Some Quiet Place (Some Quiet Place #1)(72)

Before I can decide what to do, the tiny being is back, darting between the two of us with another high-pitched shriek. “Get him, get him!” that same tiny voice orders, and suddenly through the haze I recognize it. Moss. Little Moss.

Nightmare is still as a stone, watching the Element appear and reappear at random spots around the shack. He’s wearing that odd smile. Just as Moss runs along my other side again, begging me to “stab him, stab him,” Nightmare flies over me and the table, arm shooting out, and then Moss is in his grip. “Drop it,” he orders me, meaning the knife.

I do, with just a moment of hesitation. But even when it falls to the floor with a woeful clink, Nightmare doesn’t let go of Moss. With an intense expression, he closes his fist and begins to squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. She’s probably not worth draining.

A million images and memories pound into me like the bullets in my back, drawing blood and tides of Emotion despite the illusion that’s still miraculously intact. Rebecca was wrong—even danger such as this, facing death itself and choking on a sensation of feeling, hasn’t broken it. I sense the power hanging on by a thread. Most of the wall has crumbled.

I remember Landon and the way he squinted at words on a page. She’ll be back. She always comes back.

Rebecca and her passionate abandon as her skirt twisted around her thighs. Please come back!

Their mother and her constant, wrinkled worry. No more dancing.

I see Maggie and her sweet smile. Since you can’t go to the ocean, I thought I would bring it to you.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

I witness Sarah and her pain, scrubbing vigorously at the kitchen sink. When someone is pretending to be something, or hiding who they are or what they believe, they’re really more … protecting themselves.

I’d like to think that it’s never too late to change the way things are.

I invoke Joshua’s image. Frustrating, stubborn, kind, enduring, irrevocable Joshua. So many words, so many looks, just a few unrequited touches. How many of them have secrets they don’t want the world to know? How many of them wear masks everywhere they go? We’re anything but typical.

What more can there be?

And then there’s Fear. His impossibility, his adoration, his infuriating ways. His kisses, his persistence, his sacrifice. At least I know that if you can’t feel anything for me, you can’t feel anything for him, either.

Why are you the only one who can’t let go?

I should have—

“Elizabeth!”

The name jars me, and I crane my neck to find my little friend. Moss is gasping, her tiny fists pounding on Nightmare’s finger. She grapples and keeps making weak, frantic sounds. Her big eyes fasten on my face. Help me, she mouths. Already she’s fading. Her inner light sputters as her life drains.

I can’t do anything but watch. The edge of the table digs into my stomach as I observe Moss’s time slipping away. Her gaze meets mine one last time, and she reaches out with her hand, flailing for me. At just the right moment, Nightmare shifts closer—he’s laughing, riveted on Moss’s face—and her fingers land to rest on my ear.

There’s a surge of power, and suddenly I can move. Gasping, I shoot up to a sitting position, and Nightmare’s head whips around. He hisses in shock. Before he can react, I reach out and shove him with everything I have.

The monster flies back and crashes against the table of weapons and toys with a loud shattering sound. I sway for a moment before I fall. My head bounces painfully on the edge of the chair, but half of me remains on the table.

“Elizabeth … ” Moss gasps, warning me. I can’t see her, but I can hear her wheezing and swallowing heaps of air somewhere.

Nightmare is already stirring, muttering under his breath. He braces himself against the wall, swiveling around to find me with his eyes. They speak murder.

Just a little more strength. That’s all I need to end this.

Nightmare stumbles to his feet again, blood running down the side of his face from a cut on his temple. The sight of it gives me a fresh surge of resolution; he’s not indestructible. I can kill him—I can survive this. He glares at me through the crimson stream and wipes it away with the back of his hand. “You’re going to die slowly,” he promises in a hiss, stalking back toward the table.

“Moss,” I rasp, my eyes rolling painfully as I search the room for her. “Moss!” I need her to give me power again. But I can’t find her. Nightmare laughs at me, drawing even nearer. He kicks the chair out of the way.

“You didn’t burn Landon,” I say in a wild attempt to gain more time. I don’t know why this is what I choose to say, but it feels so important.

Nightmare pauses and does his head-cocking thing again. “And why would you say that?” He sounds genuinely interested. He’s stopped smiling, and I don’t think he’s even aware of it.

I swallow. Pause. Purse my lips. Then, in a voice that shakes like a frightened child’s, I tell him, “Because someone found his body.”

The paintings, the dreams, the memories. All of it led to this. I may not remember a life before being Elizabeth, I may not recall the illusion or who I was, but I do remember one moment like it’s my own—when Rebecca cradled her brother in her arms, screaming over his lifeless body. Never again would she hear his laugh. Never again would he say her name. Never again would they dance in the woods.