Chapter 18: Ghosts Don't Stay Buried II

SARAH POV

The photograph trembles between my fingers. Twenty-seven years, and I still can't look at Margaret's face without feeling the phantom weight of her blood on my hands.

"She's beautiful," I whisper to the empty cabin. "Just like you were."

The girl in the surveillance photo—Rosemary Decker—has Margaret's eyes. The same stubborn tilt to her chin. The same doomed innocence that made my sister believe she could reason with monsters.

I set the photograph beside the others spread across my kitchen table. Dozens of them, taken with a telephoto lens from the ridge above Thornwick Hollow. Three weeks of watching. Three weeks of seeing history prepare to repeat itself while I sat frozen in my mountain hideaway like the coward I've always been.

My hands shake as I reach for the mason jar of moonshine. The burn doesn't help anymore, hasn't for years, but old habits die hard. Unlike the women in our bloodline.

"Pull yourself together, Sarah." My voice cracks in the silence. "She needs you."

The guilt tastes like copper pennies and regret. Margaret trusted me to protect her that night. Instead, I let her walk into that observatory alone while I hid in the woods, paralyzed by terror and the naive hope that someone else would save her. I watched through the trees as Elliot Ashworth carved out her heart with surgical precision, his teenage son standing stone-faced beside the altar.

The boy who'd grown into the man now courting my great-niece.

I've spent twenty-seven years preparing for this moment, gathering weapons and knowledge that might actually make a difference this time. The cabin walls are lined with occult texts in languages that predate civilization. Salt circles mark every threshold. Iron nails driven into window frames. Protective wards carved into the foundation beams until my fingers bled.

None of it matters if I don't find the courage to use it.

The burner phone buzzes against the table. Luna Morrison's number flashes on the screen—my one remaining contact in town, the herb shop owner whose grandmother helped me escape that night.

"They're moving faster than expected," Luna's voice is tight with fear. "Paige Elliott called an emergency council meeting. Something about federal investigators."

My blood turns to ice water. "How long do we have?"

"Days, not weeks. Elliot's talking about accelerating the timeline."

The phone slips from my numb fingers, clattering against the table. Days. Margaret had months to prepare, and it wasn't enough. This girl has days.

I stumble to the window overlooking the valley below. Through my binoculars, I can see the bookshop's yellow facade glowing in the afternoon sun. Rosemary's red Subaru sits parked outside. Normal. Peaceful. A lie wrapped in small-town charm.

Movement catches my eye. Three figures emerge from the alley behind the hardware store—Elliot's men, the ones who've been watching her for weeks. They're not bothering with subtlety anymore, positioning themselves with clear sightlines to every entrance.

"Not again." The words scrape raw from my throat. "Not this time."

My hands find the leather satchel I've kept packed for twenty-seven years. The weight of it feels like responsibility and terror in equal measure. Inside: Margaret's journal, documenting every detail of the covenant she discovered too late. Photographs of the ritual site. Copies of the ancient texts that might—might—offer an alternative to ritual murder.

And the blade.

The athame pulses with unnatural warmth against my palm. Forged by my great-great-grandmother from iron pulled from a meteorite, blessed by seven generations of women who knew this day would come. The only weapon that can cut supernatural bonds.

If I'm strong enough to use it this time.

The mirror by the door shows me a ghost—wild gray hair, sunken cheeks, eyes that have seen too much. Twenty-seven years of isolation and guilt have carved deep lines around my mouth. I look like the crazy hermit woman the townspeople whisper about. The mad Sarah Riley who lost her mind when her sister died.

Let them think that. Crazy women are dismissed. Forgotten. Underestimated.

Perfect weapons in the right circumstances.

I slip the blade into my boot and shoulder the satchel. The cabin door swings open for the first time in three months, letting in air that tastes like pine needles and impending storms. My truck starts on the second try—a miracle, considering how little I've driven it.

The road down to Thornwick Hollow winds through forest that remembers older things than the town below. I pass the turnoff to the observatory without looking, but I feel its pull like a tooth ache. The place where everything went wrong. Where it might go wrong again if I'm not careful.

If I'm not brave.

The bookshop looks smaller than I remember, squeezed between the hardware store and the old pharmacy. Quaint. Harmless. The kind of place that sells dream catchers and inspirational quotes on coffee mugs.

I park across the street and watch through the window. Rosemary moves between the shelves like she belongs here, her dark hair catching the light as she reaches for a high book. So young. So unaware of the countdown ticking behind her eyes.

Margaret was twenty-six when they killed her. This girl is twenty-seven—older, but not by much. Old enough to have lived. To have fallen in love, traveled, made mistakes and learned from them. Old enough to deserve a future that doesn't end with her blood feeding ancient hungers.

One of Elliot's watchers notices my truck. Recognition flickers across his face, followed by surprise. They thought I was dead, probably. Or too broken to matter.

I smile and give him a little wave.

His hand moves toward his phone, but I'm already walking across the street. The bookshop door chimes as I push inside, the sound achingly familiar. Millicent always loved those bells.

"I'm sorry, we're actually closed—" Rosemary's voice stops mid-sentence when she sees me.

Those eyes. God, those eyes are exactly like Margaret's.

"Hello, Rosemary." My voice sounds steadier than I feel. "I'm Sarah Riley. I think it's time we talked."

She goes very still, the book in her hands forgotten. "You're Margaret's sister. The one who—"

"The one who lived, yes." I step deeper into the shop, noting the protective symbols carved into the doorframe. Millicent's work. "The one who's been waiting twenty-seven years for another chance to get things right."

Fear and hope war across her features. She's been waiting for someone to help her, to offer answers that make sense of the nightmare she's stumbled into.

I just pray I'm strong enough to be that person this time.

"They're coming for you," I say quietly. "Sooner than you think. But there might be another way."

The words hang between us like a promise and a threat.

Outside, Elliot's watcher is definitely making that phone call.