Claws & Crochet

Part 69

ZOEY

I'm suffocating.

The glitter only mildly diffused the tension between Warner and the Gunner boys, so I asked him to give me some time with them. But now, even asleep, my brothers fill the tiny cabin. Carver's snores sneak through the gap between the floor and my door. All four of them must give off a furnace-worth of heat because the air around me is heavy and warm. But not a comforting warm. More like the warmth of a blanket being held over my face until I pass out.

The thought has me crawling out of my bed, feet quiet on the hardwood floor as I try to catch my breath.

Having my own room shouldn't feel this claustrophobic.

I need air. Fresh mountain air not made stale by too many bodies exhaling in the same space. Bruce doesn't stir in his dog bed as I cross to the window. I pry it open despite its warped frame. Every inch it rises pairs with the reluctant squeak of old wood against old wood. Still, I keep at the thing until it's close to fully open.

Cold air swirls around me, brushing against my exposed arms and making goosebumps prickle in its wake.

I pause to listen, both to the soothing sounds of the woods at night, but also to check if my efforts woke my brothers. If even one has stirred, he'll come to check on me. The Gunner boys can't help themselves. They treat me like I'm a baby bird, fallen from its nest. If left alone too long, I'll surely perish, too weak to deal with the cruel world.

Of course, my past has given them a reason to worry. I'm not entirely blameless.

But that doesn't mean I approve of how close they hover.

The thought makes me want to escape. For the past few weeks, this cabin has felt like a refuge. Now it smells like a stale box, one that my brothers want to stick me in after cocooning me securely in bubble wrap.

One of my legs is over the low sill before I consider what I'm doing. Splinters catch at my flannel pajama pants, but I don't let that hold me back.

Jail break. I'm pulling a Shawshank Redemption.

Only, as I sneak into the chilly night, I admit my route is much more pleasant than crawling through sewers full of human waste.

Still, there's an element of danger.

The moon sits high in the star-speckled sky, having lost one sliver that would make it full. The light it casts is enough for me to see the vague outlines of trees and bushes. There are plenty of shadows.

Memories of a menacing growl creep from the recesses of my mind.

I push the thoughts away.

I'm only crossing the yard. Not running into the woods.

As I reach the bottom rung of the treehouse ladder, I make the connection I can't believe I hadn't before.

Could the animal that scared me have been a werewolf? Is that why Warner was asking what it looked like?

The idea brings on an uneasy chill that makes my fingers shake as I begin to climb.

If I was being stalked by a werewolf that day, then that means I didn't accidentally stumble into the wrong part of the woods. Someone wanted me scared. Someone may have been planning on hurting me.

And as I crawl through the entrance to the tree house, another realization pricks at me.

Climbing a tree might keep me safe from a wolf. But not a werewolf.

The minute I stand, I know something is wrong.

My barefoot on the old wood is accompanied by an ominous groan.

A loud crack sounds. My whole world shifts.

The calm night rends open with my terrified scream.