20:31.

It’s not possible. It can’t be. Kira’s heartbeat flutes and quickens. Whiteland is the past, left in other countries. It’s not meant to touch her here. She’s here to get away.

Kira shoves her chair out from the table. What could Whiteland want with her? She was only involved because of Anna, and it got what it wanted. It took her. Now, forever, it should leave them alone.

Blindly crossing the tiles, she leans over the sink. Arms stiff, face set, gripping the kitchen counter. She stares down the drain. Breathe. Whiteland let her go. It let her leave. Could Callum and his mother be wrong?

Something brushes Kira’s senses, and she looks up sharply. The indigo night outside is changing; she can feel it, as sure as the draught around the edges of the window. Across the street, the moon hangs full, illumining the white, narrow gables and the snow-cloaked cobbles underneath. Bright behind the witching clouds, shining through the mist.

Mist? Kira’s heart dips, and swoops back up. Low along the curving street wind drifting wisps of mist, straggled and floating like gathering graveyard ghosts. A gothic Christmas spirit, the future yet to come. They’re eerie, lonesome, slow in their meander. The hair on her arms lifts, thin and electric. The world is closing in. Reduced to the swirling glass, the moon, the thickening atmosphere; it’s not a stretch to think she’s the only one alive.

No people walk by. No pub-goers, bowing their heads against the cold. No students, back early with bulging cases, leaving drunken trails in the snow. No cats, no dogs. No sound. Even the sound in the house is muffled.

It’s like it was in the forest. Kira’s breath stutters. Drifts of snow surrounded them. Her jittery senses moved her back, until she pressed against Callum and the trunk of a tree. Perhaps one; perhaps both; perhaps neither. She can’t remember. It doesn’t matter. What she does remember, with perfect clarity, is the weight of the mist as it crept like a sandstorm, and the animal rawness that shrieked in its wake.

Kira swallows. Her skin is too warm, her chest too cold. The white wisps twist past the glass, glowing in the street-lit amber. She turns away. Stop. Digging her nails into the counter, she rests her coccyx on the sink. Just stop. There are no creatures, no threats, and there’s certainly no forest. Her memories have made her paranoid.

Kira’s phone lights up. Her eyes cut to the table, her heart turning skitters into bounds. Blinking past the afterglow of staring at the night, she slowly moves toward it. FaceTime audio: Rosemarie McFadden.

The phone buzzes to an aggressive stop. Kira stares at the screen. Romy? Has she fallen down the toilet?

FaceTime audio: Rosemarie McFadden. The screen lights up again. Kira jumps.

‘Romy?’ She holds the phone to her ear. Her heart thuds like a pounded door. ‘Is everything okay? I thought you were in the bathroom?’

‘Kira!’ The voice jars her ear, loud and high and terrified. ‘Oh, my god, Kira, I’m so sorry for calling you like this, but I didn’t know what else to do, oh fuck.’ She gulps a breath that the air avoids. When she gasps again, she’s more shallow-lunged than ever. ‘I don’t know what happened.’ She sobs. ‘I really don’t. I mean, I do, because anyone can see what happened, but how and why, I don’t know, oh, my god, Kira—’

‘Romy.’ Kira digs her nails into the counter so hard they almost bend. ‘What are you talking about? I thought you were upstairs?’

‘Upstairs?’ Romy sobs again, higher still and bubbling. ‘Upstairs where? I’m not upstairs. The guesthouse is a bungalow. But that doesn’t matter, Kira, listen to me—’

Kira holds the phone outstretched. She’s a disconnect. The house is silent. No voices, and certainly not the gasping panic gusting down the line. She narrows her eyes, straining to listen. There should be two stories pouring out, one here and one upstairs. Stories of staying with friends in Harvey’s parents’ guesthouse, of losing a bet and being sent to the main house for food, of returning to find it dark and silent until the music started, even though they don’t have speakers in there, but she didn’t think of that at the time, she thought it was a trick to scare her, but when she turned on the lights, shit, when she turned on the lights—

‘What?’ Kira tunes in, electrified. Her mismatched nails pierce the crappy counter, but she can’t have heard right. She can’t. ‘What did you just say? What did you find?’

