Chapter 4 Avery

Avery

I’m shaking so hard my teeth knock together.

Behind the counter, pressed against the cabinets, I clamp my hand around my thigh, squeezing just above the shard of glass buried in my leg. The pain is blinding, sharp and deep and hot. Blood slides between my fingers, slick and wrong.

Okay. Okay.

Basic CPR training. Pressure. Stay calm. Don’t remove the object if it’s lodged.

That’s what they say, right?

If I pull it out, I could bleed to death.

But I’m already bleeding. There’s a small puddle spreading beneath me, dark and glossy against the tile. That can’t be good. That’s… that’s a lot of blood. I’m no medic, but I’m pretty sure puddles are bad. Right? Right?

My breathing turns shallow and fast. My head spins.

And then I realize—

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

No screaming. No running. No crashing.

The diner is silent.

My stomach drops.

What does that mean?

Is it gone?

Or—

Very slowly, I lift my head and peek over the edge of the counter.

My blood freezes.

A few feet away, the girl who complained about the coffee is lying face down on the floor. One arm is twisted beneath her. Her hair spills across the tile like a curtain. Her eyes are open.

She isn’t moving.

Her skin is pale. Her fingers lie slack and open against the ground.

She’s dead.

The realization hits me like a second impact. Bile surges up my throat, hot and acidic. I swallow it down, barely, my stomach churning violently.

Oh my God.

Someone died.

In the diner.

I don’t even know her name.

For one sick second, I’m almost glad Ricky ran outside. Maybe he’s safer out there than he would’ve been in here. Maybe he missed whatever this was.

I don’t look at the other bodies.

I can see shapes on the floor. Shoes. A hand. A leg bent at an angle that doesn’t look right.

I don’t look.

I can’t.

I strain to hear anything—movement, breathing, another shriek. Nothing.

Just silence.

Maybe it left.

Maybe—

I swallow hard and force myself to move. My leg screams in protest as I drag myself out from behind the counter. Standing isn’t an option. The moment I try to put weight on it, white explodes behind my eyes. So I crawl, hands slipping in something sticky I don’t want to think about, inching toward the back door.

Just get outside. Just get away.

I make it halfway across the floor.

Something clamps around my ankle.

Hard.

I don’t even have time to scream before I’m yanked backward. My head slams against the tile and stars burst across my vision, bright and violent.

Good. A concussion. Why not.

The grip on my ankle tightens, a crushing vise that feels like bone grinding against bone. I scream this time, high and raw, clawing at the floor as I’m dragged back across it.

Then I feel it.

Cold breath.

Against my back.

Sliding up.

To my neck.

Like something is leaning over me. Smelling me.

The scent of copper floods my nose—blood, thick and metallic. My stomach flips violently, and if I weren’t seconds from blacking out, I’d throw up.

I try to crawl forward, nails scraping uselessly against tile, but whatever has me is too strong. Effortless. I’m nothing to it.

And then—

High. Screeching. Wrong.

A sound right by my ear.

I swear—through the ringing in my skull—I hear something twist my name.

“Ave—”

The grip vanishes.

The weight disappears.

A shriek splits the air, furious and sharp, followed by a massive thud—like something huge hitting the floor.

But I can’t look.

I’m face down, cheek pressed to cold tile, blood leaking steadily from my leg. My head feels stuffed with cotton. My vision pulses in and out like a dying lightbulb.

I’m going to die here.

I’m going to end up just like the coffee girl. Face down. Cold. Found in the morning by police tape and strangers shaking their heads.

A few minutes pass.

Or seconds.

I don’t know.

Everything sounds muffled, like I’m underwater. Voices echo faintly. Movement. The scrape of something heavy being dragged.

I try to open my eyes. I can’t. They won’t listen.

Darkness presses in at the edges.

Then—

A voice.

Low. Gravelly. Deep enough to vibrate through my bones.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Another voice answers. Just as low, but smoother. Controlled. Less rough, more deliberate.

“What about her?”

Footsteps. Close and then closer. A pause.

“What about her?” the first voice repeats, colder now.

“We can’t leave her here.”

“She’s just a human.”

“That thing grabbed her,” the smoother voice says. “I’m pretty sure it even said something to her.”

“That’s not possible.”

Silence.

“She’s dying,” the second voice continues. “She’s bleeding out.”

“So?”

Another stretch of silence. Heavy. Deciding.

“We can’t leave her,” the smoother one says finally. “That thing wanted her for a reason. She’s the only one left alive in this diner. We can’t leave her to die.”

A low grunt.

“Fine,” the first voice snaps. “But I’m not carrying her. And if she causes trouble or slows us down, we’re ending her. We’ve got enough problems as it is.”

Their words drift in and out, slipping through my fingers like everything else.

I try to move. To speak. To tell them I can hear them. Nothing comes out.

The world folds in on itself.

And then it goes completely dark.