8. Frankie

Nine YearsAgo

It always beginsthe same way, no matter how I fall asleep, when I awake, or when I run—a creak in the darkness, a whisper of wind, or the unsettling silence of the house. It all leads back to this moment. I'm alone in bed, and my heart races as a familiar sense of dread washes over me. It isn't just the eerie silence or the way shadows seem to move in the corners of my eyes. It's the feeling of being watched, hunted by something unseen, and each time I awaken, gasping into the chill of the night, knowing somewhere deep inside that my past—or perhaps something far worse—is catching up to me.

My eyes open. Blinking, I try to focus on the darkness, straining to find the reason I'm awake.

Across the room, my foster sisters are fast asleep, the darkness outside the window indicating it's still late. The door to my foster parents' room is shut tight, not a thing out of place.

Except, the world feels wrong. Ever so slowly, I sit up, blinking against the darkness. As the blanket slips off me, cold air crashes against my sensitive skin.

Why am I naked?

I swear I went to bed dressed in my favorite nightgown with little rainbows and a smiling girl on the front with equally colorful hair. Shivering, I search for my gown, my teeth chattering because one of my foster siblings left the window open. A whisper of unease trickles through my mind—not just from the cold or the darkness, but from a sensation I've felt only in moments of deep solitude or distress. It's as if the shadows themselves hold a comforting presence, a secret ally only I seem to know. I push the thought aside, attributing it to my overactive imagination.

My bare feet touch the floor, and a yawn cracks my jaw, making my eyes water. There, in the middle of the floor, lies my nightgown, inside out.

I must have taken it off in my sleep.

At least, that's what I tell myself.

I don't remember falling asleep, and I don't really remember much of the night before.

Trying not to dwell on it, I redress and pad across the room to the bathroom.

The house is over a hundred years old. The second floor is more like one long hallway with open spaces for bedrooms. It's supposed to have three bedrooms, but technically, there is only one with a door.

I flick the bathroom light on, and I'm blinded. Hissing, I quickly turn it off and use the toilet, then I wash my hands in silence, hoping not to wake anyone.

There are seven of us in this house. I've been here for a few weeks, and it's okay. It's new, and from experience, I know that everyone here won't reveal their true selves for another few months.

Feeling thirsty, I make my way down the hall, passing the double bunk beds with all four of my foster brothers fast asleep. I creep down the stairs, making sure not to tread on any of the creaky steps. Identifying the creaky spots in a house is the first thing I learn in any new home—self-preservation won't allow it any other way.

Darkness bathes the first floor, with only the streetlights outside shining in through the window, while shadows stretch across the floor almost as though they are trying to reach out to me.

I yawn again, making my eyes water. For a moment, the tears almost blind me, and maybe that's why I don't see him at first. That night, I didn't see him either.

But this? This is a memory, and I know he's there, lurking in the shadows, watching me.

Rubbing my eyes, I open the fridge, the light just as blinding as it was in the bathroom. There are a few drops left of the lemonade made at dinner the night before. If I drink it, I know I'll have to make more.

I'm so thirsty that I'm willing to drink it and stay up a few more moments to make more. With the pitcher in my grip, I back away, closing the fridge.

"Why are you awake?" His voice startles me, and I squeak and drop the pitcher, spilling lemonade across the kitchen.

I slap a hand over my mouth, turning to look at the steps, hoping I didn't wake anyone. When no footsteps cross the second floor, I turn around, blinking against the darkness. In a chair in the corner of the kitchen, my foster father sits with a cigarette hanging from his lips.

"I asked you a question," he says, taking a long draw of his cigarette.

My stomach flares with nerves as little butterflies take flight, and my head feels dizzy. Every inch of me screams to run, to get out of this situation. Every inch of me tells me I'm in danger, but I can't figure out why.

Licking my lips, I reply, "I'm thirsty."

He grunts, sitting back, and places one ankle over his knee. I can just make out his bare chest and the shorts he's wearing.

Alarm bells still reverberate in my head like a gong, over and over.

"Looks like you made a mess of the lemonade," he whispers, taking a longer drag before slowly blowing the smoke out. "Better clean it up."

I had forgotten about the lemonade. I'm standing in a puddle of lemonade. Taking a cautious step back, I reach for the drawer of kitchen towels and toss two on the floor. Using my feet, I step on each one, beginning to walk them around while trying to sop up all the lemonade.

"Not like that," he says.

"Excuse me?" I lift my gaze to him, fear dancing in my belly. The clock reads three in the morning. Why is he awake?

"Get on all fours and clean up the lemonade," he commands.

"What?" My voice trembles, and my body shakes.

"You heard me," he snaps, extinguishing his cigarette, his foot landing on the ground with a soft tap that, to me, sounds like a stomp.

Reluctantly, I sink to the floor. My nightgown will get wet, but there's no helping it now. My knees touch the cracked linoleum, and although I dread looking away, I need to see what I'm doing, given the darkness.

Swallowing my fear, I grab the towel and begin to soak up the lemonade.

"Stop," he demands.

