Page 92 of Petrify

Maybe.

“I will always be there to catch you. I will be there on the other side. This is your last chance, Mallary.”

My legs begin pumping beneath me, my lungs burning for air, in and out,one, two, three.

There’s something rotten in that house.

The whole family is tainted by it.Cursed.

I don’t watch where I’m going, I don’t know if he’s following, I just know if I stop, I will collapse onto the ground, and the land, the house, will suck me in and never let go. My legs move as quickly as they can, pushing me further, down a path paved with stones. Thin layers of ice crunch beneath my feet.

I run through dormant trees and headstones.

I run until there is a wall looming over me, nearly the same color as the snowy ground and the weeping sky. Green veined marble, the family name above. The door is cracked open. Inside it is warmer, but not by much.

The sound of my boots slapping the ground echo in the small chamber. The stained glass throws shades of blue across the tomb.

I’m in his tomb.

I’ve done this before.

Not just with Henri. It freezes me in place, this overwhelming sense of deja vu that I’ve wandered here on my own, the past merging with this present moment.

I’m staring at his name, etched into stone—Bastien Arnaud Beauchene. Perfectly eye level, so it can’t be missed. A reminder.

Awarning.

His palm slams next to mine, his warm body behind me. “Got you.”

It’s all so familiar. I blink. My body still thrums from sprinting, the panic fading into resignation. There’s no need to run any longer. “This has happened before.”

Saying it aloud, it sounds crazy. But he doesn’t question me, doesn’t tell me I’m wrong.

There’s a soft touch at my ear. “What do you remember?”

Scenes play out in my head, not from my imagination but from my memory: traipsing through the grounds in the smallhours, nearly freezing to death. My voice is my own but I don’t remember saying it, I don’t remember this. But I know this happened. Gripping his hand tightly, refusing to ever let go, wading into the pond, trying to convince him to swim. Letting the snow collect until it blankets my skin and I don’t know where I begin.

A whole other life in the moonlight that I don’t remember living.

“What did you do to me?” Blinking rapidly at the onslaught of memories, all of it coming back to me at once.

He’s silent.

Because what I’m remembering, what I’m imagining?—

“I’ve done nothing but give in to the whims of your dreams.”

“My dreams…?” I repeat, almost not believing the words. Almost. But Iremember.

A sharp, stabbing behind my eyes, like the visions before me, and the reality I’m seeing, are not supposed to coexist.

“You’re a waking dreamer,” he continues, whispering right in my ear. “A somnambulist.”

“I don’t—I’ve never?—”

He exhales a laugh, his other hand falling to my hip. And still, I stare at his name etched into the stone above me. I’ve inspected this dozens of times, I realize. I’ve found myself here many moonlit nights. How did I not know?

“You’ve done it since the first night.”