The storage closet was a coffin of steel and shadow.

  It stank of wet rust. Of old rope rotting in the salt air. The smell was thick, oily. It coated the back of Frankie’s throat like grease. She pressed her shoulders against the cold metal wall, trying to disappear into the rivets.

  Her ribs heaved. Each breath scraped against her lungs.

  Outside, the ship screamed.

  It wasn’t just the groaning of metal anymore. It was the sound of architecture being tortured. Walls moving. Pipes bursting. A labyrinth rearranging itself to trap the rats.

  And through the noise, a sound cut through. Distinct. Heavy.

  Clang. Step.

  Clang. Step.

  Boots on steel decking. Not rushing. Not searching. Just walking.

  The Captain. Rearranging his domain.

  He was close. Just on the other side of the thin metal door. Frankie could feel the vibration of his tread in the soles of her boots. With every step, the temperature in the closet dropped. Frost feathered across the hinges.

  Ted sat on a coil of heavy anchor chain. He hunched over, knees pulled to his chest. His head rested in his hands.

  He was shaking.

  It wasn’t a shiver. It was a tremor that rattled his bones. His fingers dug into his scalp, knuckles white, nails biting into the skin. He looked smaller than Frankie had ever seen him. His broad shoulders, which usually carried the group’s morale, collapsed.

  Damon stood in the corner.

  He leaned against a stack of canvas tarps, his body loose. Too relaxed. His eyes were half-closed, hooded and dark. A thin smile played across his lips, fixed and humorless.

  He hadn’t moved for five minutes. He hadn’t wiped the sweat from his forehead. He hadn’t looked at the door. He just stood there. Watching Ted. Watching Frankie.

  Wearing that expression like a mask.

  The footsteps outside stopped.

  Frankie held her breath. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. Thud-thud-thud. It was so loud. Surely the Captain could hear it. Surely he could smell the fear rolling off them in waves.

  Silence stretched. Heavy. Suffocating.

  Then, the footsteps resumed. Fading. Moving toward the stern.

  Frankie exhaled. A shudder went through her.

  “We need to move,” she whispered. Her voice cracked, dry and brittle. “We can’t stay here. He’ll circle back.”

  Ted didn’t look up. He stared at the dirty floor between his sneakers.

  “Ted?”

  His head snapped up. The movement was jerky, violent.

  “Move where?” he asked. His voice was raw.

  “Anywhere,” Frankie said. She pushed herself off the wall. Her legs felt weak, shaking with adrenaline crash. “We have to find Dee Dee. We have to get to the cargo hold.”

  “Find her?”

  Ted stood up. The motion was stiff. The chain beneath him rattled, a harsh, metallic sound in the small space.

  “You mean find what’s left of her.”

  The words were stones. They hit Frankie in the chest. Hard.

  She opened her mouth. Closed it. There was no air in the room. Her fangs pressed against her lower lip, sharp and aching.

  “She’s not dead,” Frankie said. She forced the words out. “We heard her scream. She’s alive.”

  “Shut up.”

  Ted took a step toward her. His jaw clenched so tight the muscles jumped in his cheek. He looked ragged. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes. Grime streaked his forehead.

  “We don’t know that,” he said. “We don’t know anything.”

  “We have to try,” Frankie pleaded. She reached out a hand. “Ted, please. We can’t give up on her.”

  “No!”

  His voice broke. It wasn’t a shout. It was a sob that turned into a scream.

  “This is all your fault, Frankie! You—”

  He turned away from her, slamming his fist into the metal shelves. Tools rattled. Dust rained down.

  “You did this,” he whispered. “You.”

  Frankie froze.

  The accusation hung in the air. Toxic.

  She looked at his back. At the tremor in his shoulders. Ted. Her buffer. Her safety net. The guy who made jokes when things got scary. The guy who smoothed everything over.

  He wasn’t smoothing this over. He was breaking.

  Frankie’s claws dug into her palms. The pain was sharp. Grounding. Blood welled up, hot and slick, smearing against her skin.

  “I didn’t know,” she whispered. The excuse sounded pathetic even to her own ears. “I didn’t know the ship was… I didn’t know.”

  “How?”

  Ted spun around.

  His eyes were red-rimmed. Wild. There were tears tracking through the dirt on his face.

  “How could you not know?” he demanded. “You pushed us. You pushed and pushed. ‘Let’s go on a boat trip.’ You never stopped to ask if we wanted to go. You just dragged us.”

