Page 93 of My Big Fat Daddy Issues

Of course it is.

I fumble with both, shaking, rattling the chain off, throw the deadbolt, and yank the door open.

The storm hits me like a wall. Mouth open, I suck in wet air and cold as rain soaks through my shirt.

Wind shoves me sideways off the porch. I catch the railing, then my feet hit mud that swallows me to the ankles.

I dare one look back. A silhouette moving through the house toward the door.

I tug each foot from the mud with a wet, sucking sound and run.

There's no moon, no stars, nothing but the black sky dumping water and the occasional lightning flash that turns the whole world white for a split second before snatching it away.

In those flashes I gauge the old work truck. Twenty yards left. I pivot and sprint, rain hammering my face, blinking to keep my sightline clear.

"Come on." I hiss, reaching the truck and tugging the door handle.

Locked. I don't lock this truck. No one wants to steal this piece of shit.

Fuck.

I slam my palm against the window and spin, pressing my back to the cold metal, chest heaving, scanning the dark.

Lightning cracks overhead. The front door to the house is wide open. The hallway light's been turned on, spilling a weak yellow rectangle onto the porch.

Standing in that light is the man. Watching me. All black. His face in shadow.

I make a break for the tree line. Forty yards to the creek, then north — there's a hunting blind in a huge oak. I can make it.

My feet are numb and every step is a fight, the earth pulling at me, holding me, slowing me down. I'm in nothing but the t-shirt, soaked through and plastered to my body, and the cold is sinking into my bones.

I don't even have the dignity of underwear.

Lightning flashes and I catch a glimpse of the boulders that line the creek and veer toward them. If I can get over, I can get to the blind.

I'm ten feet away when my foot catches something and I go down hard with an oof. Hands and knees and face down into the sloppy earth, the impact jarring through my wrists, cold muck splattering up my thighs and stomach.

I scramble, toes slipping, knees to my chest trying to get up and my right foot slides out from under me and I go down again, tasting mud and rain.

Get up. Get up. Don't quit. Never quit.

Tears burn at my lower lids. This is impossible.

How is this happening to me? My mind spins, trying to think of anyone I've bumped into in town recently that seemed off. I come up with nothing. I've never even had a secret admirer let alone a stalker.

This is crazy.

When the lightning flashes again, he's right there.

Five feet away. Walking through the storm like he's the one that brought it with him.

That's when I see it.

It's not my eyes playing games. He's wearing a mask.

White bone. Hollow eyes. A toothy grinning skull flashing before the dark eats it again.

I choke on a gasp tangled with a gag. I dig into the ground and push off, turn, turn again, cut behind the big rocks and keep low so he can't see when I double back.