Page 3 of Don't Watch Alone
“Anything for you,” he whispers against my mouth, and before I can decide whether to slap him or kiss him back, he’s already running out the door, laughing like he knows exactly how much chaos he’s leaving behind.
I turn back to the mirror, breathing hard, hair bigger than any normal human head can handle, makeup half-done, adrenaline still surging through every nerve in my body.
The almost-Alex in the mirror smirks back at me.
Tonight’s gonna be one hell of a fucking night.
Chapter two
Blaiz
The Halloween Party
OnestepinsideandI’m overwhelmed by Christian’s Halloween party; blaring music, flashing lights, and a thick fog that smells like synthetic smoke and stale beer. Every inch of the place is overflowing with chaos—furniture wrapped in cobwebs, people shoulder to shoulder in the living room, and flashing lights cutting everything into wild colors.
I’ve got fishnets digging into my thighs, leg warmers riding down my calves, and a welding mask hanging from my hand. Alex Owens, in the flesh. Or at least my best approximation. I glance over at Donald, who’s practically beaming in his silver cop costume—tight pants, aviators, and that damn mustache that makes him look like he stepped off the cover of a discovinyl. He winks and flexes, which gets him a cheer from some guy dressed as a sexy devil. Typical.
“Let’s find the rest of the fucking crew,” I shout to Jade, grabbing her arm before we get completely swallowed by the crowd. She nods, already scanning the room, probably hunting for Derrick in that skeleton onesie he wouldn’t shut up about. We push through clusters of witches, zombies, and—yeah, that’s a group of Revenge Of The Nerds grinding near the speakers. Christian went all out this year, and it shows.
As we round a corner heading toward the patio, someone steps out of the shadows. The boogeyman himself—Michael Myers. Of course. I let out a shriek.
“Jesus Christ!” I choke, clutching my chest as though that’ll help.
Jade’s laughing, the kind that says she’s only a bit concerned. “You good? The Michael Myers costume is apparently the costume of the night."
I glare at the figure, still standing there as if he’s auditioning for a damn slasher sequel. “This one almost made me piss myself,” I snap, storming up and ripping the mask off without thinking.
Underneath it is our friend, Christian. His shy, wide-eyed expression spreading across his face tells me everything.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I hiss. “What the hell, Christian?”
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, his voice low and way too casual for someone who just aged me ten years in thirty seconds. “I was just waiting for Robert. Wasn’t trying to pull anything on you. Scouts honor.”
Robert—the guy who’s always been obsessed with trying to pry me away from Tony. No matter how hard he pushed, I never even gave him a second glance.
“Right. Well, maybe don’t stand in a dark hallway dressed like a murderer?” I fire back. “Just a thought.”
Jade’s still laughing as she tugs on my arm. “Come on. Let’s find Tony and Derrick. Prettysure Tony was going as Leatherface, wasn’t he?”
“No, he changed it last minute,” I say. “He’s David Hodo from the Village People. Construction worker edition.”
We make our way toward the kitchen, squeezing past a pirate with a weapon that keeps jabbing my thigh and a person in a taco costume who’s extremely intoxicated. The kitchen’s a mess; red solo cups scattered across every surface, pizza crusts on the counter, someone passed out against the fridge. Don’t even know how that is possible.
I glance around, and that creepy feeling returns in my body, like I’m being watched. Each time I see another Michael Myers, my fists clench. Christian better be the only one I have to deal with tonight, because I’m one more sudden scare away from swinging at someone.
The whole house is alive with noise and chaos. The music is pounding, people are shouting over each other, and it's that kind of sweaty, messy energy that only hits at parties like this. All I want is to find myfriends, get a drink that doesn’t taste like shit, and maybe make it through the night without punching someone in a plastic mask.
The bass vibrates through the damn floor like a sledgehammer to my spine, this relentless thud syncing up with the chaos of the Halloween shitshow happening all around me. The fake cobwebs are sticking to my eyelashes like spider snot while I shove my way through a group of drunk assholes in face paint and overpriced Spirit Halloween costumes, all of us clawing toward the sad excuse for a bar crammed into the corner of the room. I’m hunting for something stiff enough to knock the sound of this bastardized ABBA remix out of my head before I lose my mind, when suddenly the lights pull some horror movie bullshit—flickering once, then twice, before cutting out entirely and drowning us in darkness thick enough to choke on.
And then, as quickly, they sputter back to life, stuttering like a dying flashlight, throwing these warped, twitchy shadows across rubber monster masks and clown-white makeupthat’s already starting to melt under the heat and booze. I stop in my tracks, frowning like a pissed-off cat. “What the actual fuck?” I mutter, my voice getting lost in the noise, but my irritation is very much alive and kicking. “I mean, Jesus, I know it’s Halloween, but this is some over-the-top haunted house bullshit.”
The lights remain stable this time, but the room’s atmosphere grows colder than before—as if someone breathed down the back of my neck. It’s no longer only the fog machine haze and the cheap skeletons. There’s something crawling under my skin, something sour and wrong that I can’t get rid of, no matter how many drinks I haven’t had yet.
I lean toward Jade, practically yelling in her ear to break through the wall of noise. “I’m gonna find the damn bathroom,” I say, and she barely glances at me, already deep in a flirty back-and-forth with a pirate who looks as though he glued his costume on ten minutes before showing up. She waves me off, not even breaking eye contact with Mr. Plastic Sword.
The hallway I step into feels like it was ripped straight out of some low-budget slasher movie. Black walls absorb the light, and the only thing guiding me forward is this shaky light fixture hanging at the far end, its flames throwing weird, twisting shadows that jerk like they’ve got somewhere urgent to be. I catch a glimpse of a dusty-ass suit of armor slouched against the wall and, for a split second, I’m dead sure it’s about to come alive and split me in half.
At the end of the hall, I find a row of doors and pick one, heart pounding for no good reason. I twist the knob and push.