  He took a breath, a ragged gasp.

  “Because you wanted to escape from home,” he said. “To stay with him.”

  He pointed a shaking finger at Damon.

  Damon didn’t react. He just watched, that faint smile stitched to his face.

  Ted slumped against the far wall. The fight drained out of him, leaving only exhaustion. He slid down the metal until he hit the floor, pulling his knees tight to his chest again. He dropped his head.

  “Never mind,” he whispered. “It doesn’t matter. This is still your fault.”

  The words landed in the silence.

  Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

  Your fault.

  Frankie’s breath stopped.

  The guilt wasn’t a weight anymore. It was a blade. It twisted in her gut.

  Your fault.

  Her fangs ached. A throb of pressure in her gums.

  The red tint at the edge of her vision pulsed. It spread inward like spilled ink on wet paper. Darkening the room. Blurring Ted’s hunched form.

  Then, the image slammed into her skull.

  It wasn’t a picture. It wasn’t a memory.

  It was a sensation. Absolute. Immediate.

  Pain.

  Frankie gasped. Her hands flew to her own throat. She clawed at her skin.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  But it wasn’t her throat.

  It was Dee Dee’s.

  Frankie wasn’t in the closet anymore. She was somewhere cold. Freezing. The smell of raw meat and ice filled her nose.

  She felt the deck plate hard against her knees. She felt the dampness soaking through her jeans.

  She felt the hands.

  Icy fingers. Skeletal. Digging into soft flesh. Closing around her windpipe.

  Frankie tasted blood. Copper filled her mouth. She gagged.

  She tried to scream, but the hand crushed the sound.

  She looked up.

  Through Dee Dee’s eyes.

  They were everywhere. A circle of them. Translucent. Gray. Faces twisted in leering grins. Empty sockets staring down.

  One of them leaned closer. A woman in a torn dress. Her jaw unhinged. Dropping open too wide.

  She laughed. Silent. Mirthless.

  Frankie.

  She heard the scream inside her own skull. High. Thin. Desperate.

  Frankie, help me.

  The pressure increased. Frankie felt Dee Dee’s lungs burning for air. The terror was a physical weight, crushing Frankie’s chest.

  Why aren’t you here?

  Why didn’t you save me?

  “Stop,” Frankie whispered. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the image didn’t go away. It burned brighter.

  Dee Dee’s terror became Frankie’s terror. Dee Dee’s pain became Frankie’s pain.

  “Stop!”

  Frankie hit the floor. Her knees struck the concrete hard. The impact jarred her teeth.

  The vision shattered.

  She was back in the closet. Gasping. Sweating.

  Ted stared at her. He had lifted his head. His brow furrowed. The anger was gone, replaced by confusion. Fear.

  “What—” he started.

  “She’s in my head,” Frankie choked out. Her throat was raw, as if someone had really strangled her. She rubbed her neck, expecting to feel bruises. “Vondra. She’s… she’s showing me.”

  “What do you see?”

  The voice came from the corner. Smooth. Dark.

  Frankie looked up.

  Damon pushed himself off the tarps. He stepped into the pool of dim light.

  He smiled.

  It didn’t reach his eyes. His pupils widened. Black holes swallowing the iris. There was no brown left. No warmth.

  “Does it hurt?” he asked.

  His voice was casual. Cruel. Like a boy pulling wings off a fly.

  “Hearing her scream?”

  Ted stood slowly. He put a hand on the shelving unit to steady himself. “Damon?”

  “She’s loud, isn’t she?” Damon took another step. He tilted his head birdlike. “Our girl Vondra. She knows which buttons to push. She’s an artist with pain.”

  He crouched beside Frankie. He smelled of sea salt and rot.

  “Tell me, Frankie,” he whispered. “Does Dee Dee blame you? Can you hear it in her voice?”

  Frankie flinched away from him. She scrambled back until her spine hit the wall.

  “Get away from me,” she hissed.

  “I asked you a question.” Damon’s smile widened. “Does she hate you yet?”

  Frankie couldn’t answer. The echo of the scream still rang in her ears. Why didn’t you save me?

  “Get away from her,” Ted said.

  Damon glanced up. He looked at Ted with mild amusement.

  “Or what? You’ll fight me?”

  Damon straightened. He turned to face Ted fully. His movement was fluid. Too smooth for a human.

  “Look at you,” Damon said. “You’re exhausted. You’re terrified. You can barely stand up.”

