Chapter 11 - The Labyrinth of Memory
The realization hit Ryan like a physical blow, knocking the breath from his lungs.
Sarah hadn't been in the house with him. Toby hadn't been there.
Sarah had taken Toby and left him six months ago. She had filed for divorce, packed her bags, and moved across the country because she couldn't bear to look at the hollow, alcoholic shell of a man Ryan had become after Lily’s death.
He had been living in this Victorian house alone for months. The entire evening—the breadcrumbs, the yellow t-shirt, Sarah’s crimson sweater, the voices in the vent—had been a massive, waking nightmare born from his own decaying mind, catalyzed by the overwhelming guilt that had rotted his soul from the inside out.
Or had it?
Ryan looked down at his ankle.
The skin was torn, bleeding, and bruised in the exact shape of a small, skeletal hand. The scent of river silt and rot in the air was real. The wet, black mud covering his clothes was real.
"Daddy..."
Ryan slowly raised his head.
Standing at the far end of the kitchen, bathed in the pale silver light of the moon, was Lily.
She didn't look like the monster from the basement. She looked as she had the day she died—a sweet seven-year-old girl with golden-brown hair, hazel eyes, wearing her favorite blue dress. She was dry. She was smiling.
May you like
She extended her small, clean hand toward him.
"It's cold out there, Daddy," she said softly, her voice pure, gentle, and full of love. "Come down into the dark with me. We can sleep now."
