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Just as I give up my search, something flickers and catches my eyes. I look up just in time to see something happening. Black fuzzy dots are appearing in rapid motion until there’s suddenly a body beside me. A fucking man in a motherfucking mask.
I’m dreaming and Freddy is here.
“Car problems?” the hallucination or dream killer asks candidly, looking all too relaxed in the passenger seat.
My entire body feels bone-stiff, and my fingers actually curl involuntarily, forming a white-knuckle grip on the perfume bottle and lipstick tube. A scream tries to breach my throat, but it painfully clings to my lungs, refusing to escape and share the air with this… I don’t know what this is.
My eyes are wide and unblinking as I stare into the freakiest eyes I’ve ever seen.
One second I swore they were yellow, and the next they seemed blue. The black mask is covering his entire face, but I almost feel his sick, sadistic grin.
In my dreams, I always fight as hard as I can, but it feels like I can never punch, kick, or run with all my strength.
I hope this time is different.
“Show me your true colors.” He whispers the words so low that I can barely hear them, and I edge back against the locked door, making it look like my elbow clumsily hits the unlock button.
Then, I do something stupid. I spray the son of a bitch in the face with perfume, only to hear him laughing as I dive out of the car, slamming into the unforgiving pavement on my back.
“I know you can do better than that,” he tsks. “Where are your marks?”
My freaking what?
I hear his door opening, and I do something stupid again. After heaving myself back up to my feet, I run… into the woods… whimpering, squealing, and making a whole hell of a lot of racket.
It’s too dark to see in here, and I’m just barely making out the shape of a tree before I crash into it. Limbs slap me in the face, and I cry out when my ankle twists. Stupid freaking sandals. Stupid freaking dress that I never took off.
Stupid. Freaking. Impossible. Night.
Limping slows me down, but I keep running, feeling the heat of a dark gaze on my back.
“Show me, Roslyn,” the guy’s voice says right next to my ear.
I scream, but he’s not beside me when I spin around.
“Show me your true colors,” he says from behind me.
Spinning around, I throw the tube of lipstick that I’ve apparently been holding, but all it slices through is vacant air.
“Let’s see the real you,” he says from behind me again, forcing me to spin once more.
Nothing. There’s nothing around me.
Either he’s damn good at projecting his voice, or he really is a phantom and I didn’t imagine that shit in the car.
This cannot be happening.
“Break loose. You’re not getting out of here unless you fight,” his voice says, now sounding like it’s coming in from several different angles, forcing me to spin and spin until I’m almost dizzy.
Suddenly, those same dots appear that I saw in the car, and a scream actually bubbles out of me as the freak appears right in front of my eyes. One of his hands goes to my throat, lifting me off the ground until I’m eye-level with him.
“You know you want to fight me,” he whispers.
I grip his wrist, trying to ease the choking hold on my throat, but it’s useless. My hands flail as I suck in small spurts of labored air, desperately trying to get more. I connect with his mask and drag it off, wishing I never had.
The second the mask is gone, a gasp dies on my tongue, unable to fully form for lack of oxygen. His inky black hair falls over his forehead, and underneath his hair somewhere, a scar starts, sliding down over the middle of his eye, stopping before touching the actual eye, and starting again just under it. It runs all the way down to his chin.
That’s all I can see before he shoves me against the tree, and my vision starts dimming, blurring as I lose the fight to breathe.
