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Tate asked, “Who knows you’re here?”
“Besides you? No one. You know that.”
“The text says ‘here,’ as if whoever is contacting you—”
“Is here,” she finished for him, terrified. “In this house!” Dread and fear mingled, coiling her insides, as she glanced around the attic where she’d been trapped all those years before.
“And not alone,” he whispered against her ear. “Let’s go.”
“Someone is here? Up here?” she said desperately, shining her flashlight frantically, its beam jumping from piles of furniture to the rafters to the floor and toward the source of the faint whir.
“Oh, God.”
The beam of her flashlight had landed on a stain on the floor. A dark red pool of congealing liquid. Blood. Splattered everywhere. On old books, boxes and vinyl record jackets—Frank Sinatra’s face covered in blood drips, The Beatles’ album cover smeared in red. She bit back a scream and stared, her gaze riveted to the space beneath the old record console. “No . . . oh, no, no.”
“What the hell? Stay here.” Tate moved closer to the stereo, opening the lid of the record stand and gasping, his breath sucked through his teeth.
The beam of his flashlight had landed on the crown of a severed head slowly rotating upon an ancient turntable.
Kara swept her light over the front of the console. Through the thin, shredded fabric of the console she saw a head spinning around and around, eyes and mouth wide open, blood still visible on Jonas McIntyre’s ashen skin.
