Haunt

Chapter 8

8

Whatever I’m going to say, or do, or cry for is cut off by the sound of a gunshot. Harrow stiffens, one hand coming down to rest against my hair like he’s trying to comfort or reassure me. He sighs, low and long, and a second later my hoodie is dropped onto my head from the shelf above. I flinch but only take a moment before pulling it on over my head, not caring that I don’t have my bra as I scramble to my feet.

“If you know what’s good for you…” Harrow pins me back against the shelves, fingers stroking along my jaw. “You’ll stay right here while I figure out—” Another gunshot goes off, causing me to jump in surprise. He sighs once more, seeming more irritated than anything, and turns to open the door to the hallway.

“Stay,” he orders, as the light from the hallway illuminates the animal skull mask obscuring his face. Then he closes the closet door, leaving me alone in the dark once again, but this time with no weapon.

But I am for sure not going to stay put. When I hear another door open, I give it a few more seconds before creeping out into the hallway, wishing I still had the knife I stabbed Ravage with. But either way, I can’t just huddle in the closet. I can’t just hide and wait for him to come back, since I’m pretty sure Harrow is ready to slit my throat and throw me into a pit with the other dead bodies in the warehouse.

That thought makes me remember the eye squishing between my fingers, and I almost wretch. A shudder goes through me as I jog down the hallway silently toward the cracked open door leading to a different side of the warehouse. I hesitate, wondering if I should go back to the open area I know leads to the lobby and try to figure out a way to leave from there, since I know for a fact there’s a door to take me outside.

But I already tried that route, and it hadn’t worked out for me.

“Fuck it,” I murmur, biting down on my lower lip before slowly opening the door further with my fingertips. It leads me into another big room, though this one is lined with larger glass windows I could probably jump through if I’m brave enough to tough out all the glass shards raking through my skin. I look around, surprised that it’s actually sort of well lit, and my eyes land on tables spaced along the wall, each of them covered with stacks and piles of different things.

And different masks. A few of the masks I recognize are there. The doll mask, the clown mask, and the scarecrow hood. But the emperor mask isn’t, and neither is the distorted ghost mask. There are normal clothes on some of the tables, jeans and t-shirts, while a black lacy dress is draped over the table that’s littered with maimed toys and a doll mask.

I step closer, reaching out to run my fingers over the doll-like mask before moving on to the next table. The room is large enough that I don’t immediately hear the murmur of voices until a hysterical, snarling laugh rings against the glass above me. Being this close to the windows, I realize my plan of jumping through them was a little too ambitious when I’d have to climb up to them in the first place.

Unfortunately, there are no weapons on the tables. Just props and costumes and a few scattered papers. But I walk down the line until I get to the end, where there’s a pile of normal clothes, a set of keys, and a wallet thrown haphazardly onto the table. I’ve only just opened it to see messy auburn hair on the ID peeking out of a pocket when another gunshot rings out, causing me to drop the wallet with a wince.

Voices echo through the room, bouncing off the walls enough that I can’t hear what’s being said. I know I should find somewhere to hide or look for a phone, at the very least. But instead I find myself creeping toward the other side of the room that’s blocked by a large concrete wall passing through the middle of the space like a large divider.

I hug the concrete, pressed up against it, with my eyes wide and fixed on where I think the voices are coming from. Sure enough, when I’m mostly around it, I see both Harrow and Ravage circling a man I recognize from the lobby, though with a few less fingers now, covered in blood, and holding a gun. When he looks up at me, I realize he’s also missing a fucking eye.

My stomach turns over at the sight, and I have to look down at the floor to swallow rapidly in order to prevent myself from puking.

“I-I recognize you.” The man’s desperate, rough voice croaks out of his throat, but I don’t look up at him. “You were in the lobby, you—” He takes a breath to steady himself, and when I glance at him I see him point the gun at Harrow and Ravage in succession.

“You need to call the police,” he tells me. “There has to be a phone around here. We have to get out of here…we have to see who’s still alive, and?—”

“There’s no one still alive other than you, dumbass.” Ravage cackles, prowling around a table and tapping his fingers on it rhythmically. “And Noa can’t help you. Why the hell would she put herself at risk for something like you ?” He sneers the word like an insult, making my stomach twist.

When the man looks at me, I have to look away, unable to meet his eyes. I hate to say it, but Ravage is right. As much as I might want to help this man, he’s a stranger, and I don’t want to get murdered by the two men in masks, or anyone else still prowling around the warehouse.

“Sorry,” I murmur, eyeing him regretfully. I step back, creating a bit more distance between us, and I hear the anguished snarl that leaves him at my action.

“You’re picking them ? After what they did? Look at what they did to me, you stupid bitch !” The insult isn’t what I’m expecting, but I drag my gaze up to his face, taking in his gory eye socket and the stumps of three of his fingers on one hand. The other hand isn’t looking so great either, truthfully. His skin seems to have been peeled back, like a butcher peeling the skin off of a dead cow to reveal the meat underneath.