  He spread his hands. A gesture of mock sympathy.

  “Your best friend is gone,” Damon said. “Your other best friend is a monster.” He pointed a thumb at himself. “And the girl you’re trying to protect?”

  He laughed. A sharp, breaking sound.

  “She put us here.”

  “Shut up,” Ted said. His voice shook.

  “Why? It’s true.”

  Damon took a step forward. The metal floor didn’t creak under his weight. He moved like smoke.

  “Frankie dragged you here,” Damon said. “Frankie convinced you. Frankie’s need to be the hero—to be seen, to be special—is why Dee Dee is bleeding out on the deck right now.”

  Frankie flinched. The words were hooks. They caught on her skin.

  “Stop it,” she whispered.

  “No,” Damon said. He didn’t look at her. He kept his eyes on Ted. “Let’s be honest, Ted. You followed her because you’re weak. Because you’ve always been the sidekick. The backup.”

  Ted’s fists clenched at his sides. “That’s not true.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  Damon’s lip curled. A sneer.

  “Face it, Harris. You can’t stand on your own. You need someone to tell you what to do. Even if that person gets you killed.”

  He leaned forward, his face inches from Ted’s.

  “And now you’re going to die on this ship,” Damon whispered. “Because you couldn’t stand up to a girl with sharp teeth.”

  Ted snapped.

  He lunged. A clumsy, desperate swing aimed at Damon’s jaw.

  Damon moved.

  It wasn’t a dodge. It was a blur.

  He caught Ted’s wrist in mid-air.

  Snap.

  The sound was loud. Dry wood breaking.

  Ted cried out. A strangled yelp of pain. He dropped to one knee, clutching his arm.

  “Pathetic,” Damon said.

  Frankie surged upward.

  The rage took over. The hunger. The need to hurt.

  She slammed into Damon’s side.

  They crashed against the metal shelves. Tools clattered down around them. Rusty hooks. Heavy wrenches. Frayed cord.

  Damon grunted. He shoved her off.

  It was like being hit by a truck.

  Frankie flew backward. She hit the opposite wall hard. Her head cracked against the steel. Ribs screamed. Her vision whited out for a second.

  She slid to the floor, gasping.

  “Temper,” Damon said.

  He stood over her. He wasn’t breathing hard. His shirt showed no wrinkles.

  “You’re losing it, Frankie,” he whispered. “You can feel it, can’t you? The monster isn’t just inside me. It’s in you too.”

  Ted scrambled to his feet. He cradled his broken wrist against his chest. His face was gray with pain.

  He stepped between them. A human shield.

  “This isn’t you, dude,” Ted panted. “Fight it. I know you’re in there.”

  Damon looked at Ted. He looked at the broken wrist.

  His expression flickered.

  For a second—just a heartbeat—the blackness in his eyes receded. A ring of brown appeared. His mouth opened. His hand reached out, trembling.

  “Ted?” he whispered. “Run.”

  Then his face went stony.

  The muscles smoothed over. The humanity vanished, wiped away like condensation on glass.

  The eyes went black again.

  “She’s dying right now,” Damon whispered. The voice wasn’t his. It was dry leaves skittering on stone. Ancient. “She is calling your names. And you are standing here talking.”

  Ted froze.

  The words hit him harder than the broken wrist.

  He looked at Damon. Then he looked at Frankie.

  Frankie lay on the floor, wiping blood from her mouth. She looked up at him. Pleading.

  “Ted,” she said. “We can fix this. We can—”

  “Fix it?”

  Ted’s voice was hollow.

  “This was your plan!”

  He shouted it. The sound rang in the small metal room.

  “You’re the one who listened to that dead brat,” Ted said. Tears streaked the grime on his face. “You had to lead us. You had to be in charge.”

  He looked at his broken wrist. He looked at the empty space where Dee Dee should have been.

  “Now Dee Dee is…”

  He couldn’t finish the sentence.

  He turned his back on her.

  He slumped against the far wall, sliding down until he hit the floor. He cradled his arm, curling in on himself. Protecting himself. From the ship. From Damon. From her.

  “This is still your fault,” he whispered.

  Frankie stood alone in the center of the room.

  The silence was heavy. Suffocating. It pressed against her ears.

  She looked at Ted’s turned back.

  She looked at the closed door.

  She looked in the corner.

  Damon watched them from the shadows.

  He didn’t speak. He didn’t attack.

  He just smiled.