‘They’re dead, Kira!’ Romy’s words pitch close to a scream. ‘They’re all dead. I went in and saw them sitting there, Harvey and Marnie and Hamza, oh, god, and then I recognised the song that was playing over and over and over and it was the one I messaged you with yesterday, the one that goes “are we dead when we have died,” you know, and it was like some sick game because they were all sat up on mine and Harvey’s bed—they’re still on our bed, I don’t know what to do, it happened while I was in the house and they don’t look that dead—’

Her voice sticks in her throat, but she doesn’t stop. The scratching words must hurt like hell. ‘They’re sat up,’ she croaks, ‘like they’re still alive, lined against the wall, but they’re not. Their faces are turning blue and they’re not moving or blinking or speaking and their necks are bruised and I don’t know what to do because it wasn’t me, Kira, it wasn’t me, but everyone’s going to think it was because I’m the only one still alive and they’re on my bed like a sadistic display case—Kira?’ She breaks off jerkily. ‘Are you there?’

Disconnected, floating outside herself, it takes an age to respond. ‘Yes.’ Tentative, she steps toward the kitchen door. She’d been listening for a sound from upstairs, for her sister’s garbled horrors. Her mind has got stuck, somewhere unreal and giddy. Romy here, Romy not. The house can’t be silent. It can’t be, but it is.

Then it isn’t.

A thumping bassline starts above her. All the air leaves her lungs, sucked away by a gasp. Pulsing through the ceiling, down the stairs, through the walls. Macy wouldn’t listen to it; neither would Veronica.

Besides, she knows that beat. She knows the music, the lyrics. “Are we dead when we have died,” you know. The phone slips from her hand.

The kitchen is too bright. The overhead lights sting her eyes, glittering like a migraine. The phone cracks on the tiles. She passes it with pillars for legs. Past the table, where the lost beers warm. Listening. Listening. Filling up with nauseous dread, so numbing she can’t think.

Murder.

The song thumps on. Romy’s voice trembles from the floor. One palm pressed to the doorframe, Kira steps into the hall. Her body is made of concrete. Romy in the bathroom, Romy on the phone. The song, this song, the song she mentioned, thudding and shrieking through the ceiling. Death. Three dead friends. Murder.

Murder?

What Romy’s been saying finally sinks in. At the bottom of the stairs, Kira stiffens; murder. If it’s true, her sister’s friends have been murdered. If it’s true, her sister’s in England.

If it’s true, someone else is upstairs. And if it’s not, and Romy’s the one upstairs, whose voice is shouting her name from the floor? Kira swallows. Her lips have gone dry. It’s impossible. One thing or the other can’t be happening, unless it’s an elaborate trick, and she’ll reach the top of the stairs to see her sister jump from hiding. Got you! she’ll yell. Did you like the ruse? The song worked well, right?

New year, new tricks. Like when they were young.

But this is a terrible trick. Years ago, they’d leap out at each other, or make gasping noises in the attic. Jump scares; minor thrills. Spider-walking in the dark after illicitly watching The Exorcist. Nothing like this.

‘Veronica?’ Kira calls. The music chews the word and swallows, as she fully thought it would. The bass throbs in her eardrums. ‘Macy?’

Kira breathes in, and out. It judders. Her foot seems further than the end of her leg as she places it on the stairs. Even if this is a trick, it wouldn’t explain the silence when the phone girl was speaking. That kind of mania can’t be kept quiet, and the walls in here are like leaves.

Another slow step. Another. The song ends, and starts again.

It takes her an age to reach the upstairs landing, the stairs shrouded in gloom. Kira stops. The music surrounds her, thumping through her skin. If all is as it should be, she’ll open her door to see Romy by the boom box, as smug as all eternity at such a fine reaction. Nothing else explains the situation; nothing. You can’t be in two places at once.

One more step. One more. Anger roils with fear in her gut. To think Romy had changed; if this is one of her tricks, then she hasn’t changed at all. And carrying it out on the anniversary of…briefly, Kira shuts her eyes. Thoughtless doesn’t cut it. Romy’s waging war.

This is what she tells herself; this is what must be true.

The narrow hall’s light is unlit as she passes, the windowless walls making everything dark. She should have changed the bulb when she thought about it; now, she’s a typical horror movie heroine, slowly approaching through the shadows.

