Page 20 of Petrify

I wonder what I must look like to her—standing not ten feet away, my true face hidden. Clothed in black. Formed by shadows. A ghost.

Any second now she’ll scream.

But she surprises me—she only stares. I know that’s terror causing her to grip the edge of the tub white-knuckled. She doesn’t move. Quiet as a mouse.

Is she wondering how far she can run before I catch her?

This can go one of two ways. Either I’ve fucked this up she’ll leave by sunrise. Or?—

Or she’ll stay. And she’ll let me have my fun.

I can’t deny how fucking good it feels to have her eyes on me now.

Sheseesme.

Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips. “Bas?—”

Her phone clatters against the counter. Shockingly loud in the otherwise softly quiet room, echoing against tile and glass. It vibrates, cutting the music off with its loud alarm. She jumps.

She was about to say my name.

The moment she turns to grab her phone, it’s my opportunity to hide and slip back into the wall before she even notices I’ve moved, disappearing into thin air like a ghost.

I could have fucked this all up. But that wasmy nameon her lips.

Bas, not Arnie.

My mind short-circuits from the sound. The urge to visit her again tonight is almost unbearably strong, but I hold out, spending every second until the sun rises mourning the moment I will no longer hear her voice echoing in my ears.

Chapter 11

The Pianist

The ghost really exists.

All night, I tossed and turned, and the eyes that have followed me since my first day here are incessant, those angels across the room staring, unblinking, watching my every move, and not for a moment do I feelalone.

I stare back in the darkness, waiting to see the figure materialize from the dark, and when the sun begins to crest the horizon, chasing away the shadows, I only feel marginally better.

The ghost—he’sreal.

There’s a fuckingghostin this house and there’s no way itwasn’thim standing at the foot of my bed, watching me sleep.

Something flutters in my belly every time I think of that blank white face staring straight at me. Like he was dissecting me. I could feel the way his eyes trailed from one end of my body to the other like a finger tracing along my skin. The suds from my bath soap had fizzled away enough my body had been entirely exposed.

How long had he been standing there? How long had he watched me while I lay there, completely vulnerable andnaked?

He saw what I was doing.

I keep expecting the smooth white face to peer around the corner as I dress for the day. I smudge concealer under my eyes to hide the evidence of my sleepless night. I had locked the door to the bathroom, and shoved a chair under that handle as well, for good measure. Barricaded myself into the room from both sides. Just in case.

I wasn’t terrified—there was no reason to be—it was just a ghost.

A ghost can’t hurt me.

Yet as I walk to breakfast, the house slowly waking up around me, a paranoia compels me to glance over my shoulder. Shadows move in my periphery, curtains rustling, figures following me from one pool of darkness to the next. A hand hovering over my shoulder, waiting to grab me.

That thrill sparks again low inside me, terror sending my heart racing.