Darkness enveloped the sky by the time I wearily pushed open my front door. Tranquil piano nocturnes lilted through the house, the sound track of my parents’ ritual on nights they didn’t patrol the mountain. Chopin in the air, a glass of wine in my mother’s hand or a tumbler of whiskey in my father’s. Tonight my father would be nestled in his leather chair while my mother roamed the forest near Haldis.
“I’m a business man,” he’d told her. “No more, no less.”
“You’re a thief, Kaz.”
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
“That’s the weird things about being friends with someone for so long. One day you look at them and realize they’re not the eight-year-old kid you built pillow forts with.”
When an experiment goes wrong 7 teens are now stuck in a nightmarish world in their heads. It is is up to them to figure out what is going on and how they can survive/get out.
Something lunges from our right, cutting Sinclair and me off from the rest of the group: a saint whose mournful eyes are directed toward the ceiling as he nears. What looks like real blood drips from perfectly rounded stone holes in the centers of his palms and feet, pooling on the marble floor as he moves silently toward us. Slowly, his eyes lower and focus on me, and his hands reach forward clawing the air.
