The Shadow in the Dark Chapter Thirty Three

 

The gravel crunched under the tires as Martin pulled into the small lay-by, the car settling with a soft rock as it came to rest. We were deep in the woods now. Tall pines and bare-limbed maples crowded close to the road, their trunks dark with last night’s rain, their leaves turning the ground into a thick, copper-coloured carpet. The air smelled of wet bark and moss and something faintly sweet, like rot beginning to turn back into soil.

 

Martin switched off the engine and stretched, rolling his shoulders. “God, that feels better. My back was starting to complain.”

 

I opened my door more slowly, careful of the dress and of what was hidden beneath it. The petticoat whispered softly as I stepped out. The Glock tugged slightly at the tape on my thigh, a small, constant reminder that this moment was not just another stop on a road trip.

 

“Nice spot,” Martin said, glancing around. “Kind of peaceful, right? You’d never know Dunwich was just a few miles back.”

 

I nodded. “It’s… quiet.”

 

“Exactly,” he said. “Sometimes I think I could just live somewhere like this. Away from everything. No noise, no crowds.” He smiled at me. “Just you, me, and a lot of trees.”

 

I forced a faint smile, then gestured vaguely into the woods. “I’ll just go a bit further in. You know. Privacy.”

 

“Of course,” he said, falling into step beside me anyway. “I’ll walk with you a little. Make sure you don’t trip over a root or something.”

 

We moved off the gravel and into the leaf-strewn forest floor. The light filtered down in pale, broken beams, catching on spiderwebs and damp bark. Our shoes sank slightly into the soft ground, and somewhere far off a bird fluttered away, startled by our footsteps. For one brief moment I had the sense of being watched – a flicker of something, somewhere. I dismissed the thought as just my hyper-sensitive imagination. 

 

“So,” Martin said lightly, “did you ever tell me what your favourite season is? You always seem to like Fall. All these colours. Kind of suits you.”

 

“Why?” I asked, more out of habit than curiosity.

 

He shrugged. “I don’t know. There’s something about it. Things ending, but not quite gone yet. Everything’s still beautiful.” He kicked a pile of leaves. “Plus you look good in scarves.”

 

I huffed a tiny laugh, even though my stomach was in knots. “You really know how to flatter a girl.”

 

“Hey, I’m serious,” he said. “I like that about you. You don’t try to be… I don’t know. Something you’re not.”

 

We walked a few more steps. The trees closed in slightly, their trunks forming a loose ring around a patch of low bushes. This would do. This was far enough from the road that no one would see us, far enough that whatever happened next would be between the two of us.

 

“By the way,” he went on, almost absentmindedly, “Christmas is coming up faster than you think. Have you made any plans yet?”

 

I shook my head. “No.”

 

“Well,” he said, glancing at me, a little tentative now, “I was thinking it’d be nice if we spent it together. No pressure. Just… a perfect Christmas. You know. A tree, some stupid movies, maybe that awful eggnog you pretend to hate. The first of many, maybe.”

 

I didn’t answer. My heart was pounding too hard.

 

He kept talking, filling the quiet. “I know we haven’t been together that long, but I really mean it, Ashlee. I’m serious about you.” He paused, then added, gently, “And about last night… I’ve been thinking about that too. I don’t want you to feel pushed. I’m happy to slow things down. We can take all the time you need. I’m not giving up on you. Ever.” He smiled, warm and earnest. “If all we do for a while is hold hands and kiss like nervous teenagers at prom, that’s fine with me. You’re worth it.”

 

The words hung in the air between us, soft and sincere, and for a moment they almost undid me. Almost made me forget the rope, the tape, the papers, the gun pressed against my skin.

 

We had reached the edge of the little clearing. The bushes were thick enough that I could have stepped behind them and pretended to do what I’d said.

 

I stopped walking.

 

Martin took one more step, then noticed I wasn’t beside him anymore. He turned back, brows knitting slightly. “Ashlee?”

 

“Turn around, Martin,” I said quietly. “Look at me.”

