Mike and Lollie stand by the queueing area. I turn around and smile at them, keeping one eye on the ride in motion. The thundering clank of metal and the rising cheers of passengers fill the air, vibrating through the soles of my shoes. I wait until the ride comes to a slow, screeching halt, brakes whining against the steel.
"Come here!" Lollie shouts, her voice barely cutting through the noise.
I hold up a finger, signalling her to wait, and keep my focus on the ride. Once it comes to a full stop and the safety bars lift, I lock the panel and head over to them.
"What's up?" I ask.
Lollie rushes toward me, her face pale, the colour drained from her cheeks. Mike lingers at the bottom of the ramp, oblivious, chatting with Sam near the other coaster, their laughter contrasting with the sudden weight in the air.
"I have a bad feeling," she whispers, eyes wide and glassy.
"About what?" I ask, my stomach already turning.
Mitch appears beside us, concern etched across his face.
"Something's going to happen to Mike. I don't know how I know, but I do. The last time I felt this, my aunt died. It was the same—this hollow, gnawing dread that just... won't go away."
I glance at Mitch. We haven't touched Mike—I haven't had one of my... episodes with him. Yet, Lollie's words dig under my skin and refuse to let go.
"I'm sure he'll be okay, Lollie," Mitch says gently. "We've got plenty of safety protocols in place."
"Maybe. I just... something's off today," she says, her voice cracking as she wipes her cheek with the sleeve of her hoodie.
I wrap my arms around her. She hugs me back tightly, and I silently pray that if something is coming, I'll see it in time. She sniffles and steps back.
"Thanks, Mitch," she says. Then to me, softer, "Thank you, Eden."
The moment she walks off, my eyes lock on Mike. He's joking with Sam, tossing gummy worms into the air and catching them. Completely unaware.
Every few seconds, I glance his way, nerves buzzing like static under my skin. The pit in my stomach grows heavier.
"That's it for now, guys. Sorry," I say as I close and lock the gate.
I drag my feet toward the ride. Mitch takes the clockwise route to check the safety bars, and I take the anti-clockwise. I double-check each one, pulling with more force than usual. The hiss of the restraints locking in place offers little comfort.
We finish the final checks, secure the gates, and I head for the booth.
And then—it hits me.
A wave of nausea. A blinding flash.
The vision.
A girl, young, barely tall enough—slipping from her seat as the ride stops at the top. Her legs flail, her screams mute in the roar of the wind. Then she plummets. Her body smashes into the concrete below.
The vision vanishes. My breathing is ragged.
Mitch grabs my arm. "What did you see?"
"A girl. She must've slipped past me in the queue—she's too short for the ride!" I panic, scanning the line. My eyes dart from face to face.
I don't see her. She's not here. But the vision felt imminent.
Phil and Darren approach, watching us with narrowed eyes. I can tell they're already suspicious.
"Start it then!" Phil yells, annoyed.
Mitch hesitates. His hand brushes mine.
"Don't," I plead. "If that girl's on there—"
"I'll take the blame. Just get back to your spot," he says.
Mitch steps into the booth. My heart slams against my ribs.
The ride roars to life. The mechanical whir hums beneath the screams of joy. I stand frozen, my nails digging into my palms.
The seats swing up, reaching their highest point. They hang. My chest tightens.
Then, the final swing—
It sticks.
A metallic groan screeches. The alarm wails in the booth.
Screams erupt. Customers dangle upside down, arms flailing.
And then—I see her.
A girl, slipping. Her fingers claw the safety bar. Her legs flail in the air.
She falls.
A sickening crack. Blood splatters across the platform—and me.
I freeze. Time stops. All sound fades. It's like the world is holding its breath.
Mitch rushes out, eyes wide. Phil and Darren sprint over.
"Is everyone else secure?" Mitch shouts.
Thumbs up. Dozens of them, trembling but alive.
Darren turns pale. He stares at the body—a twisted mess of limbs and blood. He grabs his phone and calls the police.
Phil storms toward us. "I'll take over. Get Eden out of here. We'll talk later."
Mitch doesn't argue. He grabs my arm, but I can't move. Blood drips from my hair onto my uniform. Onto my lips.
It tastes... warm. Rich. Like the blood I remember from steaks—but better. Almost... sweet.
Mitch looks at me, horrified. "Eden... your eyes."
I cover my face with both hands.
"Come on," he says firmly, wrapping an arm around my shoulder.
He leads me away as the sirens start to scream in the distance.
And I can still taste her blood.
Something inside me is changing.
And I don't know if I can stop it.