Chapter Seven

Miranda's eyes snapped open like a corpse reanimated by some dark magic. She sat up in bed, wiping the sweat from her brow. Three days had passed since the terrifying incident in the woods, but her dreams refused to let it go.

The curtains were drawn, their edges allowing slivers of sunlight to filter in, hinting at the morning outside. Miranda had never bothered with the curtains before; their remoteness from prying eyes rendering them unnecessary. But she couldn't shake off the feeling that someone could be watching her.

Rubbing her bleary eyes, she waited for them to adjust to the dim light. But then, without rising from her bed, she flicked her wrist and the curtains slid apart, allowing the daylight to pour in. And there, sitting in a chair at the far end of the room, was Michael.

"Jesus," Miranda gasped, her hand clutched to her chest. "Michael, what are you doing in my room?"

“You've been tossing and turning all night. Looked like you've been struggling in your sleep again."

Mi