 

He did.

 

And I lifted the Glock from beneath my skirt, the black metal stark against the pale woods, and aimed it straight at his chest. 

 

He froze.

 

For a heartbeat Martin simply stared at the gun, as if his mind couldn’t quite accept the image of it in my hands. The early-morning light filtered through the branches above us, catching on the black metal so it looked almost unreal, like a prop on a stage.

 

“Ashlee…” he said softly. “What is that?”

 

“You recognise it,” I replied. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”

 

His eyes narrowed, then widened. “That’s my gun,” he said. “Where did you get it? You took it from my car? Last night?”

 

A pulse of heat ran through me. “It’s not yours. It’s mine. I lost it when I crashed my car. So you can start explaining how it ended up in your glove compartment.”

 

For a moment he just stared at me, then shook his head in disbelief. “No. No, that’s not possible. Ashlee, I bought that gun myself. Three years ago. At a gun store in Springfield. I’ve had it ever since. It cannot be yours.”

 

“You’re lying,” I said.

 

“I’m not!” His voice rose despite himself. “I remember the day. I remember the paperwork. I remember the guy behind the counter. I bought it for home protection. It’s a Glock 19M. I’ve kept it in my car for years.”

 

The certainty in his tone only made my stomach tighten harder. “That’s exactly what you’d say if you were part of this,” I shot back. “You think I don’t know what I’m holding? I checked it. I know it’s mine.”

 

He stared at me as if I’d just told him the sky was green. “You’re wrong,” he said, more urgently now. “You’re confused. You’ve been through something traumatic and…”

 

“Don’t you dare,” I snapped. I felt my grip firm as I steadied the gun, forcing my shaking hands to be still. “Don’t try to make this about me being ‘confused’. I know what I saw. I know what I found in your car.”

 

He took a careful step forward, leaves crunching under his shoe. “Ashlee, please. That’s a loaded gun. You shouldn’t be holding it like that. You could hurt yourself. Just give it back to me and we’ll sort this out.”

 

I backed away the same distance. “Don’t come any closer.”

 

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, his voice cracking with a mixture of fear and frustration. “Why would I lie to you about something like this?”

 

“Because you’re part of it,” I said. “All of it.”

 

“Part of what?”

 

“The God Game.”

 

He looked genuinely lost. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I swear to you, I don’t.” But he was still inching toward me, slowly, carefully, as if approaching a frightened animal. “Put it down, Ashlee. Please. Let me take it. You’re not safe like this.”

 

“Neither are you,” I said quietly.

 

The words hung between us, heavy as the damp air in the woods, while my heart pounded and every instinct screamed that whatever truth lay behind his eyes, I was standing on the edge of something I couldn’t step back from.

 

“Open the trunk of your car. NOW! Fucking do it!”

 

The trunk popped with a hollow, metallic thud.

 

For a moment none of us moved. The sound seemed too loud in the quiet woods, echoing faintly between the trees like a signal flare.

 

“Open it,” I said again, my voice tight. “All the way.”

 

Martin’s hands were shaking as he lifted the lid. He kept glancing back at me, eyes wide, his mouth half open as if he couldn’t decide whether to plead or protest. The trunk rose, slow and creaking, and then the contents were there in the grey morning light.

 

The rope lay coiled neatly to one side. Thick. Strong. Enough to bind a person over and over.

 

Beside it was the roll of black gaffer tape, heavy and industrial-looking, not the sort of thing you kept in a car by accident.

 

And beneath them, folded but unmistakable, was the long black body bag, the zipper glinting faintly like a line of teeth.

 

I felt something inside me go very still.

 

“Explain that,” I said. “All of it.”

 

Martin stared at the trunk as if he were seeing it for the first time. His face drained of colour. “I… I don’t know what that is,” he said. “Ashlee, I swear to you, I’ve never seen those things before in my life.”

 

“Don’t,” I snapped. “Don’t insult me like that. Were you going to abduct me, Martin? Was that the next stage of this God Game? Rope me, tape me up, zip me into that thing?”

