Page 31 of His to Fear
He could be anywhere right now. Probably already out of the country, if he’s smart. Or he might be here, ready to stalk more people into terrorizing dreams of horror.
The last of November brings with it snow rapidly falling likeraindrops outside the windows, covering the entire wall of the office, painting the world in an otherworldly glow of whiteness that reminds me of Christmas.
It’s funny how trauma works.
I haven’t been able to stay home more than a few hours in a row. My schedule of working two days a week has transformed into full-time at five days a week. It’s good for me, my therapist agreed, to do healthy things to keep my mind occupied so long as I don’t overwork myself.
I close the lid of my laptop right after saving the document of the article I’ve been working on, getting ready to head home for the night. That’s when I hear a loud bang outside my office door. Loud and clear, like metal hitting metal echoing in the hallway outside.
My body freezes, certain I misheard it.
When nothing else sounds, I resume packing my bag again, tucking my notebook and laptop into their secured places in my bag.
Then it comes again. A dull, heavy thud against the laminated floor outside, sending adrenaline rushing through my body.
It’s eight on a Friday night. No one is supposed to be in the building at this hour, the editorial paper having officially closed for the day three hours ago.
I shove the last of my things into my bag, eager to just go home and soak in a hot tub with a good book in hand.
As I approach the door to my office, a chill ripples down my spine. One of the lamps in the hallway furthest away flickers off.
It stays turned off, and I tell myself it’s only an electrical issue. Might need to call maintenance first thing Monday.
A soft, metallic whine cuts through the silence, and my mouth turns dry. One by one, the hallway lights go out. A slow torture, until only a black void remains beyond my door.
I turn around to the surveillance camera in the corner, its lensaimed directly at the door.
Nerves gnaw under my ribs, and I force my breath to follow the four-count which my therapist taught me.
If things feel overwhelming, find three things in the room that make you feel safe.
Her voice echoes in my mind, and I take notice of my phone. I can use it to call someone if something happens.
The quill in my drawer, perfect as a makeshift weapon.
The surveillance camera in the corner records everything going on, offering another layer of security.
I look back at the camera, making sure it is indeed recording. But when I don’t see the red light blinking, an obvious sign of it being turned off, my stomach drops like a stone.
I quickly move to the drawer, fingers fumbling until they close around the cold metal of the quill. I tuck it into my pocket, the weight of it there instantly sending a blanket of security around me.
The office lights go out completely then.
My fingers clutch the strap of my bag so tightly, it hurts, nails digging into my palms.
Breathe, Nadia. It’s just a power outage.
But in the darkness, the window’s faint reflection lets me see a silhouette joining mine in the glass.
A shriek tears its way from my throat as I whirl around, swinging my handbag like a desperate, clumsy weapon in the hopes of hitting the intruder. He’s too fast.
Within milliseconds, my bag is on the floor, my laptop sliding across it. An unknown hand clamps over my mouth, pushing me back against the cold glass of the windows.
“Don’t scream. You’ll alert someone.”
My eyes widen when I realize who it is. His intoxicating smell hits me, sharp and poisonous, like a hammer, taking all the oxygen in my lungs with him.
It’s…him.
