Page 27 of Shadowed With Fear

When I no longer see it, I run through the living room, past the kitchen, into the hall toward the front door.

I rip it open, sprinting into the yard, bare feet squishing the cold dirt. Looking from left to right, I can’t see him. Insects chirp witlessly in the woods around our house, much quieter than in the summer months.

My feet carry me around our house, eyes searching frantically in the dark.

But he’s gone. At least from my sight. I can feel his presence, somewhere, lurking.

His burning gaze searing into me feels like the same rush of watching that movie. I need more. I need all of it. I need to live, thrive, not exist anymore. And his presence has me feeling close to death in the most amazing kind of way.

“Hello?” I call out in the dark.

That’s such a cliche but to hell with it.

“I know you’re out there. I can feel you…”

A twig snaps off to the left.

“I want…I want to thank you. You have saved me in so many more ways than you know.”

Breathing. I can hear breathing.

“Thank you.” My cheeks flush and I turn to the front porch. The bottom of my pants are soggy, and my underwear is ruined, but my heart is beating rapidly, and my smile is so wide it hurts.

Brahm would shit himself if he knew what I had just done. I chuckled under my breath. He can get over it though. He wanted me to be safe and not go out alone, right?

Well, I’m not alone anymore.

Grayson

That fucking girl I swear to God.

Who sees someone staring at them through a goddamn window and thinks, “Hmm, know what I should do? Go chase after them!”

What the fucking hell. And not even a week after she was attacked by a guy in a mask in the middle of the night, she sees another one watching her and instead of freaking the fuck out, she runs after them—me—and thanks them for doing it?

I trudge back into the tree line, keeping the bay window in my sights, before ripping off my mask, wracking my hand down my face, sighing.

That fucking girl, I shake my head in disbelief.

She’s more of a hazard to herself than I thought. I figured she would be smarter than that, but apparently, she was not. It’s like she has a goddamn death wish. Trouble follows her everywhere she goes, and she just runs headfirst into it without a second thought.

What if I hadn’t been me? What if I was the fucking creep from the Fest. What then? What would she have done if I hadn’t hidden and I had charged her, wrapping my hand around her pretty little throat, squeezing as she begs me not to? Would she be thanking me then?

Maybe.

Fuck, I can’t think like that. I can’t do that at all. Groaning, I slump against a tree.

Dahlia thanking me with my hand grasping her neck is an image that would have me damned to hell, maybe even worse. But God, I would welcome the burn.

What would Brahm think of that? Honestly, it’s hard to guess. The guy is such an enigma now a days. It’s hard to gauge what his reaction would be. Maybe I would find out what Adam and Henry do with the bodies after all.

I snort.

Doubtful.

For the next few hours, I can see her meandering through the empty house. The kitchen light flickers on and off sparingly, but the TV’s silvery light is constant. Sometime after 3 a.m. it goes off and the light in her room comes to life. I look away. Her bedroom’s curtains are sheer in the light. And once it turned off, I stood.

My feet drag across the grass. I’m tired. I creep carefully onto the porch, slipping the key from my pocket. My hand reaches out to twist the doorknob, and when it clicks, I grit my teeth.