Evan didn't feel ok. He hadn't felt ok for what felt like forever. Especially since his trip to Zach's house. His head was finally feeling fine. No problems there, as far as pain went. But the pictures in Zach's room had unsettled him; the thoughts he was having scared him; the things he kept seeing were beginning to take a serious toll on his sanity. He'd tried to occupy his time and his brain with getting back into his schoolwork. There was an essay on Stalin to write, and the PSAT and pre-ACT to study for. Plus, he was getting into some difficult stuff in his online trig class, and that took up a lot of his thoughts. Evan was trying his absolute hardest to think of nothing but school.

The problem was that he couldn't do schoolwork all the time. Not at night, even though he stayed up as late as he could to try to work. There were still those few hours when he'd try to sleep—knew he had to get rest or he'd go even crazier—and during those hours, he'd remember. And think. And even though he'd keep his eyes closed, he knew that there was blood on the windows and that the walls and floors were crawling. Somehow, in spite of those hours of horror that dragged past with flitting nightmares, Evan had made it through to Saturday. Now, his parents were out for the night, and he was entirely alone in the house with nothing to do. He'd considered calling somebody—anybody—to help him escape his mind, but after Zach had disappeared, his few friends had begun believing the rumors circulating. They'd grown distant from him. Right when he'd started to get to know people, to actually feel as if he was assimilating, the whole deal with Zach had happened, and Evan's fragile world had shattered.

Zach had gotten so weird those last few weeks in October. Evan didn't remember hanging out with him very much at all, which had been strange, because they'd become friends so fast. Zach was willing to go just about anywhere with him, and then, all of a sudden, he'd become less and less interested in going out, in school, in the world, pretty much. Of course, thinking back, Evan had to admit that he hadn't really pushed Zach. He'd never tried to figure out what was wrong. He'd never begged him to come out and go places. But he'd been so busy with the school play—rehearsals, parties, getting to know everyone in the show. So maybe he'd kind of left Zach out of the picture, but he hadn't done it on purpose!

The house was quiet and dark. It was eerie. Evan felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle as he walked down the stairs to the first floor. He had that uncomfortable feeling that he was being watched. That things were in the shadows. He never used to think that way when he was alone, but now, he thought things were hiding everywhere, because they probably were.

He really wasn't feeling good. His chest hurt badly. It was because he couldn't forget, like he wanted to. He was living with horrific visions day and night.

Evan knew what might help. Not calling somebody—people would just make him feel more like an idiot, because he didn't think he could relate to anything that they could, anymore. Not stupid school crap or complaining. Not when he was concentrating on things like not seeing blood on the walls of every damn room he went into. He'd drink. He'd drink until he was drunk enough to just pass out. And he didn't even care if his parents walked in and saw him doing it. None of it mattered anymore. Maybe if they saw him, they'd take him to see a doctor, and he'd get pills so he could forget, like Ada. That would be nice. Yeah.

He went to the living room, where the liquor cabinet was. Crouched down, he opened the cabinet's doors and searched for what he wanted. He was about ready to take straight shots of something hard just to make him pass out faster. Maybe he'd even feel happy if he drank enough. Because alcohol forced him to be happy. It was weird like that. Even if he was in an awful mood, if he drank enough, he'd feel as if all his problems were melting away. Why hadn't he thought to start drinking sooner?

He'd opened a bottle of whiskey and was pouring some of the clear, goldenish liquid into a shot glass when there was a thump at the front door. It startled him enough that his hand shook and some of the drink poured onto the table. Cursing, Evan used his sleeve to wipe it up. By the time he'd finished, he wasn't even sure he'd heard a noise at the door at all. Maybe it was his imagination overreacting, as usual.

But then it came again. Not a knock—not like someone was trying to ring the bell. It was a thump. More like something the size or volume of a stuffed animal was being thrown against the door. And it was definitely at the front door. Not a window or somewhere inside. It was at the front door.