‘Macy?’ Kira tries. If they didn’t hear her before, they certainly won’t hear her now. The roaring song is inside her rib cage. She can’t even hear herself.

The smiling canvas on the wall leaps out, cheerily screaming affirmations. A memento of the last tenants. It’ll never fail to make you laugh, or at least roll your eyes; Eva’s case for keeping it had beaten their disdain, but now, it’s clownish and wrong. Its backdrop of grinning cannabis leers. Kira lifts her hand as a barrier.

Does she really have to go further? The bathroom door is open, the pink fluorescent off. Kira tugs her sleeves down, twisting her fingers into the cuffs. The only other open door is Eva’s. She went out hours ago, so it’s not much comfort, and the other three are black and closed. Kira balls both cuffs and fingers into fists. She knew this was the case before she started looking, but she couldn’t bring herself to face it: the muffled music, thumping in a pulsing, malevolent tunnel, blares from the room straight ahead. Her own.

You’re living in a dream now; can’t you taste it?

The words shriek, obnoxious and angry.

You live what you believe now; don’t you hate it?

Kira balls her fists tighter, and breathes. It’s a trick. Get the proof over with, and start waging war. She could delay, go into Macy and Vero, confirm that they’re not the ones doing this…but there’s no light beneath their doors. Kira shuts her eyes, and reopens them. The sooner she knows, the sooner she can get angry, and the sooner she can turn it into whiskey, or wine. She just has to open the door.

Stopping and starting, starting and stopping, she grasps the handle. One, two—no. One—no. Kira shakes her head sharply. There’s nothing in it. Turn the damn handle. Cool metal beneath her fingers. Breathing hot through her mouth. Nothing’s wrong.

Then why is everything dark? Why is Macy not complaining, or Vero blaring rap in competition?

Get it over with. In a rush that feels like ripping off a plaster, Kira opens the door.

Hunting wolves in curtained skies. Men screaming over raucous guitars. She liked this song a while ago, but now it’s deafening, violent. Are we dead when we have died?

Dead. Kira stumbles backwards, clutching at the door. Romy stands in the centre of the room. One hand holds a knife, and the other…

The other curls around Macy’s throat.

Kira’s spine hits the doorframe. She staggers, palms slapping the walls, eyes filling up with horrors. Her chair of clothes has been knocked over. Her crocheted rug is skewed. The frosted wind whispers through her window, sprinkling sugarcoated snow on the floor. The fluttering curtains are speckled with red.

They used to be white. They used to be delicate, and Kira hated them. How could she have hated them? Now the edges drag along the wood, laden down with—

Kira’s throat closes up. When it opens again, she can only choke. Beside the curtains lies Vero.

Blank. Staring. Convulsing in throbs. Kira gags, slapping her mouth with her hands. Vero’s life drains away into stains on the lace. A gash slits her neck, her graceful body graceless in the lilac party dress. She’s gulping, gulping. Gulping, gone.

The song loops round.

‘What have you done?’ The words stick like spokes. Fixed on Vero, Kira feels like an earthquake. Her friend’s lips are parted, about to call out. Wide-eyed, terrified, about to save herself. How did this happen in silence?

The music. ‘Oh, god.’ Kira blurs. Her stomach broils and threatens to rise. ‘Oh, my god, Romy.’ She can’t hear herself. Papillon of winter light. ‘What have you done?’

She drags her eyes up—from the curtains, from Veronica, from Macy’s tainted feet—but it’s worse, so much worse. The knife, almost lovingly, has pricked Macy’s skin. A dewdrop of blood beads bright on the blade, but breathing, swaying, staring, Macy doesn’t seem to care. She stares at the doorframe, as empty as a sleepwalker. Her freckled hands droop limp.

The knife inches deeper.

Kira can’t breathe. The lack of air gasps at her temples, and she forces it up through her clotting throat. Deeper. Deeper. Blood trickles down Macy’s neck, mingling with her hair. The room smells of metal and peach.

‘Stop.’ Kira pushes off the doorframe. She didn’t know she was going to, and dizzily, she stumbles. ‘Romy, please. Stop.’ She lifts a hand. ‘Let Macy go.’

