip, and Guy yelped as he was caught in rapids. He tried to guide the raft around the rocks, but an impact jarred his arm so badly that the pole was torn out of his grip. He tried to snatch it out of the frothing water, but he had to flatten himself against the splintery wood to keep from being tipped over the side.
Guy swore and clung to his craft with all of his strength. Water rushed into his mouth. He hit a rock, then another, bouncing off them like a bumper car. A cracking noise warned him the craft had taken damage. Then the frothing water calmed again, and Guy felt brave enough to lift his head.
Water ran out of his hair, plastering it to his forehead and getting into his eyes, and he wiped them clear. The river had widened to at least forty feet across, and the flow had slowed. Thick reeds poked out of both shores, and humming insects flitted through them. Without his pole, Guy had no way to direct the craft. The log farthest to his left had taken a hit hard enough to wrench its screw out, and it bobbed loose from the rest of the craft, only attached by two nails near the end. It was a hazard, so Guy kicked it loose to unburden the raft.
The trees lining the bloated river seemed different to the ones that grew around Rookward. They were straighter and held more leaves, and some of them grew flowers. The change was subtle, but after staring at the gnarled, darkened plants around Rookward for so many days, Guy was grateful for the fresh sight. He didn’t know where the river led, but that was a trivial detail as long as he eventually reached some kind of habitation.
He sat back on the raft, moving carefully to avoid unbalancing it, and took a deep inhale. Even the air tasted fresher and cleaner. Only one small thing existed to remind him of the house; a soft scratching noise, so much like the scrabbling he’d heard in the attic.
Guy looked down. Something was clinging to the underside of his raft. Something dark and large—
A round, urgent eye peered up at him through one of the gaps between the logs. Guy jerked back, a scream tearing out of him. Long fingers stretched through the hole, wriggling horribly as they tried to grasp at his legs. There was nowhere for Guy to escape to. His breath caught as he tried to stomp on the fingers, to detach the woman who’d latched on to his raft.
He hit a rock. He hadn’t seen it coming; even if he had, there would have been no way to avoid it. But leaned back as he was, the impact was enough to destabilise the raft.
Guy felt it turning and threw himself forward, towards the scrabbling fingers. He was too late. The raft flipped, and Guy experienced a second of weightlessness as he was tossed into the air. Then freezing-cold water enveloped him.
The river snatched him into its embrace, tumbling him and twirling him like a leaf in the wind. He couldn’t fight the impulse to gasp. Water flooded his lungs. He thrashed, fighting to reach the surface, but something cold and slimy slid around his body.
Amy threaded her arms around his torso. Legs tangled with his. She pulled him down, sinking them both with the intimate embrace. Bubbles escaped Guy’s mouth as he scrabbled at the arm locked around his throat. He felt her kiss his cheek, her lips somehow even colder than the water.
Guy’s lungs were on fire. He hit a rock, but the impact barely hurt. Blackness swallowed his vision until even the distant sparkles of light bouncing off the river’s surface vanished. Then it was just him and Amy, coiled together in the dark.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Sweetie?” Someone shook his shoulders. “Sweetie, can you hear me?”
Guy coughed. A mouthful of lukewarm water poured over his chin. He rolled onto his side, gasping air into his starved lungs. His head throbbed. His vision was blurry. But somehow, he was alive.
“You’re gonna be fine, honey.” A woman pressed a cloth to his forehead.
Guy blinked up at her. She was dressed in simple flannels and had her long hair knotted at the base of her neck. Her smile was kind, if a little weary, and creases aged her face. He squinted past her to see his surroundings.
He was in some kind of farmhouse. The space had been decorated with woods and furs, and paintings of flowers hung on the walls. A lit fireplace was at his back, and the heat radiating off the flames felt good on his frozen limbs. Someone had draped a blanket over his lower half, and a plush rug cushioned his aching limbs.
Despite the comfort surrounding him, vague concern gnawed at the inside of Guy’s chest. He felt as though he should be worried about something—he just couldn’t remember what. When he spoke, his throat felt raw. “Where am I?”
“Safe, honey.” The woman’s smile widened a fraction. She didn’t seem threatening; she was plump and sweet and drawled her words. “I found you on the riverbank. Thought you were dead at first. But you pulled through, eh?”
She turned towards the couch behind her, and Guy realised an older man and two children sat there. The man gave him a curt nod while the children dozed at his side.
“Thank you.” Guy tried to sit up, but dizziness made his head pound. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, but every time he reached for the source of the anxiety, it danced away.