 

He recoiled as if I’d slapped him. “No! God, no. Listen to yourself. You’re not making any sense. I would never hurt you. I love… I care about you. You know that.”

 

“Do I?” I laughed, a short, brittle sound that didn’t feel like it came from me. “Because right now what I know is that you’re standing next to a trunk full of abduction gear, with my gun in your glove compartment, and paperwork in your car that says I belong in an asylum.”

 

“Ashlee, please,” he said, his voice thick with panic. “You’re having some kind of breakdown. That’s what this is. You need help. Real help. I can get it for you.”

 

“Where?” I shot back. “At Briarcliff? In the hands of Doctor Thredson? Is that where you were going to take me? Is that where I’d wake up, in a straitjacket, not knowing who I am or how I got there? Was I going to be pumped full of drugs until I believed I’d always been there?”

 

He stared at me as if I’d just spoken another language. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never heard those names before. I swear it.”

 

“Then explain this,” I said, jerking the gun slightly toward the trunk. “Explain the rope. Explain the tape. Explain the body bag.”

 

“I can’t,” he said helplessly. “Because I don’t know how they got there. I don’t know why they’re there. They’re not mine.”

 

“Everything is always not yours,” I said, my voice rising. “The gun isn’t yours. The papers aren’t yours. The things in your trunk aren’t yours. How convenient. And the phone call. We both know that I never called you from the service station.”

 

“You did, Ashlee! We talked for five minutes. You sounded slightly concussed. I was really worried. I came looking for you as soon as the call ended, when you ran out of change for the phone.” He took a small step toward me, palms out in front of him. “Ashlee, please. Put the gun down. You’re not thinking clearly. You’re scared and you’re lashing out and this is dangerous. I can help you, but you have to let me.”

 

“Stop lying to me!” I screamed. The sound ripped out of my chest and vanished into the trees. “I saw the papers. Your name was on them. You signed them. You signed me away!”

 

“I didn’t,” he said desperately. “I didn’t sign anything. I don’t know what papers you’re talking about. I would never do that to you.”

 

He took another step closer, slow and careful, as if I were a wild animal he was afraid of spooking.

 

“Don’t come any closer,” I warned.

 

“I’m just trying to help you,” he said, his voice trembling now. “You don’t have to do this. We can go back to the car. We can go somewhere safe. We can talk to someone.”

 

“Someone like Doctor Thredson?” I said bitterly.

 

“I don’t know who that is!” He took some more steps towards me.

 

“STOP creeping up on me, Martin. I mean it. You come any closer and I’ll shoot.”

 

“No.” Martin looked directly at me. “I don’t believe you will. You’re sick, Ashlee, but you’re a good person. You don’t mean this. I don’t think you’d ever really shoot me.”

 

“Not a good time to test your fucking theory!” I said.

 

“I love you, Ashlee. I would never harm you. Never. Now, I’m going to walk slowly towards you, and you’re going to hand me the gun, lowering it so it’s pointing to the ground, and…”

 

“Did you not fucking hear me?! I WILL shoot! STAY BACK!”

 

“I love you, Ashlee.” He didn’t stop looking into my eyes. “And I know you won’t shoot me. I know that.”

 

“STAY THE FUCK AWAY!”

 

The problem with a gun is that it only means anything if you’re prepared to pull the trigger and your target believes you’ll pull the trigger.

 

I began to cry as Martin closed the space between us, reached out gently with his hands, took hold my wrists, and lowered the gun so it was now pointing at the grass.

 

“I love you,” he said, again. “I love you so very much.” I began sobbing hysterically as he slowly uncurled my fingers from around the pistol grip, and then took the weapon from me.

 

Martin stepped back quickly, ejected the clip, and then cleared the chamber. 

 

I stood there sobbing, staring at him, half expecting him now to suddenly seize me, overpower me, tie me with rope and seal my mouth with the gaffer tape.

 

But he didn’t. 

