Page 35 of When Darkness Calls

It’s the teasing type of adrenaline you get driving too fast and taking a sharp curve.

The feeling is so fucking addicting. It’s the source of my love for being afraid. This type of fear at least. Not the cold, blood chilling fear of facing death or something much worse. But the kind that reminds you you’re alive, that hints at our vulnerability and tests how invincible we believe we are.

It’s exciting. It’s humanity. It’s a push into the unknown, to survive, because we are capable of it.

I’ve missed it. I’ve missed so much from being on auto-pilot, from hiding. From being that little rock rolling in the street last Halloween. I’ve missed feeling alive. Feeling like my old self. The me who would have just outright asked Grayson back in November what kind of plague he thought he’d catch if he was in the same room for more than five seconds.

Months and months of the awkward shuffling around each other would have been avoided. But I didn’t. I was worried? Nervous? Anxious? Sad? All of the above?

I know that life changes a person, the good and bad that comes from it. The last few years had a lot of bad, and it left its mark on me and that’s okay. I’m learning to live with it. I’m learning how to be who the real me is now. Not a version of myself I don’t recognize, blanketed in anxiety and grief, doing the bare minimum of life. Not the old me because that version of myself no longer exists and probably never will again with Mom gone. But maybe, this new, real me can come close.

On the TV, the camera pans to a character talking about an escape plan, a way to get out of the labyrinthine trees, when a mangled, sinister hand reaches out from behind a bush, grabbing them, and pulling them into the shadows.

A scream burst through me. I jump back, the hand on my thigh gripping it tight, fingers pushing into the squishy flesh.

My chest heaves, and each inhale has my hardened nipples rubbing against the fabric of my sweatshirt. I slip my other hand underneath, brushing my fingers softly against the bump of my stomach, circling my belly button before teasing the waist of my leggings.

I hum a little at the small touch, sending shivers across my body.

The flashes of light continue their waltz across the floor, shining brightly on the glass of framed pictures and the bay window on the far side of the room.

I watch them from the corner of my eye.

There are only a few minutes left. I don’t want it to end. The movie or this feeling.

I sigh. Only two characters are left and ahead of them, shown in the shaky frame, is their car.

Only so much longer until I’ll be on another months long journey to find a way to feel like this again.

From outside the window, there’s a shift. A movement almost completely unnoticeable.

My head snaps toward it. Eyes squinted to try seeing through the glare cast by the TV.

For a long moment, I wait…

And I see it again.

A shift in the dark.

Something’s there. I can feel it. So similar yet so different from the usual eyes.

The credits begin to roll, drowning the room in darkness, and it’s then I notice it.

From the depths of night, behind the rose bushes my mother planted, a faint glow of white shines in the moonlight.

Two black voids stare.

I stared back.

The movie might be over, but I can still feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, burning bright in my core.

He’s here.

My savior.

Watching me.

Waiting for me.