Page 2 of Deadly Night
Would she scream? Cry for help? Or would she laugh, like she always did when we were kids? Hadley has a hypnotic laugh that leaves you feeling as though she knows all your secrets. We both have a lot of those. I think about just doing it. Pinning her against the side of one of these narrow houses where anyonemight see us. Shoving my hands in her dark silken hair. My mouth close enough to taste the heat off her skin. I’d start gentle, at first. Maybe even be sweet and give her the choice to run, or to end the chase before it begins.
I breathe in the fantasy slowly, like a prayer.
I know Hadley. Every little dark thought.
She’d run while hoping like hell I caught her.
One day. One day I will.
Three
One Year ago
Hadley
The terrible thing about living at the edge of Mistletoe Pines is that when the town runs out, everything stops. There isn’t any measured tapering of properties. No equal measure from civility to the wild. One second you are staring at scattered walkways and porch lights and the next, you’re absorbed by the shadows of the forest.
And tonight, my footsteps are the only thing louder than my thoughts.
The moon hides behind thick clouds. There isn’t a star in sight as I dump some dry cat food on the back porch for my Meemaw’scritters. She feeds them all. Stray cats, raccoons, birds, and squirrels.
Tonight, they don’t stir at all. Not even for a free meal.
It’s too cold for the living outside.
I wrap my flannel robe tighter around me as I go back inside.
The house is quiet.
Too quiet.
Normally, the hum of my Meemaw’s TV would fill the silence, but she’s off on a vacation with her boyfriend, leaving me home and alone for the holiday.
My skin prickles in awareness as the sound of my steps follows me up the stairs.
Sometimes I could swear there’s a ghost haunting me. A phantom that crawls into bed with me, but whenever I wake up, there’s no one there, but I can still smell and feel them on my skin.
This ghost or dream smells of pine and smoke. Woodsy. Manly.
Like he was made just for me.
Some nights, I imagine him out in the woods watching me. I take my time undressing, wondering if he likes what he sees.
Other nights I think I’m losing my mind and that I read too many books.
That I allow my mind to create things that aren’t there because I crave the shadows. The dark things that would make others question their morals.
I go to my room and look out my window. Only a masochist would be out there on this cold, snowy night.
My back bedroom window faces the woods behind me. Most nights, the only thing that stares back at me is my reflection. In the summertime, the forest is filled with the sounds of insects and frogs. In the winter though everything is dead save an occasional barn owl.
I crawl into bed, but whenever I close my eyes, there’s a new sound. A new creak that I don’t recognize.
I lie here staring at the ceiling, willing my mind to count sheep, but they don’t come.
Instead, I’m plagued by thoughts of heavy boots on the stairs. A gloved hand twisting my doorknob. A masked intruder ready to attack at any moment.
These thoughts should terrify me, but they have the opposite effect. They give me a thrill.