 

“I love you Ashlee.” He threw the empty gun in one direction and the clip of bullets in the other. And then he held his hands open to show they were empty. 

 

“I love you,” I said back, a thousand and one thoughts flashing through my mind.

 

And then the air changed.

 

There was a strange crackling sensation, like static electricity crawling across my skin.

 

One second it was just the two of us in the rain-dark woods, and the next there was a man standing beside Martin.

 

I gasped. There had been no footsteps, no movement. Sheriff Root was simply there, as if reality had glitched and dropped him into place. He lifted something in his hand and touched Martin’s body with it. There was a flash, a sharp snapping sound, and Martin cried out as if struck by lightning. His body jerked violently and then he collapsed into the wet grass.

 

“Martin!” I screamed.

 

I ran toward him, but I never reached him.

 

Someone was suddenly beside me. One moment there was nothing, and the next, with a crackle of ozone discharge, Henry Bryant was there, his hands grabbing my arms. The world tipped as he forced me down onto the soaked ground, my cheek pressed into the cold grass.

 

“Let me go!”

 

Bryant slapped me hard and took hold of my wrists, pulling them back behind my lower back as I screamed. No one would hear me of course – I had chosen this very spot for its sense of isolation. I struggled, but it was useless. It felt like the whole world was pressing me down, like the game itself had finally closed its fist around me.

 

“This isn’t real,” I said, my voice thick with tears. “This can’t be real.”

 

“I guess that’s a wrap, then,” Root said lightly as he took the rope and gaffer tape roll from the trunk of the car. “She’s really not going to do it, is she?” They moved around me with terrifying efficiency, holding me, restraining me, silencing me. My panic blurred into a kind of stunned disbelief. I could still see Martin lying in the grass, unmoving, rain darkening his clothes.

 

And then, as Henry Bryant held me with my face to the wet grass, Sheriff Root calmly tied my wrists and ankles together and then stretched a piece of gaffer tape across my mouth. I felt his hand stroke my bottom as he leaned close – close enough for me to smell a trace of bourbon on his breath – and he whispered, “Time to go home, Ashlee. Time to go home.” 

 

And then he injected the contents of a hypodermic syringe into my thigh. 

 

---------------------------------

 

I woke to warmth.

 

That was the first thing I noticed - heat against my skin, gentle and even, like sunlight filtered through open shutters. It took me a few slow breaths to realize I wasn’t lying on a thin motel mattress, or in the Frozen themed bed in Rosemary’s house. There was no hum of traffic, no rattling air-conditioner, no faint neon glow leaking through cheap curtains. Instead there was a soft hush, the kind of silence that belonged to stone walls and open air.

 

My head felt heavy, as if I had slept for far too long. When I shifted, cool smoothness met my palm - polished marble, faintly veined, warmed by the morning. I pushed myself upright, blinking.

 

Everything was wrong.

 

The room around me was vast and pale, built of pale stone and tiled floors arranged in intricate mosaic patterns - geometric shapes, curling vines, tiny figures frozen in mid-gesture. Tall columns rose to a high ceiling. Sunlight poured in through wide archways that opened onto something green and bright beyond.

 

I wasn’t in Dunwich anymore.

 

I looked down at myself.

 

My powder-blue dress was gone. The bow, the flared petticoat, the soft rustle of fabric that had always felt like a fragile shell around me— - gone. So were my socks and Mary Janes. My hair no longer tugged at my scalp with the familiar pull of the ribbon; it spilled loose around my shoulders, warm and unfamiliar against my bare skin.

In its place I wore a tunic.

 

Red silk, thin and fluid, sleeveless and short, clinging in a way that made me instantly aware of my body. The neckline plunged low, exposing more of me than I had ever chosen to show. The fabric caught the light and glimmered softly as I moved.

 

I stared at it, a slow chill creeping through me despite the heat.

 

Bare feet pressed into the mosaic floor. I could feel every tiny ridge, every inlaid stone.

 

And then I felt something else.

 

A weight around my throat.

