When Ann finally looked up, Riley's face was already right above her head, looming so close it killed off the light from the nearby torch.
The shadow she cast felt heavy, deathly over her, as though it carried the weight of a killing intent Ann could almost taste in the air. There was no time to scream, no time to think.
Riley's hand fisted into the collar of Ann's dress and yanked her up from the floor with terrifying strength. Ann's feet barely brushed the ground as her back slammed against the wall, the breath punched clean out of her lungs. Panic flooded her chest when she saw the knife raised high once more, Riley's arm trembling, not with hesitation, but with barely contained fury.
The blade came down.
Ann reacted purely on instinct. Her hands grasped the first thing within reach, an old wooden log left near the bed, brittle with age and splintered from years of neglect.