The woman pushed him back down with soft hands. “Don’t you worry about anything, sweetie. Rest for a bit. I’ll make you some
soup, all right?”
Soup sounded amazing, but Guy still couldn’t relax. He blinked against the white dots floating across his vision. “Uh, can I make a call, please?”
“Ooh.” The woman’s smile drooped. “I’m sorry, the storms knocked our phone lines out. We’re gonna to be stuck here for a couple of days. But it’s okay, this house is safe from the floodwaters, and you’re welcome to stay with us until the road clears.”
Guy nodded and settled back onto his makeshift bed. His mind felt foggy, as if the previous days had been just a vivid, exceptionally unsettling dream.
The woman rose and folded her towel as she moved into the kitchen. The man on the couch gazed at the crackling fireplace, his expression serene as he brushed the hair away from his sleeping son’s forehead.
“Thanks for letting me stay,” Guy said, and the farmer gave him a short, unsmiling nod.
The room was peaceful and warm, and his hosts were welcoming. Still, the scene didn’t feel quite right. The man on the couch reminded Guy of someone. It took him a minute to realise who, but when he did, he bolted upright. He’d seen the farmer before, many times, in his dreams.
Guy twisted to stare at the woman in the kitchen. She’d disguised her face and her voice, but her long, dark hair was unmistakable. Sickening dread flooded through Guy to wash out any sense of comfort the setting had instilled in him.
Not again. Please, not again. I don’t want to go back there.
“Something wrong, honey?” The farmer’s wife shot him a smile over her shoulder. She’d found a way to soften her cheekbones and make her irises a light hazel, but there was too much of Amy in her bearing and the long, pale fingers that chopped a carrot.
“You’re not real,” Guy said, and the illusion began to disintegrate. The family on the couch—Thomas, Daniel, and Rebecca—went first. Like a clump of cotton candy dropped into water, they bled away, desaturating then evaporating. The fire went out, leaving Guy cold and sore. Then the plush rug morphed into the guest room’s thin carpet. Guy blinked, and the warm, happy farmhouse was gone.
He would have cried if he could have found the energy to. It was a special kind of cruelty to offer him everything he wanted then snatch it away again. He stared at his hands, bruised, scratched, and aching, then looked up.
He was in the guest room. Amy had placed him beside the dead fireplace below the clock. The couches had returned to the room, even though he’d dismantled them and thrown them out. Apparently, the spectre didn’t like it when he changed the house.
Amy stood in the doorway, watching him. She was very different to the severe but beautiful woman he’d seen in Thomas’s memories. Her skin held no colour, and her dark hair hung limp around her face and cascaded over the shoulders of her grey slip dress. A sheen of white covered her pupils, and although she stared at Guy, he had the impression she was looking through him, not at him.
“Leave me alone!” Guy snatched the ornate clock off the fire’s mantelpiece and hurled it at the spectre. She faded from sight as it passed through the place where her head had been. Guy, breathing heavily, waited for her to return. When she didn’t, he pressed his hands over his face as his shoulders shook.
More illusions. How can she twist my reality so thoroughly?
He dropped his hands and faced the window. The sun was close to setting; the treetops’ silhouettes stood out in stark contrast against the sky. He didn’t know if Amy had somehow teleported him back to the house or whether she’d made him walk back while his mind wasn’t conscious, but his legs ached enough for the latter. The thought of spending another night at Rookward was unbearable.
He could see the fallen tree and Tiff’s car but no sign of his mother’s sedan. That was a relief but not a reprieve. Guy had no way of knowing how much the call might have unnerved his mother, but the longer he was gone, the more she was likely to worry, until it finally culminated in some kind of action. It could still be days before she came looking for him, but eventually, she would—and the only way to keep her safe would be to escape the property first.
But how can I leave when Amy distorts reality? I’m living in a world controlled by her rules. Anything I see and hear might be filtered through her lies.
A thought flashed into Guy’s consciousness. His eyes widened. It sounded too good to be true, but he couldn’t stop the small seed of hope from growing.
He pushed exhausted limbs to carry him through the guest room’s doorway. A shudder wracked him as he passed the place Amy had stood. He couldn’t see her, but he could feel her watching him as he continued outside.
The pickup truck waited for him with the keys in its ignition. Guy wrenched open the door and slid inside. His limbs ached as he bent them to fit, but the soft seat felt good. He turned the key, and the car made the familiar clicking noise. Guy bit his lip and put the car in gear, released the hand break, and put his foot on the accelerator.
