Page 23 of Some Kind of Haunted

Are my eyes open? Am I awake?

“Lexi.”

I turn toward the voice in the dark. Even though it doesn’t sound like Logan, it must be. Deep and male, and who else would be helping me find my way through a thick, heavy darkness like this?

But I don’t feel safe, and I can’t see. It’s cold, and my feet are bare against rough ground. So rough and painful I don’t want to step forward, but it’s like I have to.

Something cuts my heel. I want to cry out, but I can’t.

“Lexi!” The voice is more insistent this time, but I don’t recognize it. Should I run away? Call out for Logan?

It’s a dream. Just a dream. I’ll wake up and my feet won’t hurt. My teeth won’t be chattering.

One-two-three, everything is fine. One-two-three, your imagination can’t hurt you.

Maybe I’ll wake up back in New York. Maybe this whole thing was a very involved nightmare, and I’ll laugh about it over brunch with proper espresso drinks and all the egg whites I could ever want.

There’s a little pinprick of light in front of me. I squint, moving forward even if it feels like I’m walking on glass. Even if it begins to feel wet, like my feet are bleeding.

I realize that huge stone flood wall is what I can see. It’s almost glowing here in the moonlight, while the black night seems to ooze around me. I hear something far off, but coming closer.

A kind of . . . slurping.

I want to run. It’s not a great time to have bare, bloody feet.

“Lexi.”

The voice is firm this time. And right behind me. A big, hot hand clutches my arm. I whirl around, and then instinctively throw up my hands to fight him off.

Because it’s not Logan. Or anyone safe.

It’s Jack.

Who is still not happy to see me, I can tell. Epically unhappy, as a matter of fact.

Even here in hell.

Chapter Nine

“What are you doing?”

The fact Jack is the one asking me that while his hand is on me is ludicrous.

Then I remember this is a dream and it doesn’t have to make sense, because my brain doesn’t. Because dreams don’t.

That’s why I ground and center myself before bed. So I can remember who I am when things go sideways in my head.

And this has to be a dream. Even if I managed to sleepwalk, how would I end up all the way out here without knowing? Without Logan stopping me? That’s not reasonable. It’s not real.

I have been haunted by my own mind my entire life, and it has never once been real. I refuse to let myself believe that’s changed now. I know what happens to the world around me when I give my psychosis too much credence.

But I can also feel every inch of Jack’s large hand, how easily it swallows my upper arm, the rough callouses at the top of his palm. I can see the earthy green of his eyes here in the lights that illuminate the flood wall in front of us.

The hand is a lot, but the flood wall draws my attention again. There’s that noise, but it’s faint. My head doesn’t want to know what it is, but my body seems to yearn to find the source. Like it’s some kind of beacon for my soul.

I really need to wake up.

“Lexi.” Jack’s voice is sharp. Authoritative. Certainly pissed off. So I manage to look away from the lit-up flood wall that horrifies and fascinates me and focus on his face instead.