Animals in stolen hides.

Romy flicks her wrist. The knife slashes out, slicing at her fingers. With a small scream, Kira jerks away.

‘Romy!’ Her voice is hoarse and catching. The blade returns to Macy’s neck, casual, almost caring. Kira cups her burning hand. ‘Romy—’

Romy smiles. Kira’s vision flickers. Her sister’s face shimmers, blurs, and is gone. Back again, gone again, blurring into someone else. The smile becomes a grin.

Higher cheekbones. A heart-shaped face. A wicked, curving stranger fills out her sister’s clothes.

Hunting wolves in curtained skies.

A wolf in sheep’s clothing. More accurately, a wolf and a lesser wolf, or a coyote in the night. Perhaps they were never Romy’s clothes at all; anyone can hide in black. Oh, god. Kira’s chest hammers. The heat in her fingers blurs with her eyes. Swaying through it all, Macy stares.

Macy. Kira sharpens into horrified clarity; the someone else, the woman, is caressing with the knife, moving it across Macy’s pale, freckled skin. No. No, no, no.

Kira lunges forward. Desperation lunges with her; she has to grab Macy, shake her limbs, shake her bones. She has to wake her up, and then they have to run.

The woman’s animal grin grows. ‘Too slow.’

She jerks herself and Macy away across the room. Kira staggers off-balance. The woman’s speed is intricate; she wasn’t even close.

‘Stop!’ Kira yells, hoarse. The song is so loud, tearing off the roof. Her lurching feet knock something soft.

Veronica. A silent scream surges up. Kira claps her hands to her mouth. The taste of blood. The smell of blood. Her feet are wet.

A door slams.

‘Guys!’ Eva calls, and Kira’s heart stutters. Faint as she is, she sounds jubilant. ‘Guys, guys, guys! This music is perfect.’ The strange woman arches an eyebrow. ‘I suggest tequila, but amaretto works, too…’

Let’s become a carnival now Ragnarok is visceral.

‘No,’ Kira breathes, as the stairs begin to creak. ‘Jesus, no.’

The woman yanks Macy’s head back. ‘Perfect.’

Kira’s mind roars and rushes. She lunges again. She has to do something, anything, anything—

The knife slits skin, and her friend starts to die.

‘No!’ Kira screams. The light sparks back into Macy’s eyes. Confusion, horror, terror, pain. She lets out a sputtering gurgle.

‘Kira.’ It’s a bubble. Blood dribbles from her lips. Her glazing eyes find Kira’s. ‘Kira—’

Her face contorts. Slowly, her chin droops to her chest. Her sagging body goes limp.

Murder. Kira screams again. Ripping, strangled.

‘Guys?’ Eva calls. ‘What’s going on?’

Let’s become a carn—

‘There’s three.’ The woman tilts her head. ‘How nice.’ A pause. ‘Take this.’

She lets Macy fall like a bag full of rubbish. Her lifeless body slumps forward, and as her weight buckles Kira’s legs and screeches her arms at the sockets, the woman slips lithely to the wall behind the door.

In an unfocused, horror-scarred flash, Kira understands. ‘Eva!’

The bedroom door opens. ‘Eva!’ Kira screams. The words are an unfocused, horror-scarred gabble. No, no, no, no— ‘Eva, no, don’t!’

Too late. Eva stands on the threshold. ‘Kira?’

Doubtfully, blinking, she takes in the room. Veronica. Macy. Her lipsticked mouth drops. ‘Oh, m—’

The woman steps neatly away from the wall, and snaps Eva’s neck like a matchstick.

‘No!’ Kira’s arms turn boneless. Macy crumples to the floor. In the woman’s arms, Eva sags. ‘Eva!’

I hope the wilderness will call.

The song loops round again.

‘All yours.’ The woman frees Eva to the air.

Kira doesn’t lunge. She can’t think, can’t move. Her dead-eyed friend collapses to the floor.

The bright-eyed woman snorts. ‘Your reflexes need some work.’ Sweeping toward the window, she salutes. ‘Thanks for the beer.’ A wink. ‘I’ll see you.’

Flicking the bloody curtains aside, she perches on the sill. Moonlit, ethereal, she jumps, and is gone.