“Have you—have you fought one?” Coco asked Lou. “A cauchemar?”

A sly grin crept across Lou’s face. Still she studied the shadows. “Once. A long time ago.”

“What shape did it take?” Beau demanded.

Her eyes snapped to his. “That’s very personal, Beauregard. What shape will it take for you?” When she stepped toward him, he took a hasty step back. “Not decapitation. Not drowning either.” She cocked her head and stalked closer, circling him now. She didn’t grin. Didn’t mock. “No, your fear isn’t quite so vital, is it? You fear something else. Something peripheral.” When she inhaled deeply, her eyes lighting with recognition, I seized her hand and yanked her to my side.

“This isn’t the time or place,” I said tersely. “We need to focus.”

“By all means, Chass”—she waved to the rotten door—“lead the way.”

We all stared at it. No one moved.

I peered behind us to the village, to the dozens of pinpricks of light. The sun had risen. The townspeople had gathered. They’d start their trek soon. We had half an hour—maybe a quarter more—before they ascended on us. On the unwitting monster inside.

You should stay out of it, boy. This isn’t your fight.

I squared my shoulders.

With a deep breath, I moved to open the door, but Célie—Célie—beat me to it.

Her hand seemed paler and smaller than usual against the dark wood, but she didn’t hesitate. She pushed with all her might—once, twice, three times—until the hinges finally swung open with a shriek. The sound pierced the early morning silence, frightening a pair of seagulls from the rafters. Beau cursed and jumped.

So did Lou.

With one last, deep breath, I stepped inside.

Le Cauchemar

Reid

The lower floors had no windows to let in the early morning sun, so the lighthouse’s interior remained dark. The air dank. Stale. Broken glass littered the floor, glinting in the narrow swath of light from the door. A small, frightened creature skittered across it, and the shards tinkled under its tiny paws. I looked closer.

Mirrors. Broken mirrors.

They each reflected different pieces of the circular room—rusted hooks on the walls, coiled ropes atop them, bowed beams overhead. A moldy bed sat in one corner, along with a tarnished iron pot. Remnants of the last keeper who’d lived here. I moved farther into the hodgepodge space, watching as the reflections shifted. Now Célie’s wide eye. Now Beau’s drawn mouth. Now Coco’s tense shoulders. Lou kept a hand on my lower back.

Beyond our footsteps, no other sound penetrated the silence.

Perhaps the creature had already moved on. Perhaps Father Achille had been mistaken.

The door slammed shut behind us.