Page 1 of Don’t Let Him In

September 1971

The bruising beneath my ribs flares, but it pales against the weight in my chest as I drop to my knees, the evening sun fading away. My face tightens where the tears have stiffened in the cold, a faint sting spreading across my cheeks. I swallow the knot in my throat and steady myself, forcing the anger down as I turn back to the work in front of me.

The metallic scent thickens in the air, drifting through damp leaves and rough bark. Soil seeps through my denim as I press my palm into the coarse, matted fur.

Still warm.

My other hand brushes the familiar boulder at my side, the worn wooden handle waiting where I left it. Closing my fingers around it, I draw the blade through the deer’s belly in one clean, practiced motion. Blood wells over my hand, heat settling into my knuckles.

For a moment, I don’t move.

I just watch, chewing down on my lip until it splits with a familiar burn, reopening an old wound. Then lean forward for a closer look, my sides aching in protest, my brows pinching. The memory of earlier humiliation resurfaces. I force it back, my gaze fixing on the thick, wet gash I’ve carved, the blood trailing along the edge and slipping over my wrist as I angle the blade.

I press the knife back into the carcass and twist with unnecessary force. It quiets the noise battering my head—the thin, crimson stream fracturing as it branches into smaller veins that spread and weave together, quickly soaking through my sleeve.

My grip tightens, slick against the handle until my knuckles whiten, a restless coil cinching low in my gut. I hardly notice when the shape beneath my hands begins to shift, subtle at first, something wrong in the way the carcass softens around the blade. My vision burns at the edges. I blink hard but it doesn’t clear, my head tilting until⁠—

I see it.

Those green, familiar eyes locking into mine. Sharp and accusatory. Venomous in a way that grates against the raw parts of me I try to keep hidden, my pulse thudding against my skull.

Heat surges through my body. The blade digs deeper without meaning to.

Kevin sneers back at me, his friends fanning out at his sides, their crooked smiles stretching wider, eyes flickering with sinister intent.

A jab to my ribs. A kick to my shins.

My arm jerks before I can think, the blade slamming down harder than intended. The flesh shudders under the force, more warmth spilling over my hands as I bear down without realizing.

I don’t stop. I can’t.

Not until the blade catches deep enough to jar me, snapping me out of it. The image drops away just as abruptly, leaving nothing but the deer in my hands, the torn seam gaping as blood slicks across my fingers. The stench assaults my senses. Sharp and metallic.

A vein near my eye ticks as I wipe my bloodied hand against a dry patch of grass, chest constricting.

I’d been spat on, ridiculed, and I still held myself down for her. For Stacy. The one good thing left in this rotten town. She tried to pass me a note earlier. I tore it from her hand and swallowed it before they could see, barely tasting the paper as it dissolved against my tongue.

But I feel it now.

Twisting, writhing low in my stomach, rising hot and bitter in my throat until I double over, retching into the same patch of grass I’d smeared blood into. When the wave of nausea passes, I wipe my mouth against my shoulder, dragging air back into my lungs as the wind stirs through the trees above me. I linger there a moment longer, avoiding the inevitable before I reluctantly push myself upright, shoving the image out of reach as I finish bleeding out the deer and dressing it.

Unease settles in as I haul everything into the back of the truck, then whirl around and wrench the driver’s door open. It rattles and pinges before swinging wide. I rush inside, my fingers numb from working for so long in the cold. Each time I fumble with my father’s keys, the dread climbs higher, the back of my neck prickling. I lost track of time. Again.

A few minutes later, I near my destination, spotting the faint glow through the frosted window behind the house, flickering from my father’s usual evening program.

I wince as I pull closer, gravel crunching louder than usual beneath the tires, my eyes darting between the road ahead and the wash of light through the window. I cut the engine just as the light snuffs out completely, leaving me in the dark.

I’m late.

Bitterness floods my mouth as I sit in silence, the scent of meat and chilling air pressing unbearably all around me. After a moment, I accept it. There would be no shower tonight. No dinner. No bed.

I climb out of the truck and drag the deer toward the shed, already knowing how the night will end.

By the time I’m finished, it hangs at the far end of the shed. I brace a hand against the table and pull in a slow breath.

Something shifts behind me.

I whip around, my gaze snapping to the entrance, eyes narrowing as I try to find the source of the disturbance. Then I spot her.