He’s still at my elbow, standing a little too close for two strangers. “You like stories, then, I take it?” He grabs a bag of chips from the table and opens them, then gives them a sniff before pinching several between his forefinger and thumb and dropping them into his mouth. He chews with more relish than I’d expect from a bag of Lay’s, but to each their own.
“I’m getting my MFA, so yeah.”
“MFA?” he asks between chews.
I stare at him. Yep, he’s slow. Handsome and slow. “Master of Fine Arts. I’m a creative writing student.”
“Oh, so you not only tell stories, you make them up too?” His eyes gleam as he finishes off the bag of chips and grabs another.
“Yes.” I glance around as the remaining frat bros load up and begin to thin out. It’s only then that I start to feel a prickle down my spine, worry chiming through my mind. It’s dark, and I don’t want to be out here alone. “Um, nice to meet you, but I have to get back to my dorm.” I hurry away, then turn and glance back at him.
“Very nice to meet you too.” His gaze is on me as he demolishes another bag of chips with almost carnal satisfaction. He may not be into processed meats, but eating healthy is another matter. Then again, I’m the one ready to chow down on two hot dogs, likely the pink kind financed with sweaty frat dollars. But it’s free, so I’m not complaining.
I scurry across the quad and take a bite of my hotdog, chewing quickly, my steps picking up to match my mouth’s pace. When I glance over my shoulder again, the guy is gone, and Hotdog Frat Bro is grumbling as he picks up the two empty chip bags carelessly left on the table.
The prickling sensation still runs along my skin, and I move even faster, almost breaking into a run before making it to the safety of my dorm. The hallway now smells like Hot Pockets with a side of weed, and I like the comfort it gives me.
With a full stomach, I sit down to continue penning my short story for tomorrow’s first draft class. My tale is dark, a twist at the end of each short chapter to keep the reader turning the page. Clever. That’s what I want my stories to be—clever enough to fool even the most seasoned reader.
But as I get into my rhythm of putting words on the page, I feel that same itchy sensation at the back of my neck, the feeling of being watched. I shake it off and keep going, the words coming at a fluid pace as I finish one chapter, then another.
I only have a couple more to go. My characters are trapped in a basement that’s slowly filling with water from a burst pipe. But the twist—that’s coming up now. The reveal. The moment when the entire story is turned on its head and we find out that one of the characters has been practicing holding her breath formonths before the events that led to the flooding disaster. That she had a plan all along, and nothing is as it seems.
The prickling sensation grows.
I shake it off and keep writing. Something about the guy on the quad has unsettled me. He was gorgeous, after all, but there was something more. I don’t know what, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not here for friends or guys or anything other than getting my degree and showing my family that storiesdomatter. That telling stories can be worthwhile enough to make a living. That I won’t end up like my mother, no matter what my father says.
But then a shadow falls across my hands, stilling them. The weight of it is real, not just faded light, but a touch. It sends that prickly sensation shooting all over my body. My gasp is quick as the shadow takes over, racing along my form and clawing open my mouth. I feel it rush down my throat, coating me with dim, smoky soot.
I scream as it coats my lungs and stills my breath, and then I go silent in the unending dark.
Chapter
Three
To put it with brutal frankness, there never was a cockier boy.
“She’s so old.” A whisper washes over me, its sound soft yet sure, like the ringing of a small bell.
“Not really.” The reply is lower, the voice familiar. “She’s only twenty I think?”
“Old.” The harsh retort. “Too old to be here.”
“Shh, Tink. You’re waking her up.”
My eyes flutter open. A glow flits away from my face as I backpedal away from whoever is sitting beside me. I’m in a bed, and when the back of my head hits a stone wall, I let out a yelp.
“Hey, stop.” Strong hands grip my arms and pull me back down. “What are you doing?”
I scream with everything I have, the end bloodcurdling as it dies away.
The chip guy from the quad stares down at me, his hair falling into his eyes as he gives me a quizzical look, his strong grip on my arms holding me in place. “Are you done with that now?”
“Let me go!” I yank away from him and try to slide back again. I’m in some sort of cave, a candle burning nearby showing me a rough-hewn cabinet with a toy bow on top of it, a few arrows strewn along the hard floor.
The tiny floating light reappears and starts ringing incessantly as it hovers by the man’s ear.
“I know. Iknow. You’re not helping.” He shrugs it off.
