I make my voice as firm as possible, a feat not easily accomplished with chattering teeth and absolutely zero sense of direction. I could get lost inside a cardboard box. My grandmother always said it was because I was a dreamer, just like her, just like her mother. Except none of that is true, is it? I guess if I am a dreamer, it must’ve come from Tess or from the mystery father she won’t tell me a damn thing about.
“Guys, fucking seriously? I’m not with this shit. I won’t tell Tess, but I want to go home now.”
When nothing happens, I roll my eyes and start walking. Frankly, every direction looks the same to me, but I figure if I walk far enough, Chasm and Parrish will appear and call out to me. They’re brats, no doubt about that, but they aren’t total monsters.
Ten minutes later, I still see nothing but trees and shadows, and I hear nothing but for the gentle rustle of pine needles and leaves above my head. Every once in a while, there’s the sound of something scurrying through the underbrush, but this is Seattle, right? Not the middle of a South American rainforest. Mice, squirrels, opossums, and raccoons are pretty much the only animals out here. I keep walking, focusing straight ahead, looking for something—anything—in all of that silky blackness to help me find my way. Looking up, I can see the canopy and a sprinkling of stars and not much else. Where it is that I am, I have no idea. Clearly this isn’t Medina proper; there’s not enough nature left there for me to get lost.
But twenty minutes later? That’s when I start to feel the first surge of panic. I don’t have my phone, I don’t know where I am, and it’s the middle of the freaking night in a wooded area near a big city. Every footfall, every snapping branch becomes a man stalking me.
That’s my worst fear: being kidnapped, being raped, being murdered. And on top of that, there’s a fucking serial killer offing teenagers in the Seattle area. It’s a very real terror that’s digging its icy claws into my skin, my heart, my head.
I breathe a sigh of relief when I come to the edge of the woods and emerge into a well-manicured park. There’s even a jungle gym, some swing sets, and a small skate park attached. That’s where my relief ends. How much better is it to be in a dark and lonely park in the middle of the night than in the woods? Animals aren’t the danger here: people are.
My eyes dart around the shadowy playground, my senses on hyper alert.
That’s when I hear it, that sound that I’ve been dreading but also that I’ve been waiting for.
The sound of footsteps.
A windchime sounds nearby, and I start to run. If there’s a windchime, there’s probably a house, right? Because people don’t often put windchimes in public parks. My breath comes in panicked gasps, but I don’t let the fear control me. What good would that do but get me killed? I put all of my energy into running, sprinting for the edge of the park and the row of houses I can see just beyond the quiet suburban street that runs alongside it.
I’ve never been much of a runner, but adrenaline gives me that extra edge to keep going, to move faster, to ignore the bleeding of my feet as I stumble into the road at the same moment my attacker catches up to me.
A gloved hand covers my mouth, stifling a scream, while a muscular arm wraps my waist. I’m kicking and fighting, clawing at the black fabric of the man’s jacket. His breathing is even and calm, and there’s the vaguest hint of some spicy aftershave lingering in the air around him, almost like he tried to scrub it off and failed.
Rather than go for his hand, I jab a thumb back in the spot where I figure his eye must be. I’m rewarded with an awful squishy feeling that turns my stomach. It does the trick though, and the man loosens his grip just enough that I’m able to throw myself forward.
I end up on the ground, scrambling to my feet as I hear slow, easy footsteps behind me. He isn’t running, just strolling after me. That’s the part that freaks me out the most, how calm this person is. It’s a calculated sort of stalking, a following, a predation. Part of me wants to scream, but I need the breath to run, and I’m choking on it.
My bare feet slap the ground hard, a sound that, when mixed with the harshness of my breathing, creates an elegy that foretells a very unfortunate ending. If the guy isn’t chasing me then …
