The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

My mind has gone blank. I don’t know who Anna is or why I’m calling her name. I don’t even know how I got here. I’m standing in a forest, shielding my eyes from the spitting rain.

Whoever this woman is, she’s clearly the reason I’m out here, but I can’t picture her. Perhaps she’s my wife, or my daughter? Neither feels right, and yet there’s a pull in the name. I can feel it trying to lead my mind somewhere.

I’m still panting, still trembling after the run, but guilt nudges me in the direction of Anna’s scream.