But that comparison does absolutely nothing for my stomach or the way my throat clenches shut in an attempt to stall the nausea clawing its way up my esophagus.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so—” My heart stutters to a halt in my chest when the man points the gun at me with shaking, unsteady fingers.

“Then you can die with them,” he sneers, shifting his grip on the weapon.

Everything seems to move in slow motion. I stand there, frozen. But from the corner of my eye, I see Ravage lunge forward, covering the distance between them and reaching out to grab the man’s arm. He yanks it upward just as the gun goes off, and distantly I hear the shattering of a skylight while my eyes are fixed on the scene in front of me.

Ravage slams the man’s hand down onto a nearby table, sending the gun spinning out of his grip. Harrow is there a moment later, forcing the man back down after he wrenches himself up.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Harrow’s purr is soft. “Hex may have had first dibs on you, but”—he leans down, gloved fingers trailing across the man’s face—“she’s not here anymore, so you’re fair game for any of us.”

My gaze slides down away from them, even amidst the man’s screams as Harrow does something to his face I know I don’t want to see. I hear wet, thick sounds that make my stomach turn, and I force myself not to look back up, no matter how curious I am.

I have a feeling I won’t be able to deal with what I see. Instead, my eyes gravitate toward the gun on the floor between me and the men, and my heart races as I consider it.

Neither Harrow nor Ravage seem to notice. Not even when I take one careful step away from the wall.

Then another.

One more takes me in range of it, and I kneel down to reach out with one trembling hand, fingers closing around the still-warm and bloody metal before I jerk back to my feet.

“ Noa. ” Harrow’s voice is disapproving, though he sounds more like a disappointed parent than someone worried about getting shot by their victim-to-be. I glance up at him, biting down on my lower lip, and step back until my back hits the concrete wall again. He lifts a hand and crooks two gloved fingers at me once, then again, beckoning for me to give him the gun.

“You’re joking,” I breathe, watching as Ravage lets the man’s mangled body slither to the floor in a heap. I can’t look at him. Especially not when I can see the fresh blood and gore staining his face that I refuse to focus on.

Besides, that man is very dead now, so he’s no longer a concern of mine. I can’t let him be, if I want to have any hope of getting out of here with my life intact.

“You…you think I’ll give you the gun because you wiggled your fingers at me?” A shiver goes through me, and I lean my head back against the wall. My knees want to buckle, and every part of me just wants to run to my bed, throw the covers over myself, and hide for the next thirty years or so. But the ridiculousness of his request makes me giggle, the muffled sound escaping my clenched teeth.

Harrow just huffs out a breath, but it’s Ravage who prowls closer to me, vibrating with excitement.

“I’ll do more than wiggle my fingers at you, princess,” he purrs, barely pausing when I lift the gun to point it directly at his chest. “Want me to come get it from you? Shall I peel your fingers off of it one by one while you cry and beg me to stop? Tell you what…” He holds up his hands, peeling off his gloves before reaching out to me with his fingers twitching expectantly. “You give me that gun right now”—he takes a step toward me—“and I’ll make sure Harrow is gentle with you. Sort of. I’ll even rein myself in a little when I fuck your pretty pussy.”

“And if I say I’d rather keep it so I can shoot you if the mood takes me?” My voice is rough from exhaustion and being choked out, but I never look away from him as he prowls closer to me.

“Then I’ll have to take it from you, princess. And then Harrow is going to be so mean to you.” He glances back at the animal skull masked man behind him, who stands completely at ease with his arms crossed loosely over his chest. His head tilts to the side, and even though I can’t see his eyes, I can feel the weight of his gaze on me. “And I’ll remember that you need a lesson in following directions. You don’t want that.”

I shift my weight from foot to foot. “I really don’t want that,” I agree, a tremor going up my spine. “All I want is to go home.”

“Oh, yeah?” With his hand still held out, Ravage moves toward me until the gun is pressed between his collarbones, at the hollow of his throat. “You want to tell me all about it, princess? You want to?—”

He stops talking when I pull the trigger reflexively, without even having to think about it. But when the gun clicks around an empty chamber, the two of us just stand there, and my face falls as I realize something very important.

The gun is empty.

I pull the trigger again, then once more for good measure, before Ravage lunges forward to knock the gun from my hand, sending it spinning across the floor. I dart to the side, or try to, but Ravage slams me into the wall, fingers going around my throat easily and quickly. This time, though, it’s the warm press of his palm against my throat, instead of the slide of his gloves.

“Oh, Noa .” He tsks at me, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “That was the wrong choice, princess. But that’s okay. I’m not mad at you.” He curls closer to me, his body pressed to mine. “I’ll just have to teach you how to make better choices, won’t I?”