Page 87 of Ghost Hunted

“Alright.” I clench my jaw and head to the door. “Let’s fucking go.”

26

Lia

“Where are you taking me? What do you want from me, anyway? You need to let me go. I want my bazooka.”

I keep up a stream of questions, punctuated by the occasional swear word. By now, it’s for myself, not for him. I know he won’t answer. He won’t say a thing. I seem to remember the black holes speaking a long time ago—when they took her. Whoever she was. But they won’t speak to me.

Still, my questions clearly annoy him. So I don’t stop talking until the car screeches to a halt, and he slams a gloved hand against my mouth.

“Let go of me. Don’t touch me. I’ll scream!”

Now, why the hell didn’t I think to do that before? I open my mouth to let out the most bloodcurdling cry I can manage, but before I can do much more than squeak, he pulls off his leather glove and crams it into my mouth, before covering my face with his hand. Between the palm on my mouth and the glove choking me, I can’t make a sound. I struggle to get out of his grip, but he only squeezes my face harder until I wonder if he’ll squeeze it right off. Then he pushes down on the gas pedal.

A few minutes later, he drives the car into a parking lot. He lets go of me for a beat, and I try to open the passenger door, but of course, it’s locked. I scurry into the back seat, not really knowing what I’m trying to achieve, since I can only imagine that it’s locked too. But I need to get away from him. I’m not going down without a fight.

Apparently, though, no matter how hard I fight, I’m going down anyway. I feel his hands hook themselves around my ankle and drag me back that way. I wince as my body bumps back helplessly. Then he grabs onto my hair, yanking me back, and tears spring to my eyes. That hurts. Fuck, it hurts. I have no idea why.

He doesn’t let me wonder for long, letting go of my hair to wind his hand around my neck. I was so busy trying to get away that I never even tried to spit out the glove, and now, he shoves the fabric into the back of my throat, resting his palm once more against my lips.

He half-drags, half-carries me that way, nearly choking me with one hand as the other one silences me. I squeeze my eyes shut as I feel cold cotton dab at my shoulder. Then there’s a little prick on my arm, and a needle slides in. I want to cry out, because I’ve hated shots ever since I was a kid. At least, I think I have.

The room sways around me, and I wonder if I’ll be sick. Am I going to pass out? Did he give me something to make me unconscious? Or am I going to die?

Are these moments the last ones I’ll ever experience?

A tiny tear bubbles up into the side of my eye. I can sense him removing his hand from my mouth. I cough out the glove, and try to speak, but my voice comes out strangely garbled.

“What… the… what are you…”

He’s at my feet, a felt pen making little dots around my ankles.

“What are you… stop that…”

The marker against my ankles is the last thing I’m aware of before I pass out.

_

I come to with a jolt and try to stand up. But I can’t move. I’m stuck to some hard surface—a table, maybe. Thick bands tie me to it, and as darkness fades from my vision, I notice a pouch full of blood strung up to a metal walker. Wires connect me to it, and I can only stare at it helplessly as it fills, drop by drop.

Oh, fuck. That’s a lot of blood.

“What are you…” My voice comes out garbled again. “What are you doing…”

I don’t expect anyone to answer. After all, the black holes don’t talk to me, for whatever reason.

No one really talks to me but Logan.

It’s strange, how well I remember his name. I remember his face, too. Weird. My mind was so foggy when I passed out, but now, I remember him.

Seventy-four freckles.

What the hell was that?

It’s like my brain glitched, like it wobbled suddenly inside of me and pulled some strange, vivid image from the recesses of my mind.

I turn my face to the side, opening my mouth because I think I’m going to be sick. But I manage to breathe through it, and the feeling fades.