1
Jemma
Fuck.
I bolt up in bed, my heart racing like I’ve been pushed off a cliff. Cold sweat covers my skin, the blankets doing nothing to stop the shiver that wracks through me.
My stomach churns and I wonder if this is going to be a bad night, a night where I throw up from fear. From the dread that resides, fresh and palpable, in my memories.
My terrifying dreams don’t need the help of a twisted imagination. Not when I’ve lived through a nightmare as real as the air I breathe, the memory playing on repeat when I sleep.
It’s always the same, every detail. Sometimes it’s as though I’m experiencing it for the first time—those are the nights when fear devours all my senses. I’m trapped in that horrifying state of suspense, my nerves stretched taut like strings ready to snap, with razor blades of terror slicing into my stomach.
I haven’t decided if that’s better or worse than the nights where I know what’s going to happen, but I'm helpless to stop it. Powerless to save my parents from being brutally murdered in front of me. Those are the nights when the pain consumes me, wrecking my heart all over again.
In stories, great heroes are often born from pain and fear. But so are great villains. And this isn’t a comic book, and their deaths aren’t my origin story of becoming a great… anything.
Losing my parents that night was the beginning of my fall. They were the strong, solid earth beneath my feet. Without them, the edge of the cliff gave way and I tumbled down the jagged slope until I crashed onto the ground, bloody, bruised, and barely holding it together.
I keep picking myself up and putting one foot in front of the other no matter how many times I stumble, but the scars, those run deep.
Blindly, I reach through the dark for the water bottle I always keep next to my bed, my throat hoarse as if I’d actually been screaming and not just in my dreams.
The tepid water fills my stomach like lead and does nothing to settle it. I fight back a gag as another raw wave of panic hits, but it’s futile.
I barely make it to the toilet before the water comes racing back up, the sharp twist of my insides and the burn against my throat so strong that I may as well be vomiting glass.
The bathroom tile is chilly, and the wall heater clicks on, blasting me with dry, hot air that smells like burnt dust. I’m sure it’s a fire hazard, but I’m just as sure that the landlord doesn’t give a fuck. This apartment complex would probably be worth more in insurance money if it were to burn down.
The wall behind my back anchors me to the present as I lean against it, trying to calm my racing heart and jangling nerves. The memories continue to press into my thoughts, desperate to cast their black shadow over me once again. Scrubbing my eyes with the heels of my palms, I try to force them back, to not give myself over to them.
But the distant snarl of a dog sounds a warning bell inside me, and I know I’ve lost the battle. Reliving it in my dreams wasn’t enough tonight. The terror has to play out in living color while I’m awake, too.
Memories wash over me like a tidal wave, consuming everything as they pull me into their dark depths.
The alley was the fastest way home. On one end of the long, narrow passage was the street our house sat on, and at the other end was a large park carved out of abandoned lots after the city tore down a cluster of condemned buildings.
It was getting late and shadows were already settling across the streets, cloaking the city with a shroud of the unknown. My mom hadn’t wanted to go through the alley. But we had coupons that were about to expire, and we were in a hurry to make it to the store before it closed.
Dad led the way, and as we stepped into the shadows, my mom grabbed my hand and held it tightly, something I normally would have balked at. I was thirteen going on thirty, with one foot firmly planted in the safe cocoon of childhood and the other testing the boundaries of adolescence. I was equal parts sheltered innocence and dreamy-eyed bravery, but that night I was squeezing her hand just as tight.
Heavy clouds were rolling in, blocking the full moon, and the yellow glow of the street lamps didn’t reach more than a few paces into the alley. Between the late hour and the brewing storm, the alley felt even more sinister than usual.
Despite our trepidation, we made it through fine.
My mom let out a nervous laugh of relief as we stepped out of the shadows and crossed the street. We’d walked through there so many times without harm, and yet every time I looked back over my shoulder into the thick, inky blackness, I felt as if we’d escaped something.
But ahead of us was the park with the big playground, one of my favorite places in the world.
Despite its location in a run-down neighborhood, it was one of the bigger parks in the city, with a sprawling wooden play structure made to look like a castle. There were swings and four different slides. My friends and I would lie on the merry-go-round, spinning slowly while stargazing or cloud-watching.
I’d spent hours of my childhood playing there with kids from the neighborhood. It had a labyrinth of narrow passages inside and weird angles that created a few tiny pockets of space perfect for hiding in. We were spies and assassins, pirates and castaways, kings and thieves. And we loved tucking ourselves in those hideaway nooks during games of tag and hide-and-seek.
It was windy that night as the winter storm moved in, the brisk gusts pummeling my face and blasting across my ears. Maybe if it hadn’t been, we’d have heard the growls sooner.
Or smelled the scent of something feral and dangerous in the air. Anything to hint that we should have avoided the park.
Then my parents would still be alive.
But it wasn’t until we were halfway through the park that I saw our flashlight glinting off a pair of golden eyes and heard a low, sickening snarl beneath the howl of the wind.
Three shadows separated themselves from the dark and became massive dogs—the biggest I’d ever seen—with rough, shaggy coats and enormous paws. But it’s their eyes that still haunt me the most. I had no idea what evil looked like until that night.
They went for my dad first. My mom didn’t scream or stare in horror, or hesitate for even a second. She grabbed my hand and ran as fast as she could.
I kept up, pumping my legs hard to keep pace, her fist gripping me so tightly I might have cried out in pain if it weren’t for my terror and confusion. We were about ten feet from the play structure when we fell.
It’s strange, the details you remember from traumatic events.
Some moments are gone, lost forever like puzzle pieces that immediately fell through the cracks into the abyss. Other parts are so vivid and crisp, it’s as if time slowed down and recorded every sight, sound, and sensation with brutal clarity.
I remember how my palms burned from the scrape of wood chips. I remember how her unbuttoned wool coat cloaked me as she fell on top of me. I remember how her soft dark hair tickled my cheek. And I remember how it felt when they pulled her off of me—like someone had suddenly snatched a warm blanket away from me in the middle of the night, the chilly air quickly finding my skin once more.
Harsh snaps of gnashing teeth sounded over my head, their fetid breath coiling above me in white puffs. I could hear my mom screaming, the shrill, panicked sounds of agony and terror. I scrambled toward the structure, the small entrance of one of the tunnels mockingly close.