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Not that it matters. Better they tear the whole damn house apart than have me walk out there.

Fuck that.

I’ve never thought of myself as a coward, but I guess everyone has that one thing that paralyzes them. For me, apparently, it’s a bunch of teenage girls on a power trip.

I’m not sure how much time passes before everything finally goes quiet, but my spine goes ramrod straight when I think I hear the front door slam.

Are they gone?

I could risk opening the door just to make sure, but fear has me so paralyzed that I can’t bring myself to move.

Just as I’m working up the courage to get off the floor, something slams into my bedroom door with such force that I nearly scream. I slap both hands over my mouth as another bang rattles the door in its frame, and for one horrifying second, I’m certain they’re going to break it down.

“You’ll come out eventually.” Delaney’s whisper drifts through the wood. “Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But one day, you’ll come out.”

Peyton’s soft laugh follows. “And then we’ll have some real fun.”

Tears stream silently down my cheeks as the realization hits me like a punch to the chest.

This is going to happen again. They’re not going to stop.

I stay locked inside my bedroom for the rest of the night, silently crying until the first traces of daylight creep through the curtains. But even then, I don’t move. Only when hours have passed without another sound do I finally find the courage to stand. My legs ache from being curled up for so long as I crack open my bedroom door and peer into the hallway.

Nothing.

On shaky knees, I make my way downstairs and gasp at what I find.

It’s all trashed.

The end tables are overturned, and the lamp my mother bought years ago at a yard sale lies shattered on the floor. Every drawer has been yanked open and emptied, their contents scattered across the carpet. Books have been ripped from the shelves and thrown everywhere. And the couch… every cushion has been slashed open. Its stuffing covers the room like dirty snow, clinging to the carpet, the furniture, even the curtains.

I step carefully through the destruction and make my way into the kitchen, where I find exactly what I expected. Almost every plate we own lies shattered across the floor.

How the hell am I going to explain this to my father?

He might not be the most observant man when it comes to my life, but even he isn’t going to miss this.

I’m still trying to come up with a believable explanation for the state of the house when something on the kitchen table catches my eye.

Someone must have gone through our things and placed a photograph neatly in the center of the table. I recognized it immediately. It’s one of the few pictures I have of my Mom and me, back when she was still my mom.

My blood turns cold as I walk toward it slowly and see two thick black Xs have been drawn across the picture.

One over my mother’s face.

The other over mine.

Every night, they come for me. Sometimes all eight of them. Sometimes only three or four. They take turns wreaking havoc on my mind. And it’s working.

Even when I’m not home, I jump at every sound. I burst into tears in the middle of the school hallway for no reason. Even working at the diner has become a hazardous affair. Betty is sending me home more often than not because I keep dropping people’s orders or spilling drinks all over them.

I’m losing my mind.

The fact that I haven’t slept properly in six days probably isn’t helping. But that isn’t even the worst of it. The worst part is that their little games are escalating.

The first night, they trashed my house and left that picture of Mom and me on the kitchen table as a warning.

The second night, they left me a bottle of Xanax.