That night, she wished she were already dead.
Terrifying images assaulted her. The bloody finger. Sam’s little toe. The gruesome carnage in the tree nursery. Faces fluttered before her, mingling with snatches of angry conversation that crept through the stupor of her mind. Philip, blaming her for Sam’s death. Leah, doubting her decision to remain silent about seeing The Fog. Her parents, embarrassed by her drinking. They all pointed a finger in Sadie’s direction, accusing her.
“It’s all your fault,” they shouted.
Then she saw him.
The Fog.
He skulked in a shadowed corner of the cabin bedroom, his eyes gleaming in the dim light cast by the oil lamp simmering beside the bed. When he stepped into the light, his face was painted like Clancy’s.
She whimpered and backed up against the headboard.
“Shh,” he whispered, as if comforting a child.
“Stay away from me!”
He paid no attention and moved soundlessly toward the bed. He held up a hand brandishing a gleaming butcher knife, and in the other hand, two small blue and white marbles rolled in his palm.
But they weren’t marbles. They were eyes—Sam’s eyes.
Sadie stared at them, horrified. “Sam?”
“Your son is dead.” The Fog’s mouth moved closer, rotting breath spilling from him like raw sewage. “Now I’m going to carve you into pieces. Little bloody pieces.”
As the knife swiftly arced downward, she squeezed her eyes shut and screamed. “No!”
A breeze wafted over her. But that was it. No searing pain, no agonizing death. Just silence.
When she opened her eyes, he was gone. Confusion swept through her. Where was he? Hiding in the shadows?
She reached out and touched the oil lamp.
It was cool.
The Fog had been nothing more than a hideous dream.
“But it seemed so real.”
A sob caught in the back of her throat and she shivered uncontrollably. Then she frowned. Why is it so cold in here?
With a grunt, she sat up, her eyes fastening on the one thing that was out of place.
The open window.
She thought of the night Sam had been taken, the night that had been filled with signs—if she had only seen them. His window had been open too, just like hers was now.
But the Fog isn’t here. So who’s playing tricks on me?
She felt like a participant in a demented game of cat and mouse, and she had no illusions—she was the mouse. And she was sick and tired of playing.
“What do you want from me?” she moaned.
Every inch of her body tightened. Her hands clamped into fists and she wanted to pound something. Someone. Philip. Leah.
Him.
“No more!” she screamed. “No fucking more!”
With a deep breath, she leapt from the bed. Then she reached up and slammed the window shut. Outside, the moon shone above the trees, its crescent shape radiating a hazy light. A glistening fog floated above the ground. She stared at it, wondering if that was what had inspired her nightmare.
She leaned her forehead against the cool glass.
Nothing stirred outside.
But someone opened my window.
“Well, there’s no way in hell you’re going back to sleep now.”
She fumbled for her robe. Blinded by the dark, she made her way through the gloomy living room and approached the fireplace where glowing embers pulsed ever so faintly. She felt for the kindling in the basket on her left. When she tossed a few pieces in, sparks licked the undersides of the wood. She placed two logs on top, but they merely smoldered and crackled, laughing at her. Knowing they’d catch sooner or later, she squinted at the two windows, the sliding doors and the back door.
“By the time I’m done, this cabin’ll be locked down like Fort Knox,” she muttered. “But first, I need a flashlight.”
She trailed her fingers along the coffee table, searching for the flashlight she had bought in town. All she met was empty space.
“I’m sure I left it here.” It must have fallen.
Her hands swept the floor.
Nothing.
“What the heck did you do with it?”
A glaring light blinded her.
With a shriek, she jumped back, her heart racing.
“Looking for thith?”
24
A boy of about six with closely shaved hair sat cross-legged on the sofa. Covered by a blanket, he watched her with a curious expression in his fathomless eyes.
He held something in his hands. “You want it?”
It was the blue flashlight. The one Irma had given her. The one Sadie had lost in the woods.
She shook her head, confused.
It was happening again. The hallucinations. The boy was a figment of her insane imagination. Or a mirage, compliments of Philip’s blasted wine. But she hadn’t had that much to drink. Had she?
“What’s your name?” the boy lisped cheerfully, as though it were perfectly normal for him to be sitting in her cabin in the middle of the night.
She swallowed hard. Figments of imaginations weren’t supposed to talk, or be heard.
The boy huffed. “Lady, dontcha talk?” He waved the flashlight and the light bounced off the walls.
“There are no children here,” she said.
The boy grinned. “Yeth there are. Me.”
She crept forward. With an outstretched hand, she reached for the phantom boy, positive that she would touch his cheek and—poof—he’d vanish into thin air.
But he didn’t vanish. Her hand met soft skin.
She snatched her hand back. “Who are you? And what are you doing here?”
The boy didn’t answer. Instead, he slid off the blanket, revealing a pair of navy-blue and light gray striped flannel pajamas.
She frowned. “You should be home in bed. It’s late.”
“My thithter made me come,” he said.
She stared at the boy, her mind reeling. What kind of sister would make her little brother wander around the woods at night?
“She wanted me to give you something,” he continued with a soft lisp. “She was gonna come herself, but Father sent her to the dungeon because she got out the other night.”
Jumping to his feet, he shoved a hand deep into his pants pocket and pulled out something round.
“Your sister sent you out in the middle of the night to give a complete stranger an onion?” She gaped at him. “Do your parents know you’re here?”
“Father’s sleeping. We’re not supposed to go outside unless he’s with us.”
“Then he’ll be very worried if he finds you gone. Let’s get you home.” She moved toward him.
“But I don’t want to go.”
The fear in his eyes made her breath stop. It reminded her of how Sam reacted when Philip got angry with him.
The boy started sobbing. “Don’t make me go back. Pleathe!”
Alarmed, she scooped him up in her arms and hugged him close. His warm body felt good, like he belonged.
Like Sam.
She mentally slapped herself.
This boy is alive and safe. And he’s not Sam.
As the boy’s sobs subsided, she sank down onto the sofa.
“It’s okay. We can stay here. Just for a bit. Okay?”
The boy sniffed. “’Kay.”
She stroked his shaved head. “My name is Sadie.”
“A-Adam.”
“Where do you live, Adam?”
The boy flicked a look at the sliding door.
“Ah, across the river,” she guessed.
He nodded, his wet eyes staring up at her. About to say something, he opened his mouth, like a hatchling waiting to be fed. Abruptly, he changed his mind and clamped it shut.
“How about some hot chocolate,” she said, sliding him onto the sofa.