 

My hand flew up instinctively, fingers brushing cool metal. I gasped.

 

A collar.

 

Smooth steel, perfectly fitted, curved to the shape of my neck. It wasn’t biting or sharp—it was warm from my skin and the air—but it was solid, unmistakable. I traced it with trembling fingertips and found the seam where it opened on one side, a small hinge barely visible. On the opposite side was a tiny, precise keyhole.

 

Locked.

 

My heart began to pound. I tried to pull it, to twist it, but it didn’t budge. It wasn’t painful, but it was immovable, and that was somehow worse.

 

“This isn’t…” My voice sounded strange in the open space. “This isn’t real.”

 

But the air was real - thick and warm, carrying the faint scent of greenery and distant water. It felt like late spring in Italy, a Mediterranean heat that wrapped around me instead of pressing down. Twenty-eight degrees, maybe more. So different from the cold, rain-soaked night I remembered.

 

I stood there in the centre of the villa, barefoot and collared and dressed in red silk, and tried to make sense of it.

 

I had been in Dunwich.

 

I had been in the woods.

 

I had been crying.

 

And now I was here.

 

My breath came shallow as I turned slowly, taking in the arches, the tiled floor, the sunlit courtyard beyond. Everything looked ancient and new at the same time, as if I had stepped into the second century and someone had just finished polishing it.

 

A terrible thought crept in, soft and poisonous.

 

This wasn’t a dream.

 

I could feel the heat on my skin. I could feel the weight of the collar. I could smell the stone and plants and warm air.

 

I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly very small in the middle of all that space.

 

“What have you done to me?” I whispered to no one at all.

 

I became aware of her the way you become aware of a shadow before you ever see the thing that casts it.

 

The warmth in the villa shifted, subtly, as if the air itself had decided to pay attention to something new. A prickle crept up the back of my neck. I turned slowly, my bare feet whispering against the mosaic tiles.

 

She was standing to one side of the chamber, half in shadow, watching me.

 

She hadn’t been there a moment before. Or if she had, I hadn’t seen her.

 

She was dark-haired, her features sharp and composed, and she was dressed in garments that felt completely out of place even in this impossible Roman setting. A long, loose inner robe - linen and cotton, pale and flowing - fell all the way to her ankles, with sleeves that covered her arms to the wrist. Over it she wore a heavier outer cloak, draped and fastened in a way that concealed the shape of her body almost entirely. The fabrics were layered and modest, the cut generous, as if designed to deny the gaze any purchase at all.

 

Flat leather slippers peeked out beneath the hem.

 

In her right hand she held a coiled whip.

 

Not brandished. Not raised. Just… there. Casual. As if it were no more remarkable than a walking stick.

 

My heart lurched.

 

She was looking at me with an expression that made my skin crawl - not anger, not curiosity, but something colder and far more deliberate. Appraisal. Ownership. A cruel kind of patience.

 

And then something else broke through the fog of my shock.

 

Recognition.

 

I had seen her before.

 

The memory came to me in a strange, fractured way, like a photograph pulled from a long-forgotten drawer. Christmas Eve. A wine bar in South Hadley. I had been a student then, at Mount Holyoke, wrapped in scarves and expectations and the kind of naïve certainty that only comes with youth. Michael Emery had been there with me - my boyfriend at the time - and this woman had been our waitress.

 

Except she hadn’t really been our waitress, not in the ordinary way.

 

I remembered how she had looked at him. How she had spoken to him with an intimacy that didn’t belong in a casual transaction. How something about her presence had unsettled me, even then.

 

Her name…

 

I reached for it and found only empty air. Too many years had passed. Too many things had happened - or been taken from me.

 

She tilted her head slightly, still watching me, as if she knew exactly what I was trying to do.

 

Then she smiled, and there was no warmth in it at all.

 

“Welcome home, kajira,” she said.

 

The word hit me like a slap.

 

Home.

 

Kajira.

 

The steel collar around my throat suddenly felt very, very heavy.