One, two, three. Straight from the gate.
The tree had a three etched on it. We were straight back from the front gate, I imagined.
I felt his gritty hands wrapped around my neck. With our contact sealed, my mind flashed. Images that matched the view I was seeing flashed before me—but there was one difference.
He was standing over me. 5B, a younger version of course. He grinned, his eyes lustful and hungry, eyeing me as I lay helplessly on the ground.
And then the shoveling began. I realized I was in a hole, my body being covered by every scoop. I was being buried alive. I needed air. I gasped and begged and pleaded with the universe, but no one came. No one heard. My stomach churned at the realization that it was really here. My death. My end. I would die here, alone. No one to rescue me, to find me, to grieve me. I would disappear into the forever darkness, a forgotten figment of the collective imagination. I would be swept away with the millions of memories and hopes and fears that humanity forgets they ever had.
Dirt clotted onto my eyes, and then, as terror reigned supreme within me, it all spun away. Like water swirling down a drain, the images disappeared, pulling at my life force on their way out. I was once more in the present, the dewy grass on my back as I stared up at Little Brown, his distorted face and distant moan calmed. And then he was gone, evaporated into the foggy mist as if I’d imagined him entirely. I sat up slowly, breathing greedily as I rub my head. What the hell?
I swiped at tears as I stood once more to head toward the asylum, knowing my madness might just be real—but so was the fact that 5B did it. I knew what he did to the kids.
Isn’t that what we all want, after all? That sense of peace even after the worst storm? That belief that someone, everyone, anyone will mourn us, remember us, and believe our life had value?
I trudged onward, my mission set in the cold stone walls of the asylum as I realized my life still had some value to it. And more determined than ever to shake out the answers I sought, no matter what forces stood in the way. I walked beyond tree three and the secrets it housed, shivering as I imagined what lay six odd feet or so beneath my feet.
***
My breathing was labored as I pressed my back against the wall. I’d crept in a side entrance and then repeated the inadequate prayer as I climbed the stairwells, swiftly but light on my feet. I needed to make it to the top floor without being spotted. At this point, I didn’t know whom I could trust. Anna clearly was a powerful force, and she had many people on her side. But who, and how many? I was fairly certain it was late enough in the morning for her to be gone. It was a risk I would have to take. I creaked open the door to floor five after beeping my badge. If someone did some digging, they would see I’d checked back in. I would have no excuse for being there. I would be caught. Still, I felt I had nothing to lose, having lost it all already.
I held my breath. I eyed the desk. Empty. Brett or whoever was on duty now was making rounds. Perhaps I would get lucky after all.
I pressed against the wall, edging toward the room that magnetized me. I thought of that first day, that dreary morning when I’d first laid eyes on the man who would clutch me tighter than Redwood ever could. It seemed like a lifetime ago that the lost woman I was became even more lost. I shrugged it off. I didn’t have time for this inner monologue. I pressed forward, beeping myself into the room. I slipped inside, exhaling audibly as I took in the sight of him.
He was scrawling images at his desk, the sight somewhat comforting. I knew I didn’t have much time. I walked over to see scribbles of Brown hovering over something.
A woman. This woman was drawn in black. Her ponytail, her lanky features. I suspected the truth, shuddering at the reality.
“Jessica, you came back. He told me you would,” he murmured matter-of-factly, his hand still scribbling with the crayon in a rage of art and death.
“I don’t have much time.” I was panting, my lungs heaving from the day’s events and from the flights of stairs.
He stopped mid-drawing and snapped his head to the left to gaze at me. “No, you don’t. No time at all. Hurry, Jessica. Or we’re all doomed. All of us.”
“You killed them. You killed them all. I need to know where they are. Where the rest of them are. Red? Pink? What did you do with them?”
He turned back to his drawing, doodling again.
“Little blue, wide water, the field of cats. Little red, around the bend, the crooked nose. Little brown, one, two, three, straight from the gate. Little pink, her mother’s grave, a lost cause.”
The words came out, a sea of sing-song terror. I tried to commit it all to memory, but my hands were shaking. It was too much. I grabbed a piece of paper out from underneath him. He snapped at me with his teeth, but I moved just in time. I grabbed a red crayon and scratched down what I assumed were clues. I pulled on a strand of hair, shaking my head. I didn’t have time for a damn riddle solving event or a scavenger hunt. I slammed my hand down.
“Tell me where they are, you bastard,” I shouted. I realized too late that it had probably been too loud.
He stared at me before chuckling, a rasp in his chest adding an