He lurched forward, and a huge, shocked grin lit his face. Another illusion. She masked the engine’s noise to make me think it was broken, but my pickup is fine.
Hysterical laughter broke out of him. He couldn’t believe it—his escape had been just outside the door, waiting for him the whole time. The lack of motor noises was disquieting, but it didn’t stop the wheels from turning as he guided the truck towards the driveway’s edge. The tarp full of water sloshed, spilling over the truck bed to pour across the long weeds, but Guy didn’t want to stop long enough to empty it.
He sped up as he neared the driveway’s start. His heart thundered, and he squeezed the wheel, coaxing his vehicle to gain speed as it careened towards his escape.
The truck came to a sharp, harsh halt. The sound of crunching metal filled the space, and Guy was thrown forward into the deployed airbag. Pain burst through his head as pressure built in his already-bruised skull. He snapped back into the seat, gasping, and blinked as the airbag began to deflate.
He’d driven off the road and hit a tree.
Chapter Thirty
The tree wasn’t large, but it had been solid enough to crumple the truck’s bonnet. A plume of black smoke spiralled out of the engine.
“No.” How did I not see it? I was following the driveway… He put the car in reverse and tried to back away from the obstacle. The pickup wouldn’t budge. “No, please… come on, no!”
Guy threw open the door and jumped out. The impact had dug the tree halfway out of the ground and created a massive fissure in its trunk. Fresh sap was already beading around the impact. The truck was in worse shape; its bonnet rippled like an accordion, and dark oil dripped onto the ground below.
Another illusion. Instead of building fantasies, though, she’d stopped him from seeing something that really existed. Boiling anger surged up inside him. Guy clutched at his head, trying to hold it inside, but it felt as though it were shredding his organs. He screamed and kicked at the tree, then beat it, punching the wood until his knuckles were scraped raw and aching. The hatred tasted like black tar filling his mouth. His vision went dark. Guy reeled back, fingers twitching, and a roaring sound filled his ears. As the fury waned, he spat a swear word and began pacing. He thumped his fist against the fractured tree every time he passed it.
She’ll never let me leave. No matter what I try, she’s prepared for it and knows exactly how to foil it. I have no more hope of escaping than Thomas did.
He ran his hands over his face. The building watched over him, calm and infinitely patient. He loathed it and its twisted occupant. But in a strange way, he no longer feared it. Sometime within the last day, without even realising it, he’d come to accept he would likely die at Rookward. He still fought for survival, but it was from principle, not hope. The building was designed to be his tomb.
No more running. No more hiding.
Guy took his time returning to the building. Daylight was almost gone, and he wanted to savour its final moments. He ran the tips of his fingers through the long weeds, flicking insects and droplets of rain off it, before facing
the black hole that marked the kitchen door.
He could hear Amy pacing upstairs as he re-entered the building. Her footsteps scraped over the runner in a corpse’s shuffle. He was ready to climb the stairs and face her, but first, he stopped in the dining room to pull Tiff’s phone out of the bowl of rice. He pressed the power button. To his surprise, it came on. He waited for the logo to fade and be replaced with the home screen. No bars. Four percent battery. He turned it back off and tucked it into his pocket.
Confronting Amy felt like a moment of no return. He would either find a way to shake free of her or be sucked so far into the mire that he would never surface. The thought of never leaving Rookward hit him hard enough to make his knees buckle, and he braced himself against the table.
Never leaving Rookward means never seeing Mum again. Never having another chance to glimpse Savannah. Never even knowing my daughter’s name.
He reached for the notepad he’d used for measurements and tore off three clean sheets.
At the top of the first note, Guy wrote HEATHER. He kept the message short but heartfelt. He thanked her for always believing in him and loving him. He told her she was the best mother he could have hoped for, and that she’d made his life good. Finally, he asked her not to hold any guilt for what had happened to him. It had been his choice to come to Rookward, and she couldn’t have done anything to change the outcome. He finished it with the salutation, “Love you forever, Guy” and underlined the phrase twice.
He addressed the second note to Savannah. It was harder to write, and he sat for minutes at a time, trying to find the right way to phrase his feelings. The scrape of footsteps never ceased, adding to Guy’s stress and making his hand shake as he formed the words. The final version felt clumsy and embarrassingly intimate, but every word was honest.
Savannah,
I wish I could find the words to express the depth of my regret. I never wanted to hurt you, but I did, and I hate myself for the pain I put you through. You didn’t deserve the accident or my temper. I’m so sorry.
The Haunting of Rookward House Page 18