GREY

What is this place?

Curtains of milky white were strewn along the walls, but none of them shielded windows. A triplet set of chandeliers dangled from the ceiling, garish orbs of luster that glinted the room's ivory bookcases in an amber hue.

Matching apricot cloths, their stitching clumped at the edges, draped an array of cushioned steel chairs seated at perfect angles around a slab of rectangular metal that jutted upward from the ground, its frame free of even a single scuff.

I had little time to marvel at it all, to question why this room was so hidden, so strangely placed...so spooky.

The sound of organ music blared through from behind one of the curtains, and I crept toward it.

Pulling back the cloth, I was met at first by the snowy wall it hid. But as I drew closer, as the sheen of the orange light behind me cast my shadow, I spotted a tiny crack, an opening filled with a light all its own.

My eye slid to the hole, and I gasped.

I could see them—I could see everything. The main sanctuary, the family, the friends, even the closed casket garnished with cupric mahogany. It seemed I wouldn't need to crash the funeral after all; I had a bird's eye view right where I was.

It wasn't long after I'd pressed my face to the wall that Jacquarious strode into view through the main sanctuary's back door, wearing a slick suit of pure black and a tie to match. He was flanked by TaKylar in an ebony dress with ruffles and a muted gold necklace.

But just as they took their seats, I noticed shuffling a few rows behind them—and that's when my jaw dropped.

Coach Rangford?

It seemed Coach and I'd had the same idea; but rather than be subtle about it, he'd waltzed right through the front door and sat among the rest of the congregants, not a single one of them seeming to mind.

But why? I stepped back from the wall. What's he doing here?

Sliding with my second step, I nearly tripped to the ground as my foot crunched a set of crinkled pages. Is that a...newspaper?

I bent to the floor to retrieve the crumpled sheets, letting loose an involuntary gasp as I flattened them out.

Cut through every single one, perfect circular holes rested an eye's width apart—the perfect tool for masking a face...and for watching someone all the while.

I twisted around, sweeping the room with my eyes, then turned back to the paper, flipping through the stories printed inside as an eerie cold shivered across my body.

On the third page, I froze—the eyeholes cut right through the sheet's major headline: Body of Unknown Man Identified in Ice Cream Parlor Slaying.

I exhaled a frosted and terrified breath.

Police have released the identity of a man found murdered outside the Screamin' Cream ice cream parlor, confirming with multiple family members that the body is that of Devon Cartrell, father to a teenage son and owner of a local pizza shop in Browning Heights. Plans for a funeral to be held are—

The hammering of a heavy thud against the wall ripped me from the paper. I turned warily, clutching the pages against me as I scoured the room for any signs of movement.

Relax, Grey, I tried to tell myself. There's no way anyone sneaked in here. I pressed my face back to the hole in the wall, spotted TaKylar and Jacquarious seated alongside four adults I could only assume were their parents.

My eyes darted a few rows back to find Coach...but he wasn't there.

The seat he'd held only moments before was now empty, flanked by two women in trumpet dresses and ribboned cocktail hats.

Where is he? I gulped, turning once again to scan the room behind me.

I edged back to the entrance, pressing at the false panel and sliding it away before creeping into the hallway, its umbers retreating as I took my first tentative steps.

My heart slammed inside my chest, the tempo of the funeral's organ music thrumming out and racking against my ears...right before the final, unmistakable thud of hardbottom soles cratered the air as it surged past.

Breath hitching at my throat, my ears whiffed at an unfurling set of curtains in the orange room behind me—the hardbottom footsteps echoing closer, lumbering toward my back.

He was inside—he was in there with me the entire time.

The orange glow of the room snapped away; the click of a switch I'd been unable to spot had vanquished the light, and now I stood in darkness.

Rotating as if on a creaked and rusting axis, I turned in terror, my eyes widening as a figure of purest night stood less than a meter away. Stumbling backwards, I dashed for the hallway's side door and pressed my way into the light, sprinting for my car and screaming all the while.

The door to the church never latched shut; and as I made it to my car and locked myself inside, I saw why.

A single hand, breaching through the building's shadowed interior to reach into the daytime—a hand gloved in rubbery sable that held the door just wide enough for light to catch on the twisted grin of a brown latex mask.

With slow and seeping bravado, that single hand rose to the air, lifting to wave at me as the shadows of Redemption Grove fell sealed behind a slamming pillar of inky white.