Prologue

The sky had been moping incessantly, shadowing the town with thick clusters of ominous, grey clouds. It had never been this cold in summer. Fog permeated every corner of the neighborhood as if a vast, thin veil had been draped over us, half-burying all the roofs and chimneys. The streets were vacant and ghost-quiet.

For once, I couldn't see any children riding their bikes, frolicking boisterously in the mud, and chasing one another down the road with popsicles and cotton candy. Men hadn't been grilling steak, repairing fractured furniture, and sunbathing in their yards; and the ladies were all confined to their houses, unable to tend to their flower pots in the garden and mow the lawn. When they did rarely head out, they were usually driving to downtown to run errands or taking their kids to the playgroups.

I sat languidly on the window nook and slouched against the three cushions I had stacked behind my back, one leg dangling in the air. My head leaned against the window, my lids half drooping as I stared hollowly at the rain drippling down the glass, leaving vague, long trails that obscured my vision. A tiny, brown snail was crawling outside. I suppressed the urge to open the window and flick it off the ledge. I hate bugs, any kinds of them, especially spiders and centipedes, due to the sheer number of their legs.

I was playing Nine Crimes on my phone. I turned up the volume, attempting to drown out the sound of the drizzle outside with the bleak, yet soothing melody. I closed my eyes completely and pressed my right cheek against the glass surface, hoping that the coldness could ignite some of my senses. I felt numb most of the time these days. Only when I shivered at the cold of the rain or flinched from the flames on the stove did I feel...alive.

Sometimes, it helped when the tip of a blade delved deep into my wrist, and I suddenly revived the long forsaken sensation of pain and grew morbidly fascinated with the sight of the scarlet liquid gushing out of my slit, tainting the otherwise immaculate, porcelain skin. And sometimes, I found it invigorating to fully immerse myself in a bathtub filled with steaming, scorching water so that when I climbed out of it, my skin turned entirely pink, and it burned, becoming exceptionally sensitive to any light scratch and the tender fondle of my duvet. I had yet to try hammering a nail into my palm or shooting my temple with a pistol for real.

I am sick.

Fricking sick.

And nobody can help me.

A silvery Mercedes-Benz and a white van pulled up in front of the three-story, white cottage across the street. That house was right opposite ours and had been deserted for nearly six months after its previous dwellers decided to move to another town. Anywhere thrived and shone better than this rotten, desolate place full of devils in disguise. I had lived here long enough to conclude that. At least, for the past sixteen years of my life, nothing had ever been right, and things just seemed to be going downhill.

Freeze the time; or just let it roll on so quickly I can turn eighteen in a flash and break free from this suffocating cage.

The drizzle stopped miraculously, as if it had anticipated the arrival of these guests. The father rolled down the car window and peeked out, checking if they needed an umbrella. After affirming that no more rain but only an excessive amount of fog remained, he hopped out, followed by his wife.

I caught a glimpse of the man's slender build, chestnut brown hair, and pale face. He was wearing a navy blue dress shirt and a pair of beige pants. Smart and decent. His wife gingerly avoided a puddle of muddy water on the road as she got out of the vehicle in her high heels, her white, floral bouffant dress floating gracefully around her. She was seemingly immune to the chilly air. Her wavy, light, brown curls fell elegantly on her shoulders, a huge earring shimmering conspicuously as she tucked a few strands of hair behind her left ear. The couple looked extraordinarily young and too well-dressed for the occasion. It looked as if they had just returned from their work office.

The man was heading toward the white van when his two sons hopped out. They both had dark brown hair with some honey brown streaks, identical in height and in physique. One was wearing a neat dress shirt and pants like his father with neat, side-swept bangs. His brother, though, didn't seem to bother with his tousled hair and the dark bangs that covered half of his right eye. He stood in stark contrast to his family members in his casual, black T-shirt and a pair of frayed, black jeans. He looked gloomy, just like the inclement weather – an adorable stray cat abandoned in the alleyway ready to strike with his sharp claws and meow showing his glistening canines. I couldn't tell which one was older.

Two stout men had jumped out of the van, striding towards the trunk to help unload the family's properties. As the father communicated with the two movers, his wife was already on the porch examining the cottage they had just purchased. The boy in the dress shirt had followed his father to the van, and the one dressed completely in black stood still outside his family car, hands jammed into his pockets. I leaned close to the window, trying to grasp the details of that awfully pale face shaded by unkempt bangs.

And suddenly, the boy, who was initially staring at a small pool of water on the ground, looked up. His eyes, unblinking and solid, met mine. I gazed back nonchalantly, music still playing in my ears. For a long moment, we just stared at each other, I foolishly believing that he couldn't see me properly with the fog and from that distance.

And then, his lips curved slightly upward and my heart skipped a beat. The discomfort of being smirked at made me frown and leap off the window nook immediately, drawing the curtains in front of me.

He's seen me, spying on him and his family.

Crap.