Curiosity got the best of Evan. As much as he didn't really want to know what it was, he needed to know. So he put down the bottle and got up. His heart beat like a drum as he left the room and stepped slowly into the hallway, where the overhead light cast odd bluish shadows. It was probably just some squirrels or animals messing around on the porch, he told himself. And that made sense. There were lots of trees around. They'd had raccoons and possums get in their trash and frequently turn up as roadkill in the street. And it was nighttime, when those sorts of nocturnal animals came out. Maybe he could just look through the peephole to see it. Wouldn't even have to open the front door.

He was about five feet from the door when the sound came again. Thump. Right against the door. With a sharp intake of breath he paused mid-step. Whatever it was, it was scaring him to death at the moment, even though he knew it was ridiculous to feel so freaked out. It was obviously not loud enough to be a person. It had to be an animal. Maybe the neighbor's cat. Moe. He started walking again.

Stepping up as quietly as possible to the door, Evan put his eye to the peephole. He saw nothing but a round, distorted view of the porch and the dark, wet street outside. Several moments passed. Evan just stood there, staring out, waiting for he-didn't-know-what, listening to his own loud breathing. He was beginning to think that whatever it was, it had left, when something black filled the peephole glass and thumped against the door, startling Evan so much he stumbled backward and against the hall console table. He almost fell on top of the thing and would've surely broken it, but he caught himself at the last minute and put a hand to his chest, which he could've sworn his pounding heart was about to rip through. Then anger filled him. Why should he be so scared in his own house? It wasn't a person—he was sure of it—and whatever it was, it was small.

Grabbing hold of the doorknob, Evan yanked the door open and was met with the bright light of the porch. His eyes adjusted quickly, but he didn't see anything unusual until he looked down, to the doormat that had Welcome, friends! printed across it in bold, green letters. Down there, some small mass of blackness was writhing and struggling. Evan couldn't really tell what it was, let alone what it was doing, but it didn't look too threatening, so he bent a little over it. Odd sounds were coming from it—some sort of squeaks, and soft tearing sounds, somewhat like when meat was pulled from a bone.

The thing fluttered; Evan caught a bright bit of red amidst the black—and he saw what it was. Not one creature, but three. Three crows, or ravens, or blackbirds; he wasn't sure what they were. They were just birds that were black. And two were alive and well and pecking hungrily at the third, which had had part of its feathers scraped off and was bleeding. The things didn't pay attention to Evan as he stood watching them, revolted yet riveted. They were too concerned with what they were doing. Their claws tore at the downed bird—one of their own—and their beaks pulled at its remaining feathers. Unable to turn his eyes away from the things, Evan realized that the third bird was still alive. It kicked its legs pathetically, knowing it wasn't going to escape, and made strange choking sounds, almost like it had fluid in its esophagus. The other two flapped their wings, every few seconds rising into the air and then descending again to get at their prey from a better angle. Absolute revulsion filled Evan. He felt as if he were going to throw up, yet he couldn't bring himself to shut the door until one of them locked its beak onto the fallen bird's left eye and pulled it out.

That was enough.

Crying out in some odd panic, Evan slammed the door shut, locked the handle, and pushed in the dead-bolt. He wasn't sure why—it wasn't as if the birds could get into the house. But they'd terrified him.

He hurried back into the living room, tripping slightly over an upturned corner of the rug as he went, letting himself fall to his knees. Fast, he drank the shot of whiskey he'd poured, but it didn't taste right. And when Evan wiped the remaining liquid from his mouth, he looked down at his hand to see that whatever he'd just taken a shot of, it was a thick red, not a clear golden. More panicked, he flung the small glass against the wall, where it shattered. Then he stood, took up the bottle of alcohol, and smashed it against the floor. The glass shards settled, and as soon as the sound of it had gone, Evan became deathly afraid of the silence. He stood there, in the middle of the room, staring at the clear liquid glistening on the floorboards, his entire body shaking like a withered leaf on a bare tree.

Minutes passed. They felt like hours to Evan. He didn't know what had come over him, but the mood wasn't passing. A deep panic was firm in his stomach, worming upward and through his brain. It wasn't going to go away. He couldn't take it anymore. He didn't know what to do. The realization of his powerlessness tore through him like a wild beast; he wasn't going to be able to handle it anymore. He couldn't. Not on his own. And there was no one to help . . . nothing to hurt . . .