Instead, it started to feel like the air was suddenly constricting in my throat. I turned my head to one side and then the next, hoping to release the tightness in my throat but to no avail. The pressure continued to build until it felt like invisible hands were wrapped around my throat and squeezing the air back out through my mouth.
Peyton, get up! I screamed at myself. Make your legs move, dammit!
But nothing. Instead, my heartbeat slammed through my body, echoing in my head as I fought to take a breath but failed. The pain in my throat had now doubled, feeling like an immense weight had descended on it and was slowly crushing my windpipe.
Feeling increasingly light-headed and dizzy, I closed my eyes. As soon as I did, I saw Drake. He was wrestling with something just above me—something that I couldn’t clearly delineate. It just appeared as a shadow, black air that was thick and billowing in some areas, sparse in others. But it was all concentrated just above me, as in a couple inches above me.
Drake appeared to be consumed by a whitish light that kept flickering brighter and then would fade away again as he struggled with the black cloud. Perspiration dotted his hairline, and with the way he was panting, it was pretty clear he was exhausted. He didn’t look at me once, just continued to battle whatever was on top of me, the light surrounding him starting to grow dimmer. But the shadow was also beginning to dissipate, and the wrenching pain around my throat began to let up.
I opened my eyes at the exact moment that I sucked in a breath and sat bolt upright in my bed. I immediately brought my hands to my throat in an attempt to ward off the intense burning sensation that plagued me, becoming an all-out incendiary whenever I swallowed.
Fear continued to beat a wild path through me, and the only thought in my mind was that I needed to get out of my bed and, more so, my room. I didn’t understand what had just happened to me but of one thing I was certain: The malevolent energy in the house had attacked me. The presence was growing stronger and bolder. Now this situation had become personal.
I pushed the duvet cover off and started to stand up, when I heard something. I stood stock-still and craned my neck in the direction of the noise—something that sounded like chipping. With my heartbeat ricocheting through me, I tiptoed to the doorway and poked my head out, noticing that the sound seemed to be coming from the end of the hallway, where the hallway met the kitchen. I didn’t know what compelled me to follow it, but I did. I tiptoed down the dark hallway and paused once I hit the kitchen.
The sound was definitely emanating from the rear of the kitchen, where the back door led out into the small garden. I took a few steps forward and then noticed the sound dissipated completely until I was left listening to my own shallow breathing. My throat still burned like a son of a bitch but I couldn’t even say I was really all that aware of it. Instead, I was wholly focused on what I should do—whether I should stay where I was and continue to listen for…I didn’t even know what. Or was it better to open the door and find out what was responsible for making the sound in the first place? Maybe it was a stray animal or a raccoon or something trying to make its way inside.
The more I considered it, the more plausible that reasoning seemed to be. I took another few painstaking steps toward the door and then paused, listening for the sound again. But there was nothing. It was so dark, I could only see the gleam of the reflection of the moonlight on the brass doorknob. I reached for it, and once I felt the cold metal in my palm, I took a deep and painful breath. I turned the knob and pulled, but the door wouldn’t budge. That was when I realized it was locked. Taking another deep breath, I unlocked it. It felt like eons passed as I watched my hand turn the knob and open the door. My gaze shifted from the darkness of the interior of my house to the darkness of the exterior. I dropped my gaze to the concrete steps just outside the door and felt my breath catch in my throat.
Lying on the top step was a chisel. In the area surrounding the chisel were myriad wood shavings, all of various sizes. But the shavings didn’t arrest my complete attention. That was reserved for the ax, which lay innocently on the second step.
12
I have to get out of the house. That was my first thought. Even though I was barefoot and wearing pajamas, I tore down the stairs, jumping over the chisel and the ax. With only thoughts about escaping, I ran down the narrow, overgrown cobble path that led to the decrepit gate in my backyard. All I could think about was reaching Ryan. I knew if I could get to Ryan, I’d be safe.
The latch on the gate was broken, but it didn’t discourage me—I was running on pure adrenaline and, what was more, I was very determined. I wrestled with the ancient latch until it gave way, then I thrust the gate away from me and felt a sharp, shooting pain in my palm. Glancing down only momentarily, I noticed blood was already filling my palm where a splinter of wood impaled it.
“Shit!” I cursed and immediately regretted it because my throat suddenly started to burn even worse than it had been.
Even though I hoped whoever or whatever had left the ax on my doorstep was now long gone, I couldn’t be sure he wasn’t hanging out in the nearby bushes, waiting for me…stalking me? Suddenly angry that I didn’t plan my escape route better, I wiped my bloody palm against my pajama T-shirt and figured there was only one option left—escaping through the backyard, which wound around the house and led out onto the street. I ran as quickly as I could, a difficult task considering I was barefoot and my backyard was a minefield of rocks, pinecones, pine needles, overgrown tree roots, and broken cobbles outlining what was once a path.
I cried out when I stubbed my big toe against the curb in front of my house, but seeing the asphalt of the road renewed me with hope. I took a right and ran down the street as quickly as my legs could carry me, ignoring the throbbing anguish in my toe. I strained to look for Ryan’s white truck, which was always parked outside of his house.
What if he isn’t home? I asked myself but forced the thought out of my mind. It was incredibly early in the morning—maybe two or three a.m. He had to be home.
I recognized his white truck a few seconds later and tore up his driveway with a renewed sense of purpose. I was almost there! The moonlight lit my way, and as soon as I felt the cold, wet grass of Ryan’s perfectly manicured front lawn, I wanted to sing. Instead, I took the steps to his front double doors two at a time. Trying to catch my breath, I pounded on one of the doors before noticing the doorbell off to the side. I slammed my index finger into the doorbell and secretly prayed that Ryan wouldn’t take long to answer the door. Almost immediately, the sound of barking dogs came from inside as well as the sound of canine nails tapping against the floor as Ryan’s two Saint Bernards scrambled to see who was visiting.
I wasn’t sure why, but hearing the dogs barking made me suddenly feel like a stranger who had no business standing on Ryan’s oversize porch, demanding to see him. Even though Ryan and I were friends, I’d actually never been to his home before—usually passing by while en route to some other destination. In any other instance, I no doubt would have inspected Ryan’s house more carefully, trying to decide what his style and tastes were. But since this wasn’t a social call, I couldn’t take stock of my surroundings. Instead, I just shivered in the cold night air, clad only in my skimpy charcoal-gray pajama shorts and a coordinating white cotton T-shirt.
The dogs continued to bark, but as far as I could tell they were the only creatures stirring inside his house. I knocked again, this time with a bit more desperation. Then I heard the sound of bare feet shuffling across the floor. One thing I was now sure of was that Ryan had hardwood floors because they were way beyond noisy.