Page 3 of Fright Night
TWO
OAKLEY
My arm isnumb from lying on it all night when I jerk awake on my stomach to my very annoying and very demanding alarm urging me from sleep to get ready for work. For a job I barely enjoy, although this month’s been more in line with my dreams.
Ugh.
Hair frizzled from sleep tumbles into my face, and I push it away while stretching for my phone plugged in on my nightstand, to end the blaring that immediately makes my head pound.
As my hand stretches for the device lying facedown, it hits me that something’s wrong. My phone should be on the stand, plugged in…not unplugged and resting screen-side down.
Maybe I knocked it from the charger in my sleep. Wouldn’t be the first time and probably won’t be the last.
Without thinking more on it, I tap the yellow alarm button to end the wailing. Before my screen goes dark, it teases the notifications that arrived throughout the night. The three bubbles markedJmake me wish I could toss my phone out thewindow. It’s nearing the end of the month, so his reminder is annoyingly on time.
Not that blackmail ever needs a reminder.
With a groan, I push away thoughts of my ex to soak up my remaining free seconds before the thing called adulting forces me from bed.
As my head falls back to the pillow, smothering my face because maybe if I suffocate myself it’ll mean never having to endure another dinner with my stepfather and mom—yesterday evening’s activity—my back pulls taut, like something is caked on it.
Weird.
With an awkward reach, I stretch my arm around to feel the skin there. My fingers coast over a dried substance, which only creates more questions.
Pushing onto my hands and knees, I scan the mattress beneath me for the source but the sheet appears clean. Needing to properly inspect, I’m about to swing my legs to the side to stand and head for the mirror in the corner of my room, when my gaze snags on a sticky note stuck to my lamp, the messy handwriting immediately making dread heavily sink into me.
Dread…and then fear. No one should ever be waking with strange notes stuck to their lamp. Especially ones that say:
Check your phone.
Photos app.
First video.
Confusion. Fear. Dread. It all mingles, leaving me with nothing else to do but follow the note’s instructions, uncertain at what I’ll find.
At least this explains why my phone wasn’t in its normal place.
But it also means someone was here last night. As I reach for my phone, I scan the room, searching for a sign of something out of place but finding nothing.
Cold fingers manage to swipe the device awake, the tiny camera scanning my face to unlock it before revealing the final app last opened: the photos app. The latest entry is a video. One I’m one hundred percent certain I never took.
A numb finger tapsplayon it.
At first, there’s blurry movement before an arm comes into view. It’s connected to a body encased in all black. Black jeans, black hoodie. The phone is propped against my lamp, angled towards the bed where it reveals me passed out on my stomach, completely unaware of the creep hovering over me.
Why do I sleep so heavy?So, so heavy that a person breaking in went unheard and then everything happening that’s about to be shown.
The figure walks across the room to part my curtain a couple inches, which casts light onto the bed—and the scene he’s concocting. When he returns to the bedside, he tugs the blanket down to my thighs and lifts my shirt up to my shoulders, all of which went unfelt to my sleeping form.
The figure dips into view, revealing his face covered by a dark mask with lit-up orange Xs for eyes and a stitched mouth curved in a smirk. A hood is drawn up over his head, shielding his hair. While my invader’s identity is concealed, I imagine whoever it is grinning like the mask.
Using a mask makes this whole thing creepy as fuck and proves whatever’s about to happen was premeditated. The intruder needed a way to disguise himself so I couldn’t report him to the police. Without an identity, he’s stolen much of the meager power I could have had over him.
He brings a finger—no gloves covering them, which is curious—up to the mask’s mouthpiece in a shushing motion.He’s taunting me. The same finger lowers to where my shirt remains bunched. Starting there, he traces a line down my spine to the edge of my panties and circles the skin of my ass.
Watching this feels like a horror movie. Like we’re a paid actress and actor performing the scene, and not me unknowingly forced to play in whatever fucked-up show he’s directing. Not like I’m watching myself sleeping blissfully unaware of the criminal hovering over me.