Fear surges through me, a living entity. "Sir?" I risk a glance upward—a mistake. He's leaning forward, his eyes like rings of fire.

"Turn around."

Tears burn my vision. I know what this is. I never should have gotten out of bed. I can't run. He'd only outrun me. Grinding my teeth, I turn around to face the front of the house, my heart palpitating.

I can't catch a breath. My lungs won't allow it. My stomach is one giant knot, a cage for the butterflies wreaking havoc inside me. Closing my eyes, I lean forward, the towels clenched in my shaking hands.

"Ass in the air," he whispers.

Tears stream down my face, and my body quivers uncontrollably, frozen in terror.

I hear his footsteps approaching and feel him looming too close behind me.

"So perfect," he murmurs, lifting my shirt, his fingertips sending shivers of dread down my spine. "Shh, I'll take good care of you."

My stomach twists.

Before I can take my next breath, a chill seeps through the room, halting my fear in its tracks. My cheek almost touches the floor when I feel it—an unspoken bond with the shadows at the edges of my vision, whispering of power I've barely acknowledged, let alone understood. The air thickens, charged with an energy that seems to pulsate with my heartbeat. He takes my shirt and begins to wrap it around my head, but the darkness stirs, a living entity reacting to my silent plea for help. Not like this, a voice whispers with a feeling that floods my veins with a strength I didn't know I possessed. I can't breathe, yet I'm suffused with a rush of clarity and purpose, as if the shadows themselves are rallying to my defense.

My cheek slams against the floor with an audible crack, and pain blossoms across my face. He takes my shirt and wraps it around my head, twisting, twisting, twisting…

I can't breathe.

"This won't hurt," he lies, his touch igniting panic.

Tears soak my shirt as he slowly strangles me. I can't get down a gulp of air. Whimpers escape me. I can't control them.

He leans over me. "Shhh, good girls don't cry." His actions contradict his words as he tightens his grip on my shirt. "Shhh, or I'll have to suffocate you, and you don't want that, now do you?" I bite my tongue until it bleeds. "Didn't think so."

I feel him pressing against me.

Fear seizes me as darkness clouds my vision. Spots dance in my eyes as he tightens my shirt around my upper body. It's so dark.

A sense of calm settles over me, and instead of fighting, I reach for the darkness, craving the safety it might offer. Anything is better than this.

"What the fuck?" He releases me.

I scramble through the lemonade, whimpers escaping me as I tug my shirt down and turn around to put him in my line of sight.

His eyes are wide as he glares at me—no, not me, my legs.

Looking down, I see darkness spilling over me. What is that? I freeze as the shadows whisper words of safety, of home.

I only ever wanted a home.

"You're fucking one of them," he says before lunging for me, but I'm too small. My thirteen-year-old body is no match for his older one. My head cracks against the floor as he settles his weight over me.

"I should do the world a favor and just kill you now." His words send a new spike of fear through me. Something changed. Now, he wants me dead. I don't know what I did, but I know I need to get out of here, out of this house. I need to run. Escape.

Darkness once again creeps over my vision. This time, though, the shadows whisper to fight.

I kick and scream beneath his muffling palm. His other hand closes around my neck, but I still fight. Blackness creeps in at the edges.

The shadows whisper to fight harder.

My hands flail as I struggle to breathe, trying to grasp for anything to help me. My hand closes around a sippy cup left by one of the littles.

I crack it over his head again and again.

"You little bitch."

Again!

I strike him with it, dislodging him, and he rolls off me. "You're not even worth it."

All the anger from every adult who has ever failed me boils over in that moment, and I attack him. I scrape my nails down his face and across his chest. He stumbles backward.

That's when the whispers intensify.

Fight him.

Let us have him.

Give him to us.

We will make him pay.

With a cry born from my soul, fueled by desperation and fear, I hit him again. His head snaps back, and that's when something extraordinary happens. The darkness on the floor creeps up and ensnares him, like black ropes springing to life.

"What is this?" He looks at me with wild eyes. "Call them off. Help me," he pleads, his fear resonating with my own.

I can only lean back and watch in fascination as the shadows pull him down, his body partway in the floorboards.

"Francesca," he warns, fear genuine in his voice. "Call them back, tell them to stop."

"Would you have stopped?" I whisper into the stillness of the night. In his eyes, I see the truth—he wouldn't have stopped. He would have relished my cries, tears, and pain.

I will savor his.

I echo his words back to him. "Didn't think so."

As if awaiting my consent, the shadows tighten their grip and whisk him away. In mere seconds, he's gone. His body is no longer here, at least not in this plane of existence.

As the last echoes of his screams fade, a deafening silence fills the room, then, a timid, confused voice cuts through the darkness. "What did you do?"

Trembling, I turn to find a wide-eyed boy standing in the doorway. "Bishop," I whisper, my voice a mix of relief and despair.

His presence isn't just unexpected—it's a lifeline in the chaotic aftermath of what I unleashed, but as his gaze shifts from me to where the shadows performed their deadly waltz, I realize the nightmare isn't over. It has only just begun.

Just like that, the nightmare ends, and I wake up to a new one.