Follow her down, p.3
Follow Her Down, page 3
When I pull into my driveway, I find that the house looks different in full daylight, less menacing but more decrepit. Paint peels from the siding like dead skin, and the overgrown yard swallows the stone path. It should look abandoned, forgotten. Instead, it looks alert, as if it’s been waiting for my return.
Inside, the air has changed. Warmer now, with currents that shouldn’t exist in a sealed house, especially since I didn’t turn on the heat. I move through the rooms slowly, listening to the walls settle around me.
Upstairs, I check on the footprints. Most are still there, perfect crimson marks, but one near the center of the ceiling has smeared, as if someone dragged a finger through it while I was gone. I know I didn’t touch it. I can’t reach that high.
“Making changes to the decor?” I ask.
Only silence answers, but it’s a listening kind of quiet.
I unpack a few more things from my duffel bag, and from a hidden pocket, I remove a framed black-and-white photograph of him with his eyes cut out and place the photo on the floor, angled so it’s the first thing I’ll see when I wake. A reminder of my ruin. A promise of my metamorphosis.
As I finish unpacking, the room grows even warmer. The heating vent in the middle of the floor rattles slightly, then it goes still.
I approach it, kneeling to examine the rusted metal grate. No air should be coming out, but when I place my hand near the vent, warm air caresses my skin. Warm, damp air, like someone’s breath. It smells of earth and something metallic. Something like blood.
I press my ear to the vent. For a moment, there’s nothing. Then, very faintly, I hear it, like a rhythmic scratching. Like fingernails or claws on metal.
“It’s you,” I whisper. “Hello down there.”
The scratching stops. The warm air continues to flow, and I wait, perfectly still, listening so intently that I can hear my own heartbeat.
Then, so quietly I almost miss it, a single word floats up from the darkness:
“Penny.”
My real name, the name of the person I was before, in a voice like stone grinding against stone.
How does it know that? I smile, pressing my palm flat against the vent.
“Yes. Where are you?” I ask. “Should I come find you? Or will you come to me like you did last night?”
The warm breath against my hand intensifies, becoming almost hot. The metal grate vibrates under my touch. Then, with a grinding sound, it begins to loosen, screws turning themselves counterclockwise, metal pulling away from wood.
I sit back, watching as the vent cover works itself free and scoots over the floor. The rectangular opening gapes like a wound in the floor. There’s darkness beyond, but it’s not complete. Something moves in there, shifting shadows that suggest a form without revealing it.
“Soon,” comes the voice again, a little clearer now.
A man’s voice. Or something trying to sound like one.
“Soon,” I agree, though I don’t know what I’m agreeing to.
The darkness in the vent seems to pulse, expanding slightly beyond the opening, reaching tendrils of shadow toward me. I don’t move away. I let one touch my cheek, and it’s cold but solid, like smoke given weight.
Then it retreats, slithering back into the floor. The vent cover scrapes back into place before reattaching itself, screws turning until they’re tight.
Normal. Everything normal again.
Except for the smell that lingers—earth, blood, and now something else. Something that reminds me of candle wax and burned hair.
I stand, brushing dust from my knees.
“What a charmer you are,” I say. “But what if you scare me so much that I run away?”
I wouldn’t. I’m not going anywhere until I’ve destroyed him. Not even if this house is haunted by something that knows my real name.
Not even if that something wants me as badly as I want revenge.
After all, we all have our hungers. Some of us just hide them better than others.
4
Sera
The Gas ‘N Go fluorescent lights make everyone look dead.
I’ve been standing behind this counter for exactly forty-seven minutes, and I’ve already counted the ceiling tiles, memorized the price of every candy bar in the display, and watched Rick scratch his balls when he thought I wasn’t looking.
My new uniform is a polyester disaster—a red polo shirt with the gas station logo over the left breast and khaki pants that make my ass look like two sad pancakes. At least I got to keep my combat boots. Small mercies.
I’m arranging lottery tickets in their display case when the bell over the door chimes. A gust of autumn air sweeps in, ruffling all the Missing Persons flyers on the bulletin board and carrying with it the scent of something sharp. Cologne.
I know that scent.
Every cell in my body freezes before I even look up. My fingers go numb on the scratch-offs. For a second, I’m somewhere else—another place, another woman, another life that ended with pain and silence.
Then I’m back, and I force myself to turn.
He’s here. Vincent Harrow. Sheriff of this fucking city.
He stands just inside the doorway, all six feet of him in his crisp, tan uniform. The badge on his chest catches the horrible lighting, winking at me like we share a secret. His dark hair is cut military-short at the sides but longer on top, just starting to gray at the temples. He looks distinguished, trustworthy, like the perfect lawman.
I know better.
Rick emerges from the storage room, wiping his hands on a dirty towel. “Hey, Sheriff! How’s it going today?”
“Can’t complain,” Vincent says.
His voice is exactly as I remember it, smooth and low, with a hint of gravel that makes people lean in closer to catch his words.
I don’t move. I barely breathe. Part of me expected him to recognize me instantly—to see through my several dozen extra pounds, my dyed hair, my dramatic makeup, my carefully constructed new identity. But his gaze slides over me like I’m just another fixture in the store.
