By the time I reach the end of the alley, my lungs are burning.With a puff of breath, a sigh in relief, “Made it!”
The churchyard is small, unkempt from years of neglect, but it’s all I’ve got. At first glance, it reminds me of the St. Germain in New Orleans, only smaller. I hurry to the face of the old church and start searching for some kind of entrance. Boarded-up windows line its faded face, ivy grows around the double-door of the entry, and a great tower rises up from the roof. The tower looks out of place, too new for something so old. In a way, though, it’s like my lighthouse, and the low moonlight reflecting off the surface of its lone boarded-up window is what’s guiding me.
A howl of anger bellows in the night, a reminder that I’m not alone. Sounds like my stalker has untangled himself from the garbage.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I breathe, running to the back of the building.
Tumbling into the shadows behind the church, I search anxiously for a way inside. The clouds part above and the full moon reveals a broken window with a poor patch job just above my shaking hands. It’s low enough that I can push myself through it, though I might cut myself on some of the residual glass. It’s the best option I have, so I haul myself up and flip through to the other side, landing on my ass with a loud ‘oof.’ Dust and dirt cloud around me as I urge myself to stand, my legs and hands stinging from fresh scratches.
Outside, I hear my stalker grumbling. “You bitch! You fucking cut me!”
Hell yeah!He’s pissed, but that little victory just gave me a sorely needed boost of confidence. Uncurling my fingers, I kiss the kitty ear keychain before slipping it back into my pocket. With a steadying breath, I carry on, cautious of my footing in the darkness.
Slants of moonlight creep in through various cracks and holes, giving me some guidance through the old structure. It makes it a little easier to step around broken pieces of old furnishings and holes in the ground. Quietly, I thank the city for giving no shits about zoning. The church itself should have been condemned, but for whatever reason, it’s still standing.
“If Gran could see me now,” I mutter under my breath. This wouldn’t be my first time breaking and entering on private property.
I plan to call her this week so we can have a laugh about the irony of this whole situation together. There’s something comical about finding myself inside of a church on Halloween dressed as a slutty nun, even if it is because of grim circumstances. It would be a lot cooler if I were here by choice, ghost-hunting like I used to back when I was still a thoughtless tween. But that was Millie at sixteen, and I’m twenty-six now. And an abandoned church isn’t where I want to be at the moment, ghost-hunting or not.
I should be in Dax’s bed, safe and curled away, not licking my wounds. I swipe at my eyes and brush away a frustrated tear. I have such a bad habit of blowing things out of proportion. It’s why my ex, Ronnie, broke up with me—it’s why every person after her never lasted. If only I hadn’t let my pride or embarrassment get in the way.
“I know you’re in there! I fucking know it!” I freeze as the distant sound of doors shaking echoes in the vast silence of the building. I can’t tell where it’s coming from, but I can make an educated guess it’s the main entrance.
I swallow the rising panic in my throat and shift myself backward, down a different hall, and away from the main room. I feel along the walls, passing old rooms that used to be living spaces or offices. At the end, I bump into a thick wooden door, stopping short of going in. The doors I heard earlier bust open with a sickening crack, as if they’ve been torn off the frame completely.
“I’m gonna wring that pretty fucking neck of yours,” my stalker roars, now inside the building, “and I’m gonna fuck you while I do it, you stupid bitch!”
I pale at the threat. I donotwant to die here.
Fumbling in the dark, I open the door I bumped into and slip inside. As my eyes adjust, I can make out a few key things: a desk and a toppled chair to one side, a wardrobe at the back, and a bookcase on my right. I’m guessing this was an office at one point, a place where the priest came to write his sermons and read his Bible, or play Tetris on his prepaid phone. Using the desk as my anchor, I curve around it until I reach the wardrobe.
Up close, it’s huge, like an antique someone would find at an estate sale. I run a hand over the surface of one door and feel the carvings in its face. It isn’t my ideal hiding place, but it’s good enough. As it opens, the hinges squeak from years of neglect. The way my heart shoots into my throat at the sound of it, I wince, and bite my lip so hard I draw blood.
That was loud enough to wake the dead.
Footsteps sound outside. Either he knows where to look, or he’s aimlessly wandering and my bad luck led him here.
This guy just doesn’t give up.I climb into the empty wardrobe, shutting myself in, and huddle close to the back. As I feel around, I realize there’s a slight breeze in here, blowing againstme from behind. I’m shocked to discover a small doorknob at the back.
Holy shit.There’s a secret room?I give it a small twist, but it’s locked. No good.
“Where the fuck are you?” the man calls, closer now.
How do they always know where to look?I think sardonically. My gut tells me he’ll find me in a matter of seconds, and I have to be ready to put up a fight. There’s no way I’m going down without a few more solid hits. Switching to my knees, I keep one hand on the hidden door, and slip the keychain in my pocket back around my fingers.
A few tense beats pass, but the quiet affords me some focus so that I can listen for his footsteps. When the door to the office creaks open, my heart races with anticipation. His voice slithers in over the toppled furniture, piercing the wardrobe doors. “You’re in here, aren’t you?”
Sweat beads my forehead, dripping down my cheek and along my lips. No matter what happens now, I’m ready for him.
“Peek-a-boo, I found you!”
The second the wardrobe doors open, I jab my keychain out, and hit him in the face again. He snarls, one hand snatching my wrist. I kick one pointed heel out, hard, and connect with his groin. He lets go with a yelp, and I stumble back into the hidden door. Summoning every ounce of strength, I plunge through, hoping against all hope there isn’t a dusty sex dungeon on the other side.
Instead, I crash into a set of stairs with a cry, snagging my thigh on the jagged edge of a broken floorboard. Something warm wells against my wounded leg. I must be bleeding. It drips down my thigh, and while I want to cave to the panic, adrenaline has my mind focused on survival.
Light, I need a light. I fumble for my phone, which has managed to stay lodged in my coat pocket. The battery is fading, but I should have enough juice for the flashlight.
With the tap of a button, a dim white light floods the darkness and chases away some of the shadows. I sweep it around the small space with purpose. The stairs I crashed into are at my back, and the crawl space from the wardrobe is a few feet away. From there, I can see where the floorboard tore up my leg. I don’t want to look at that, though, because I’m sure I’ll lose my momentum the second I see the wound. Instead, I amble up the stairs, wincing at the pain in my leg. My movements are slowed, but I have to keep going. With another sweep upward using my phone’s light, I see a door waiting at the top. More and more doors, but still no exits.
