Blood trickles from her nose. Then her entire body begins to convulse violently, shaking the entire bed. Her muscle contractions become so intense, I hear the joints in her shoulders pop from the unnatural angles they are forced to.
“Nora!” I scream, climbing onto the mattress and turning Millicent onto her side.
I smooth her hair back. “I’m here. I’ve got you. I’m right here, Millie.”
Nora never comes.
I press my weight down, draping my body over hers to try and restrain her limbs to keep her from contorting so hard she hurts herself.
Eventually, Millicent’s seizing slows. Her eyes close. Her breathing becomes so faint, I can barely detect it.
I refuse to leave her side. Over the next five days of her stasis, I only leave to eat or relieve myself.
I have you, Millie.
Chapter 30
Millicent
IV. Possession
“Host is drained by oppression and obsession. Entity now takes over partial or complete control of the host’s body.
Purify with fire.
Hope is lost.”
-The Wretched Sacrament
MY VISION PULSES, BLACKNESS BLOOMING and receding at the corners of my sight in a vicious, rhythmic cycle.
I run harder.
The skin of my bare feet stings from being torn open on jagged stones and sharp roots covering the forest floor. I don’t stop.
The forest doubles above me, filling the sky. Twisted, tangled branches sprout from the earth and sky—a mirrored snarl of limbs with no sky above or ground below. Only the Twisted Hollows.
How is this possible?
The unnatural chill in the air cuts at my lungs, each breath becoming harder to pull.
White fog blankets the forests, glowing from an unseen light. The source is a moon I cannot find or feelbut somehow know is there.
Branches break across me as I pass. They tear my dress as easily as my skin, slicing me open as if I were made of paper. My nightgown, once white, clings to me in tattered strips. It is now the color of wine and bone—of blood and cloth.
“Little lamb, little lamb, little lamb…”
The voice comes from everywhere: above, below, and inside my head, chasing me down.
“Lamb to the slaughter, lamb to the slaughter!”
The chant grows louder, complete with more mania and delight.
Their voices clash, a chorus of many mouths speaking thorough one throat. An unholy harmony erupts from the people haunting me for weeks.
“Run. Run. Run.”
The laughter turns shrill and maniacal. It chases me like wind at my back, driving my legs faster.