Good. That’s good. I need the element of surprise.
But god, it stings. The things he did to me with those hands, the weeks we sat across from each other when we both took the stand, when I rehashed the terrible details over and over, when he lied, when his friends lied for him, the godawful cross examination, and he doesn’t even recognize me.
I think I may vomit.
I think I may kill him right fucking now.
He approaches the counter, and Rick bustles over.
“This is Sera, our new girl,” Rick says, standing too close to me, his elbow brushing mine. “Sera, this is Sheriff Harrow. Best lawman in the state, if you ask me.”
Vincent nods, hardly sparing me a glance as he digs out his wallet. “Welcome.”
I smile, keeping my lips pressed together while his blood rains down the inside of my mind.
“Sera just moved into the old Milligan place on Lakeview,” Rick adds, and I want to stab him in the balls for volunteering that information.
“Quite a fixer-upper,” Vincent says, sounding bored now.
I shrug. “I find broken things much more revealing.”
“Mm. That house has a history,” he says.
“So do graveyards. At least the house pretends to be livable,” I say.
Something flickers across his face—not recognition, but interest. He looks at me properly for the first time, his gaze traveling from my face down to my hands, which I’ve flattened on the counter to keep them from trembling or gouging out his eyeballs.
“Just gas on pump four and a donut today,” he says finally, turning away from me to scan the store. “Glazed. And a receipt.”
Rick nudges me. “Go ahead. Ring him up.”
I move to the register like a woman in a dream, my body on autopilot. Rick retrieves a donut from the case and then stands too close, giving me instructions I don’t need.
“That’ll be $41.75,” I say.
Vincent hands me a credit card, our fingers brushing for a microsecond. Surprisingly, I feel nothing. No revulsion. No doom. Just skin against skin.
The register beeps as I punch in the sale. The receipt prints, and I tear it off, handing it to him with another closed-lip smile.
“Have a nice day,” I say, my voice steady.
Vincent tips his hat, the gesture so “Kansas sheriff” it borders on parody. “You too, Ms. Vale.”
I freeze. Rick never told him my faux last name.
Then I remember—it must be on my nametag. I glance down. Sure enough, SERA VALE is printed in blocky letters.
He turns and walks out, donut bag in hand, back straight, shoulders squared. Through the window, I watch him cross to his patrol car.
I breathe again, a shuddering exhale that makes Rick glance at me.
“You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Just a guided tour through my personal hell.”
“What?” Rick says on his way to the back room.
The bell chimes again, and I turn toward the door.
The man who enters is nothing like Vincent. Where Vincent is clean-cut, this man is rugged. Where Vincent is composed, this man is kinetic, with energy pouring off him in almost visible waves. He fills the small store with his presence, a grin spreading across his face when he spots me.
He’s tall and huge, the kind of veiny, muscular build that comes from needles full of juice and hours at the gym. His blond hair is tousled, falling across his forehead in a way that should look messy but somehow works. Stubble darkens his jaw, and there’s a small scar bisecting his left eyebrow.
But it’s his eyes that catch me, so blue and bright and intense that they snag my breaths. The kind of eyes that see too much.
He strides directly to the counter, still grinning. No pretense of browsing. No snatching up a coffee cup or a candy bar on his way. It’s like he’s not here to buy anything.
He’s here for me.
“Ach, hello there, bonnie lass,” he says, and I catch a thick accent. Scottish, maybe? “What a pleasant surprise.”
I shift into customer-service mode, though something about him puts me on edge. “Can I help you?”
“Aye.” He leans against the counter, studying my nametag. “Sera. Dead braw name, that.”
“Okay…” I have no idea what he’s saying.
“I’m James.” He extends a hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, I shake it. His grip is firm, his palm calloused. “James MacDonald.”
“Okay…” I say again, pulling my hand back when he holds on a beat too long.
Rick emerges from the stockroom with a huge cardboard box of tampons, eyeing James with mild irritation. “You buying something today, or just harassing my new employee?”
James’s smile never falters. “Cannae I do both?”
Rick snorts and disappears into the back again. James continues to stare at me with undisguised interest.
“You’re new in town,” he states rather than asks. When I raise an eyebrow, he adds, “Wee city. News travels.”
“How…delightful.”
James leans in closer, lowering his voice. “I didnae expect ye to smile like that.”
Something inside me locks up, a gear grinding to a halt. “What?”
“Like you’re wearing it rather than feeling it.” His gaze is too penetrating, too knowing. “Your eyes dinnae match your mouth.”
I take a small step back. “What are you talking about?”
“Ye know,” he says easily. “And that’s all right. We all wear masks sometimes.”
I busy myself with straightening items on the counter. “Is there something I can do for you, or are you ready to go away now?”
“Aye, actually. I’d like to know if you’re working again tomorrow,” he says, a little softer.
I don’t answer, watching his face for some clue to his interest. Is he just a local creep hitting on the new girl? Or something else?
“My schedule’s not your business,” I say finally.
His smile widens. “Fair enough, hen. But if ye need any help with that house—repairs, clearing minging brush, exorcising demons—I’m your man. I can give ye my number.”
