Ashwick Inn is a large, Victorian style building. I can hear its age with each creaking step I take down the wooden hall floor. When I shove the bronze key into my room’s keyhole, it jerks and sticks before I can turn the knob and push the door open. The room is oversized, bigger than any back home, and fits an enormous bed along the far-left wall, a worn loveseat pressed up against its foot, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases stocked with dusty material. There’s a fireplace to my right, built into the base of the only red bricked wall in the room, and above it sits an older TV. The large, round rug laid out before it holds a single rocking chair.

I wonder if Grams has been here before. Clearly it’s been around for a while.

Would she have ever needed to stay at an inn? Could she have walked down that very hall, on the top floor? As open and talkative as Grams was, her past was a solid door that remained shut. It didn’t matter how many times I used to ask about her life before LA, about the grandfather I’d never known, my questions were never met with answers.

She would have loved this place, though: the natural scent of wood filling my nose, the comfortable, folksy feel that she filled our own home with, and the way the fresh coldness from outside wafts through the air. For those very same reasons, Bobby would hate it. Ashwick Inn lacks a certain ambience he tends to go for these days—the kind with smoky casinos and full-service bars.

I glance down at the new, stiff duffel bag in my hand, the price tag still poking out. A quick detour to the tiny town’s only shopping strip allowed me to stock up with some basics before heading here. My wallet and clothes are the only visible ties to my life in LA now. I never thought I’d feel so bare without any of my own clothes, photographs, and other belongings, but now I can’t shake the feeling a part of my identity was left at the bottom of Tuttle Creek Lake.

At least one of the shops carried cute postcards. I take a minute to write a little note for Jamie, letting her know I’ve made it and I’m doing okay. I may have conveniently left out a few of the darker details, but Jamie’s the kind of bestie who’d drop everything and come cursing and banging down my door to make sure I’m all right. She has enough people to take care of under her own roof as it is. Setting the card aside for now, I cross the room.

The bathroom’s small, cozy. A standalone, oval tub sits in one corner. No shower. That’s fine with me; at least it’s clean. I start the water, turning the knob to as hot as I can stand, then close the door to let the steam surround me as I undress.

The water is almost too hot when I lower myself down. Relaxation washes over me. After turning the faucet off, my eyes close as the soothing sound of water settling takes over. It’s hypnotic, the smallest waves caressing me, and my body melts into it like butter. And somehow, it’s familiar—the warmth, the syrupy sensation tugging at me, the tingling.

It’s so quiet, I can hear my own inhales and exhales. Each breath a soft pull and whoosh, a smooth and steady stream of air. Until it’s not, and I hear a different rhythm. It’s quieter, but there’s a roughness to it. It’s deep and controlled, and it doesn’t match the rise and fall of my chest. In fact, it doesn’t seem like me at all.

My eyes snap open.

Steam clouds the small bathroom, but I can see there’s no one here but me. Still, I feel it. I feel a presence, a warmth on my skin, and I hear it in the air like a painter’s brush stroking its canvas. I try to quiet my breathing, forcing each exhale to be long and slow, so I can hear the sounds better. It’s clearer now, heavy, coming and going in strong, steady patterns. Breaths.

A cold sliver of unease sneaks up on me, mostly because the logical part of my brain tells me I should be panicking. That’s the natural reaction, after all. Somehow, my body and my mind are on completely different planets. I know it can’t be real, whatever this is. Yet I feel it, a gentle pull. A warm hum calling to me. Even if it is my subconscious tricking me again, manifesting some way for me to overcome Grams’s death and the accident, it’s hard to care when such a soothing cloud of calm surrounds me. No sense of malice, no threat in the air. Something about the presence comforts me, easing the ache of loneliness, and it’s drawing me in.

For reasons I can’t understand, I don’t want to lose the feeling, the sound. The presence. Not yet. And right now, I’m choosing to feed it.

On a shaky breath, I close my eyes again, my breaths falling into pattern with the soft breaths behind me. When I hear the inhale, I fill my lungs. When I hear the exhale, I release. Soon, we’re in sync with one another.

An entire minute goes by like this, with me continuing the slow and steady breathing and listening to them—it? him?—follow. I’m in a trance—a romanticized state devised by the newly unstable half of me, and it’s the first true sense of peace I’ve felt since Grams’s passing.

It’s fading now, drifting away. I don’t want it to leave me yet; I’m not ready to be alone again. But what can I do? It’s dwindling, the warm presence around me diminishing and leaving my skin cold, until the sounds are barely even an echo anymore. Once they’re gone completely, my eyes slowly open and I look around once more.

The room is just as empty as it was before, but somehow I feel even lonelier.

CRACK.

CRACK.

CRACK.

A desperate, shaky scream climbs up my throat, but it’s not mine. Boyish and small, the unfamiliar voice pours out on its own.

My arms, small and skinny, hang over the side of the bed. Jeans pulled down to my ankles, each draft of wind seeping through the open window sends a fresh wave of pain through my raw backside.

What’s happening to me? This isn’t me, my body, my voice. And yet the pain, the fear, the anger, it’s real enough that it may as well be.

A long shadow stretches over the bed before me, warning me of what’s to come.

CRACK.

This lash is harder than the last, tearing my flesh open as pain ripples to my core. “Please, Pops! No more!” I have no control over the words I cry, nor over this child body I don’t recognize.

“Don’t you fuckin’ talk back to me, boy.” Hatred burns through each word, and the giant looming over me inches forward. He doesn’t stop until his tobacco and whiskey-stenched breath is close enough to touch the nape of my neck. He lowers his voice to a menacing whisper. “Unless you want little Tommy over there to take the rest of your beating for you, of course.”

