Page 7 of Follow Her Down
I wonder if I’ve finally cracked.Maybe I’ve been sleepwalking.Maybe I cut myself in the night and danced on the walls like a spider, forgetting everything by morning.
Or maybe this house has its own rules of physics and reality.
Either way, I have a job interview today.The gas station next to the sheriff’s department is hiring, and I need eyes on that building.I need to watchhiscomings and goings.I need to learn his patterns before I tear them apart.
I shower in the upstairs bathroom, where rust-colored water sputters from ancient pipes.The claw-foot tub has stains that won’t scrub away, a permanent shadow of everyone who’s bathed here before me.As I wash, I feel watched, not by cameras or peepholes, but by the house itself.The walls have eyes, and the pipes hum with approval.
It has to be the same…thingthat wanted me to fuck myself with items it handed me last night.
Like a dumbass, I forgot a towel, so I trek down the hall toward the narrow door of the linen closet at the end.I open it, peering inside at the mostly empty shelves coated in dust, grab one of the towels I finally unpacked, and shut the door firmly.
Click.
It opens again, just a crack.A whisper of movement.
I close it again, making sure the latch catches.
Click.
This time it swings fully open, as if pushed from inside.
I stare into the closet for a long moment, then I laugh.
“Cute,” I say.“You flirt kinda strangely.”
Wrapping myself in the towel, I step toward my bedroom and notice deep scratches in the wooden floor around the heating and air vent.They form irregular patterns, like someone—or something—tried to claw their way out.Or in.I crouch down, running my fingers along the grooves.They’re smooth, worn with age.
“Getting desperate, were you?”I ask the empty room.
The house stays quiet.
I get dressed, ignoring the bloody footprints and the scratches for now.Black jeans, a loose gray top that hides the numerous curves I’ve gained, and combat boots.I brush my hair but don’t bother styling it.Then I apply eyeliner with a heavy hand, smudging it just so.
Perfect for a gas station attendant.Perfect for a woman with secrets and murder on her mind.
Before leaving, I check on the basement door again.The boards still cover it, but I notice something I missed before—tiny gaps between the planks, where the nails have been pried loose just enough to create space.Not enough to open the door, but enough to see through.
I press my eye to one of these gaps, but I don’t see shit.
“Later,” I promise the door and whatever waits behind it.
The drive to the gas station is short but gives me time to settle into my skin, to remember who I’m pretending to be.Sera Vale, newcomer.Sera Vale, normal woman starting over.Sera Vale, who definitely isn’t plotting to destroy a man’s life brick by careful brick.
I park in the gas station lot, studying the sheriff’s department next door.It’s a squat, ugly old building with narrow windows and a flagpole out front.American flag on top, state flag below, both hanging limply in the damp air.The main entrance has steps leading up to glass doors.
He’s in there.I’m sure of it.
I spit on the ground and turn away, my blood a riot in my ears.
The gas station itself is like a thousand others I’ve seen—a glowing box of processed food and overpriced necessities.Gas N’ Go, the sign proclaims in loud neon.A smaller sign in the window saysHelp Wanted, Inquire Within.
Inside, the fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in a sickly pallor.The place smells like coffee, donuts, and someone’s morning shit.
A twenty-something rail of a man rings up a customer.Beside him, a middle-aged man with thinning hair stands behind the counter, flipping through aSeventeenmagazine.When the bell above the door jingles and announces my arrival, he looks up, his gaze immediately dropping to my chest.
“Help you?”he asks, closing his magazine but keeping a finger between the pages to mark his place.
“I’m here for my interview,” I say, approaching the counter.“I called two days ago.”