I have to sort through his thick accent to finally sort of understand him, but the casual mention of demons makes my skin crawl. Does he know something about the house? About the locked basement door? About the things that have happened there?
Before I can respond, he leans in again, so close I can smell him—soap and sawdust and something woodsy. “Would ye like my number, lassie?”
I’d rather shave my legs with a rusty cheese grater.
“Hell no.” I nod toward the door. “Now take the hint and leave.”
“Aye, okay.” James straightens up, winks, then turns and saunters toward the door.
Before he leaves, he calls over his shoulder, “See ye around, PrayWhileIMoan.”
My blood turns to ice.
PrayWhileIMoan. My username. Not here, but…before. On dark web message boards where I sought information about murder. In chat rooms where I learned how to disappear and reinvent myself.
A name only someone watching me online would know.
5
Sera
The bell chimes as James exits, leaving me frozen behind the counter, my heart pounding in my throat.
Rick returns a minute later, frowning at my expression. “Did that guy say something to you? He’s weird, but he seems harmless.”
I shake my head. “I’m fine.”
But I’m not fine. Because James knows who I am…or at least, who I was online. Which means he may know why I’m here. What I’m planning.
And James coming into the store right after Vincent… That can’t be a coincidence. He knows our history, likely from the news reports blasted across the country, even though it happened over five years ago. He knows everything.
And if he knows everything, who else does? And what does James intend to do about it?
For the rest of my shift, I go through the motions—ringing up customers, restocking shelves, mopping the floors. But my mind races. James. Vincent. The house with its bloody footprints and whispering vents. The shadowy thing that also knows my real name.
When my shift ends at midnight, Rick walks me to my car, his concern transparent and self-serving.
“You sure you’re okay driving home alone? That house of yours is pretty isolated.”
“I’m fine,” I assure him, unlocking my car.
“Okay, sweetheart. I mean, Sera.” He shuffles his feet. “Listen, if that guy bothers you again, let me know.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes at my new boss. “I can handle myself.”
Rick nods, clearly unconvinced. “Just be careful. This town’s not always friendly to outsiders. Or insiders. Hell, just look at the Missing Persons bulletin board.”
“No, thanks.” Without a wave, I get in my car and go.
As I drive home, I keep checking my rearview mirror, half expecting to see headlights following me, but the road behind me stays dark and empty.
The house looms ahead, a black silhouette against the night sky. No lights in the windows because I didn’t leave any on. Yet as I pull into the driveway, I swear I see a figure in the upstairs window. Just for a second. Then nothing.
I sit in my car, engine idling, staring up at the house. My house. My sanctuary.
PrayWhileIMoan.
How could James know that name? It doesn’t make any sense.
Unless Vincent sent him. Unless Vincent does remember me. Unless he sent spies to watch me, waiting for me to make my move.
The thought should terrify me, but it ignites something dark and hungry inside me. Let him see me coming. Let him lie awake at night, wondering what I’ll do next.
Still, how did James find me so quickly? How did he know PrayWhileIMoan is really Sera Vale, here, in Wichita, and working at Gas N’ Go? What if he’s watching me right now?
I cut the engine and hurry out into the cool night air. The wind whispers through the trees, carrying the scent of rain and decay. Autumn is settling in, painting the world in rust and gold in the daylight, beautiful on the surface, but at night, it’s clear that it’s rotting underneath.
I run to the house, keys in hand. The porch steps creak beneath my weight, a sound that’s already becoming familiar. I unlock the door and rush inside, immediately engulfed by darkness.
But I’m not alone.
I can feel it—a presence, a weight in the air. Something waiting. Something watching.
For now, I ignore it. I don’t reach for the light switch, letting my eyes adjust to the dark. Instead, I lock the door and check to see that all the blinds and curtains in the house are drawn so no one can see me.
As I race to the top of the stairs, something shifts in the shadows, a darker patch of darkness, moving like smoke. It drifts after me and watches while I manically move from room to room to check the windows.
Finally, breathing hard, I stand in my bedroom.
From the open air vent in the middle of the floor, something dark and phallic pokes out. My giant black dildo, I realize. The one I haven’t unpacked yet. My friends gave it to me as a gag gift for my nineteenth birthday. My friends, whom I haven’t spoken to in years.
“Why do you have that?” I demand. “Put it away.”
The dildo stays there while a cold wash of air brushes at my back, cements my lungs, and peaks my nipples. Did this thing living with me just…walk through me?
In front of me, the shadow pulses, expanding and contracting like a heartbeat.
I step closer. “I met someone today who knows things he shouldn’t. About me. About what I’m doing here, and… If he knows, I have to stop him. No one gets in my way. Do you hear me?”
Slowly, the shadow forms what may be a nod. Then it stretches, elongating until it resembles a human figure—tall, featureless, but unmistakably masculine. It extends a hand toward me, fingers like wisps of smoke.
I don’t hesitate. I reach out, letting my fingers pass through the insubstantial darkness. It’s cold, like dipping my hand in ice water, but somehow solid too. A paradox of sensation.
