Striker: A Dark Bully Romance (Redwood Rebels Book 1) by Rachel Leigh (best historical fiction books of all time .txt) 📗

leaving a trail of fresh blood. “Oh my God.” My hand claps over my mouth. With my heart rate at an all-time high and my breathing staggered, I stand up and walk slowly over to the box. Keeping my hand over my mouth to refrain from smelling the fresh meat. The box sits open on the floor with a blood-soaked, folded up piece of paper sticking out of it. Taking a deep breath, I grab the note and begin opening, taking care not to rip it.

Secrets are for the silent. 

Briarwood at 8pm tomorrow or you will be silenced. 

Tossing the note down, I take a step back with tears welling in my eyes.

What’s that supposed to mean? They plan to cut out my tongue?

Swallowing down the bile rising in my throat, I rush over to the door, tearing it open and slamming it behind me when I step into the hallway. With my back pressed against my bedroom door, I slide down slowly until my legs are bent in front of me. I bury my face in my hands on top of my legs and rack my brain for who I can call for help. I can’t call the cops; it’s my word against theirs. I can’t call Axel because he will make everything worse. Wyatt, my best friend, doesn’t have a fighting bone in his body, so he’s no help.

I’m alone in this.

It’s me against them, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.

It’s Halloween night, and I should be hanging out with friends, pulling innocent pranks and having fun. Instead, I’m here, with this eerie weight on my shoulders and a sickness in the pit of my stomach. Shifting my car into park right in front of Briarwood, I look around for the guys’ cars, but it appears I’m the only one here. This is just fucking great. Telling me to come here was probably some sort of sick joke.

Noticing the flicker of flashlights on the upper level, I assume they’re inside. At least someone is inside. It’s quite possibly a psychopath and that almost sounds more inviting.

Startling myself by the shutting of my own car door, by my own hands, the darkness looms. Everything about the last twenty-four hours has me on edge. I slept with one eye open last night, meaning I didn’t sleep at all. After convincing myself that I do, in fact, have the upper hand, I planned on walking into this place full of demands, but now that I’m here, I’m suddenly feeling weak and intimidated, and I haven’t even laid eyes on them yet.

Go in, tell them that you will keep your mouth shut in return for them going on with their lives. It’s not that hard. All they care about is my silence—well, they have it.

An uneasy feeling washes over me as I take steps onto the broken concrete that lead to steps made of more broken concrete. Briarwood sits on one hundred acres of desert land just outside of Redwood. In the early 1900’s, the building was used for an asylum, and rumor has it they tortured the patients inside. Screams could be heard even outside of the property. One girl my age escaped and almost made it into town when she was hit by a car and killed right before the county line.

There are stories that the place is haunted by that girl and some of the others. Then again, these are all just stories. I’m more of a ‘see it to believe it’ kind of girl and I have no interest in finding out the truth tonight. I thought the place was set to be condemned a couple years ago—but here it is—still standing.

Occasionally groups of kids will come here just to try and scare the shit out of themselves. Apparently one girl actually did shit herself when a group of guys were trying to be funny and hid in a closet to scare her. Let’s hope that doesn’t happen to me.

Walking up to the front of the dilapidated building, my fingers trace over the weathered wooden door, taking note of the carving. It’s the same symbol that was on the box they put in my bed. Coincidence? It has to be. It’s not like they hand carved this door or that box themselves. Talon might have money, but I don’t take these boys to be crafty or symbolic.

Moving to the shaft of the metal handle, I notice it’s cold. It’s October, but even at night, it’s still eighty degrees outside. “Talon?” I say, in a hushed tone. “Tommy? Anyone?” Damn, I really do not want to go into this place.

Just as I turn to walk back to my car, taking only a few steps down to get away while I have a chance, the door creaks open, the wooden structure scraping against the floor. I turn around in an instant and see that it’s wide open as I look into the blackness of the house. Not even a flicker of light can be seen inside. Taking slow and steady steps, I holler, a bit louder this time, “Talon? Tommy? Is anyone here?”

I’m such an idiot for being here, and an even bigger idiot for what I’m about to do. Walking back up the steps I just walked down, I take a deep breath.

Something is burning.

It smells like freshly burnt paper, or maybe it’s leaves. A fire in these temperatures, along with the drought, cannot be a good thing. Swallowing hard, I step into the entryway. “Talon?” I try once more. “Will someone please fucking answer me.” My voice raises a few octaves, agitation and nerves getting the best of me. “Alright you dumbasses, you have one minute to show your faces or I am gone and I’ll tell everyone your—”

Strong, calloused fingers wrap tightly around my wrist. Pulling me farther into the house, while the door slams shut behind me. Goosebumps cascade down my arms. “Who’s there?” I attempt to jerk away. All