And since my WIP is YA horror, Fear is the word of the day.
My pulse smacks my throat, shooting along my arms, but I draw a knife from the bamboo knife block on the counter—like it can protect me—and force my shoes to The Spot. I lift the heavy ornate rug from the shiny hardwood.
I don’t want to do it. Everything in me is telling me to lower the rug, to go hide in my room like always. But after hearing that voice, after being antagonized by Sierra, I have to check.
The floorboards groan, but I bend. Hook my fingers under the latch.
My tongue swells with the pressure of lifting the heavy door. I haven’t approached this since they found him. Since my mom went to prison.
Musty, cool air creeps up from the hole, biting at my legs and the bare skin of my arms. Three wooden steps lead down into the five-by-five or so space, just large enough to shove a body—living or dead—into. But it’s empty. Except for—what is that?
I lean in and nearly lose my balance. The knife drops from my grip and lands with a clang. A huge stain leers up at me. Dry heaving, I jerk up, slam the door shut, and kick the rug over it, hurting my injured leg in the process.Blood. What else could that stain be? My stomach won’t stop curdling, and I can’t get the image out of my head. My mother, dragging the body. Dropping it in. The body. Dropping. Splatting.