I feel my head involuntarily jerk toward the right-hand corner of the bedroom, where a boy lays in a heap on the carpet. I’m unsure how I know this, but the boy is six years old. One of his eyes is swollen shut, while the other looks up at me pleadingly. His nose is caked with dried blood.

On its own, my jaw snaps shut, teeth grinding together.

“That what you want, boy?” taunts the man, leaning closer still. “Your little brother to take what you ain’t man enough to handle?”

My eyes narrow, and the voice that isn’t mine grits out, “No, sir.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He backs away, but my relief is short-lived as the shadow before me raises its arm. I know it’s coming, the burn, the blood, but I keep my eyes locked on little Tommy. I will not close them for this bastard. I will not cower, not while the tiniest spark of hope still gleams in my little brother’s single, unharmed eye.

When that next CRACK comes slamming down on my tender skin, searing through every inch of me and blistering me raw, I keep my eyes centered on Tommy.

And just like that, he knows.

He knows not to let go of his last shred of hope.

He knows I’ll get him out of this shithole.

And I know, one day, I will make this sick, twisted monster pay for what he’s done to us.

Gasping for air, I bolt upright in bed, my hands clutching the comforter. Thump, thump, thump, my heart tries to claw its way out of my chest. My eyes flick around my surroundings. Fireplace. Brick wall. Rocking chair. Large window revealing a dark, midnight sky.

I’m in my room at the inn.

I release a loud exhale, my hands loosening their grip on the comforter as each muscle in my body relaxes, little by little.

It was just a dream.

A nightmare.

It wasn’t real.

Instinctively, I reach beneath me and rub a hand over my backside, the same spot that was whipped. Over and over again. Except it wasn’t me at all, was it? Of course, there’s no sign now of the blood-curdling pain I could have sworn I just experienced. No sign of the deadly rage boiling inside me. No sign of the little brother I could have sworn I loved like my own flesh and blood, who, in that moment, I would have given my own life for.

Breathe, I tell myself.

It’s over.

It’s day two in Ashwick, and I haven’t left the Inn at all. Forget the Inn, I haven’t left the bed except to pee. The mattress is lumpy and my back cramped, but I can’t get up. I’m tired. So tired, and the soreness from the accident still has my bones aching. I could barely sleep after the nightmare. Images of the little boy slumped in the corner of the room etched themselves into my brain, popping up every time I closed my eyes.

I know it wasn’t real, but telling myself that doesn’t make it feel any less so.

I keep the blanket over my face like a tent, taking comfort in the heavy solitude of darkness. The blanket is my wall, my shield. I don’t know what I’m trying to shield myself from more: another nightmare or the new, empty reality that is my life. My eyes squeeze tighter as I clutch the edge of the blanket firmer, trying to will myself back into a dreamless, numb sleep.

I know I’m being ridiculous and dramatic, refusing to face the world on my own when there are some people who’ve never had anyone to begin with. Some who’ve had to do this thing alone since they were little, maybe even since they were born. I’m grateful to have known what it’s like to be loved, to be cared for. And although the love between my parents may have ended in tragedy, in some ways I’m lucky to have witnessed what they had shared. The kind of love most people never get to see outside of romance novels.

Then again, the more I think of it, the more I wonder if maybe it was more of a curse than luck. Seeing the relentless passion between Mom and Dad—even if it was just through photographs, videos, and Dad’s stories—set ridiculously high expectations for me. Perhaps that’s part of the reason things didn’t work out between me and Bobby; I never could settle for anything less than what they had.

Almost an hour later, I’m still awake, unable to fall back into any sort of blissful ignorance. It’s torture. There’s a grandfather clock ticking away somewhere, each second droning on and echoing in my eardrums. I kick the blanket off and stumble into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I rinse my mouth and set the toothbrush down, then splash cold water on my face.

My reflection reveals deep circles beneath dark brown eyes, making them seem more sunken than usual, and my hair is a tangled mess. I hardly even recognize myself right now. Hardly even know how to feel. Should I still be grieving? Am I still grieving? How is a grieving person supposed to act? Honestly, I have no clue, but something tells me selling the house of the deceased and running off to the middle of nowhere isn’t the best start.

What am I even doing?

I don’t know if Grams is watching, but right now, I actually hope she’s not. It would pain her to see me like this, such a wreck. The thought of her reaction makes me close my eyes in guilt. Grams always had it together, a woman of routine and purpose, and there was hardly a day that either of us stayed in bed like this.

“Get it together, Lou.” It’s time to be a mature adult.

It’s just a pair of fitted jeans with a white knit sweater, but it feels good, pretending I have something to get ready for again. In a way, I do have something to look forward to, getting to see the shops Grams saw, walk the streets she walked on. Mom, too, even if she wasn’t here for long.

I brush the tangles out of my hair until the light brown strands are smooth and straight, falling to the middle of my back. I finish off by slipping on my new pair of winter boots and tucking Jamie’s postcard into my pocket, along with my wallet and room key, then look back at the room in longing. The bed and nightstand are almost buried in day-old snacks—crackers, Cup Noodles, potato chips—and the rest of the place isn’t much better.

Yet I’m finding it difficult to leave.

Muffled voices from the hall seep into my room, mixed with footsteps trailing down the stairwell. People. Civilization. Strangers. I curl my fingers around the doorknob. I can fool them for a few moments; act like my world has not fallen apart, like I didn’t come back from the dead a few short days ago, like I’m not having vivid nightmares, like I’m not mentally unstable.

Hopefully.