A dark figure stands motionless in the center of my living room, silhouetted by the dim glow of the hallway light behind it. The closet door hangs wide open behind the intruder, shadows spilling out like ink.
“Oh god,” I choke out, my voice strangled, barely audible.
My whole body trembles violently, knees going weak as I stumble backward, pressing myself flat against the kitchen doorframe. Fear rushes through me, cold and consuming, locking me in place as I stare at the faceless shape in my home.
The large figure stands rigid, its head tilted slightly to the side, as if it’s curious or fascinated by my terror. The expressionless white mask glows faintly under the dim lighting, cold and emotionless, sending ice racing through my veins.
“911, can you state your emergency?” The operator’s voice crackles urgently through my phone, distant and muffled by the roar of blood pounding in my ears.
My gaze drops from that empty mask to the glinting blade hanging loosely beside the intruder’s thigh. Panic floods my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs. The knife shines ominously, catching the dim glow of my television, its sharp edge gleaming like a promise.
“Hello? If you need help, say something, or press a key,” the operator says, their calm voice sharply contrasting with the nightmare unfolding before me.
My breath comes in shallow, desperate gasps. All I can manage is a strangled whimper as the intruder slowly—deliberately—raises the blade, pointing it toward me like a silent threat.
“H-help,” I choke out, the word barely audible, breaking into fragments as terror overwhelms me.
My hand goes limp, and the phone slips through my trembling fingers, clattering loudly against the wood floor. The sound echoes through the sudden silence.
My only lifeline skids just out of reach.
Screams erupt from my throat, and without a second thought, I turn towards the front door and attempt to open it, forgetting that I had put the chain in place. “SHIT!” I cry out as I fumble with the chain, sliding it halfway before I’m grabbedfrom behind, a gloved hand pressing firmly against my mouth to silence the scream that attempts to break loose. I thrash in the intruders’ arms, muffled screams slipping past the hand.
“Shush,” they whisper-growl harshly into my ear as a long and serrated hunting knife moves into my view, the tip pointed at my chest.
“P-please!” I cry out, my plea stifled beneath the glove. Tears roll down my cheeks as I catch a distorted view of the intruders and my reflection in the blade.
“It will all be over soon,” the intruder’s low voice growls in my ear again, followed by a dark chuckle. I continue to thrash and claw at the hand as they raise the blade several inches off my chest.
“Please, no!” I cry out as the intruder swings the blade down, missing their mark and instead driving it deep into my shoulder.
Another scream erupts as searing pain tears through me. The blade digs into my clavicle as it is pushed deeper into my shoulder. The intruder’s grip on me loosens, and I drop to the floor, the blade still embedded in my shoulder. Tears continue to flow down my cheeks as I reach for the knife’s handle, my fingers wrapping around it. But before I can pull it out, the intruder kneels into me, their knee digging into my stomach as they wrap their fingers around the handle tightly, crushing my fingers with a bruising force before quickly ripping the blade out of my shoulder, blood splattering against the white mask.
I let out another bloodcurdling scream upon its removal; however, my screams are cut short when the blade is once again driven into me, this time dead center between my breasts. Blood rises into my throat. I gag and cough, spitting blood as the knife is ripped out again, only for it to be driven into my body several times more.
The distant wail of sirens, the terrified scream of my cat, and the sickening sound of my own flesh tearing are the last things I register before the world around me dissolves into darkness.
ONE
RAELYNN
TWO WEEKS EARLIER
The distant blareof car horns and the rising wail of a siren slice through the last thread of sleep, pulling me into the day whether I’m ready or not. It isn’t the soft, sunbeam-through-sheer-curtains wake-up I always imagine for the start of senior year—but then again, nothing about real life ever is. Still, it does the job.
I lie still for a moment, my heart fluttering with nerves, adrenaline already kicking in as if it knows today matters. My sheets are twisted around my calves, my pillow is hanging on for dear life at the edge of the mattress, and my brain is already buzzing—new professors, heavier course loads, internship hours to juggle, graduation dates circling closer every time I blink.
Senior year. My last first day. The words feel dreamlike and heavy at the same time.
I stare up at the ceiling and count four slow breaths, then four more, trying to iron out the tightness cinched beneath my collarbones that I can’t quite name—part anticipation, part fear.I want to be excited, and I am, but it’s the kind of excitement that comes with pressure. This year is everything. I need to finish strong. I need to prove to myself that I can do this—that all the late nights and breakdowns and doubts haven’t been for nothing.
Rubbing my face, I try to push through the lingering haze in my head. It’s not quite exhaustion—more like the buzz of a brain that never fully powered down. Nerves, probably. I barely slept, too keyed up thinking about today, about everything riding on this final year. I shift beneath the tangled covers, rubbing the grit of sleep from my eyes.
Thud.
The sound is sharp enough to jolt me fully awake, and I glance over the edge of the bed to see my forensic psych textbook,The Criminal Mind, sprawled across the hardwood like it dove for freedom. The cover is half open, pages crumpled, a few of my sticky notes fluttering loose like white flags of surrender. I’d been pre-reading it last night, trying to get ahead before classes officially start. Apparently, the book had other plans. It’s not the first time it’s launched itself off the bed mid-sleep, and at this rate, it probably won’t be the last.
The noise startles Max, my black labrador, who had been passed out in a warm heap at the foot of the bed. His head jerks up fast, ears twitching and eyes wide with sleepy confusion. He lets out a low grumble, almost a growl, and shifts to look at me like he was asking:What the hell was that for?