What a creepy, peculiar smile.

"Quinn, come down for lunch!"

Mom's voice rang in the air. I stopped the music, left my AirPods and phone on the nightstand before trudging downstairs. Mom was already sitting at the dining table, sipping her hot coffee.

"Did you just wake up?" she asked, furrowing her brows, ready to give me another talk on how I ought to spend my summer vacation productively instead of procrastinating, taking endless siestas, and lazing about.

"No," I muttered, almost inaudibly as I walked toward my seat and flopped down. I grabbed the fork and started tasting the spaghetti.

"You know, at this rate, you're going to rot," said Mom, shaking her head in distress. "You're not doing anything in the house or going anywhere."

"So, what do you want me to do?" I questioned, raising my brows. "What can I do?"

"At least, go out and get some fresh air."

"It's raining," I argued.

"You were already locking yourself up in the room before the storm," said Mom, pouring me a glass of orange juice. "Oh get a grip, Quinn. You can't possibly isolate yourself forever and avoid meeting people. Youngsters like you should be camping, hiking, partying, or at least cultivating a new hobby, not lying around all day or playing video games."

"Well, I read, and I don't need to meet anybody," I growled, gripping my fork so tight I was ready to toss it at Mom.

"You need to get over it."

I kept silent and took a large bite of a meatball, the hot juice seeping into my gums.

Stop nagging me and leave me alone.

"We're all sorry about what's happened to Luna, and it's not your fault," said Mom, staring at me sternly. "You can still keep in touch with Ellie even though she's now in another town."

"Can you stop it?" I cried, dumping my fork hard on the table. I stood up and glared at Mom. "Can you stop bringing them up? You have no idea what's going on, so leave me alone."

I stomped out of the kitchen and back into my room, ignoring Mom's scream behind me. I locked the door and flumped down on my bed. Mom kept shouting downstairs but I didn't care. I snatched my AirPods from the nightstand and played the music on my phone, humming along the melody until I dozed off with straggling tears on my face.

When I woke up again, it was already night. I begrudgingly left my room and headed downstairs in search for supper. Dad had got home, lolling on the sofa watching the television, and Mom was in the kitchen washing the dishes.

"I'll reheat the mashed potatoes and lasagna," said Mom with her back facing me. "Just sit down."

I nodded and sat at the table.

"Sorry about this afternoon," said Mom as she put the meal into the microwave. "Shouldn't have mentioned the two of them."

"It's fine," I mumbled, twirling my fork. "I just...don't feel like going back to school anymore."

"Dylan is gone," reminded Mom, turning around to face me. "He won't be giving you any trouble. And it's the only private school we have around. Wouldn't want to move you to somewhere remote."

"I know," I responded understandingly, shuddering uncontrollably as Dylan's horrendous face flashed across my mind.

Every night, I couldn't rid my head of those intimidating hazel eyes and that malevolent smile. I could still hear that sickening, daunting laughter slipping out of those blood-stained lips. He was always there in my dreams, towering over me or pressing me against the wall. Lying inanimately on the ground was a bruised girl with long, bleached blonde hair, her dress ripped open and her breasts, abdomen, and thighs exposed in the air with dark blotches and scars all over her white skin. Her lids quivered as she stared pleadingly at me, her face drenched in tears. When she moaned, my head began to throb, and I started vomiting as soon as I glimpsed those repulsive drops of liquid on her cleavage and beneath her buttocks.

I would have pointed a gun right at Dylan's head if I could.

"How about this – tomorrow, I'm going to pay a visit to our new neighbors and you should come with me," suggested Mom as she sat down across the table. She had used "should" instead of "can".

"Whatever." I shrugged.

I was not at all keen on meeting this new family.

Nobody in their right mind would move here.

Darkston is a small, reclusive, suburban town with a measly population. I won't deny that the views are spectacular, if you are fond of climbing some mountains, stargazing on the summit, rowing a boat on some bottomless lagoons where the turquoise water turns fluorescent at night, or snorkeling in some freshwater lakes and fishing by the rivers. And since our neighborhood is located near the outskirts of the town, it is easy to go camping, panicking, or barbecuing near the woods. Dad and his friends went hunting occasionally, and Mom loved to sit by the lake all day reading or knitting.

But nothing seems to spark my interest.

If you have lived your life the same way for many years, you would wish for a change of some kind. People here are seemingly constant, however. They are so blinded by familiarity they fail to see what is wrong in the system. I would love to embrace those sparkling skyscrapers, listen to the ceaseless traffic, and get lost in the middle of a crowded street once in my life.

"You know, I heard that they have two boys around your age," said Mom, trying to pique my interest. "Maybe you can get along with them."

Seriously? I finished my mashed potatoes quietly, my lack of response earning another sigh from Mom. I had had two best friends, and they were both girls. The only male acquaintance I had ever been intimate with was Dylan, whom I met in elementary. So far, he had wreaked havoc on my life.