The Girl From the Woods

Back in my apartment, I relished the quiet life, away from all the beeping machines and doctors and patients who either were dying or who had died during my hospital stay.

I'd witnessed enough death.

Sometimes at night I went out back and looked at the deck, at the dried bloodstain I couldn't scrub away, no matter how hard I tried.

Part of me didn't want to get rid of it. Because it was a reminder of the guilt I'd felt. I could have done more to help Rachel, but didn't. Even if I had gotten her to the hospital, it wouldn't have mattered; she was already too far gone when she crawled out of those woods.

I pushed away thoughts of her and walked to the bathroom. Flicking on the light, I winced and stared into the mirror above the sink. I looked about as shitty as I felt, I imagined. My right eye was swollen, and there were bruises along my collarbone and chest. And everything hurt.

Whoever this man was really fucked me up. I'd asked Bridget to look into it once she got home. When she'd found me on the sidewalk, he was standing over me, claiming that I killed Rachel—his sister—and told Bridget he wanted me dead.

He told her his name was James Saunders.

But he lied.

And I think I knew why.

Because he was Victor, and if he was, that meant he wasn't a ghost anymore.