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Prologue
Inever should’ve come here.
Searching for answers to questions better left unasked has put me in danger. The evil is palpable, oozing from the walls, permeating the air like the stench from the swamp surrounding Arcania.
This wellness retreat, welcoming on the outside, malevolent on the inside, isn’t a place where busy people come to digitally detox.
Some come here and die.
Overly dramatic? Maybe. But I’ve witnessed firsthand the changes in fellow guests and it’s not pretty.
Fellow lost souls searching for… something.
Finding devastation instead.
Looking in a mirror and not liking what they see.
Reflective contemplation that unearths guilt and grief and unspeakable horror.
I’m grieving. It’s eating away at me. But I won’t let them know. The inhabitants of Arcania will use it against me. I have to be smarter.
Because if they discover who I am, I’ll never make it out of this sinister hellhole alive.
Chapter1
Lucy
I’m at work in the smallest library in Manhattan, hiding away in my favorite carrel on my lunch break, when my cell vibrates on the desk. It nudges a red pen I’ve been using to edit my measly word count and I watch it roll off the desk. Anything to distract from the procrastination I’ve become so good at.
What made me think I could write a book? I’m a librarian, surrounded by books every day, and when I’m not shelving, cataloguing, and assisting fellow book lovers or inquiring minds, I’m curled up in an armchair at home reading. That should be enough for me but no, I had to let the kernel of an idea for a young adult paranormal novel grow until I couldn’t ignore it.
I’ve told no one, not even Mom. She’d be supportive, but until I know I can do it—increasingly unlikely as the blank page at the start of chapter four has taunted me for three days in a row—I’m not telling anyone.
My cell vibrates again, and this time I glance at the screen. I don’t get a lot of calls. Mom and work are in my contacts, that’s it. It’s lame not to be dating at twenty-five, but after my last lackluster relationship that lasted all of six weeks, I’m focusing on myself for a change.
The cell continues to shimmy across the desk and I pick it up. It’s not Mom and I don’t recognize the number. Like libraries the world over, talking is frowned upon unless in designated areas, so I glance sideways, relieved no one’s at the neighboring carrels. Maybe it’s my muse calling, and it’s time I answered? With a wry smile at my lame joke, I accept the call.
“Hi, this is Lucy Phillips.” I leave off the standard ‘Lower Manhattan Library, how can I help you?’ that’s become so ingrained I’m sure I recite it in my sleep.
“Ms. Phillips, this is Officer Lewis of the NYPD. I’m at the front desk. Could I speak with you, please?”
I ease the cell away from my ear in surprise. What would the police want with me? I’m the most boring person in this vibrant, eclectic city. I work, I pay my taxes, I live in a brownstone with my mom. I’m not on any social media; my otherwise calm mother got heated about that when drilling the importance of keeping a low profile online when I hit my teens. I attributed her paranoia to her agoraphobia, but I agreed regardless because I’m not a fan of parading my life online for all to see.
Not that I had much of a life in my teens: I may not fear people like Mom but being a quiet book nerd didn’t exactly make me popular. But at least these days it pays the bills.
So yeah, I’m boring. I spend my life here, at home, or walking in Central Park because I feel like it’s a writerly thing to do: to gain perspective, people watch, store away snatches of conversation for realistic dialogue.
“Call me Lucy.”
It’s an inane response, and Officer Lewis clears his throat. “It’s important we speak immediately.”
In that moment, the enormity of the call hits me. This can’t be about our resident book thief who’s accumulated eighteen months’ worth of fines.
This must be about Mom.
“Is my mother okay?”
His pause is ominous, and the fine hairs on my arms snap to attention.
