Sixteen
Ileave Marissa laughing in the laboratory, her taunts echoing in my ears like a twisted lullaby. I don’t want her to see me cry. It feels like an eternity of fumbling with keys, but I finally find the right one and burst through a door disguised as a high school locker, stumbling onto a long, dark metal walkway suspended about eight feet above the ground. I hope she doesn’t follow me; I don’t want to see her again. No, after this weekend, I don’t ever want to see her again.
My head spins, and I grip the cold railing, trying to steady myself. Through the grates beneath my feet, I catch glimpses of movement below. Mannequins, painted like ravenous zombies, shuffle along tracks, their arms outstretched as if reaching for me. A strobe light flickers in the corner, casting frantic shadows that stretch and distort each time it flashes.
I choke on the stale air, gagging.I can’t believe Marissa’s the one that upended my entire life in college. Why couldn’t she have just told me Charles was married instead of going right to his wife? I would have ended the relationship, had a career, a life. She ruined everything for me—and for what? To see me suffer? What kind of a person wants to see their friend suffer like that?
I stare down at the moving figures, trying to figure it all out. Marissa’s betrayal. The bet with Jonathan. The figure in the hallway. And the other weird stuff going on in the hotel room—the more I think about it all the more it makes me sick. Why did Marissa tell me this now? In a place like this? I need to get out of here, get away from this. Save what’s left of my sanity.
“Tori?” A voice breaks through my spiraling thoughts. I squint against the flashing lights, trying to see who’s there. Lyle steps out of the shadows, his face smeared with ketchup again. He looks disgusting. Thick, gloppy streaks of red drip from his forehead down to his chin, pooling at the corners of his mouth and smearing across his cheeks like a grotesque mask. Zombie-like, repulsive.
“Lyle, can you get me out of here?” I stumble toward him, grabbing onto his shirt, twisting it in my fist. “Please, Lyle. I don’t…I don’t feel well.”
He looks down at me, his expression unreadable. “It’s not time yet. There’s still about an hour and twenty minutes left.” His tone is detached, almost bored.
“Please,” I beg, my voice cracking. “I need to get out.”
His eyes narrow, and a slow smile spreads across his face.“You really want me to let you out?” He moves closer, his body boxing me in against the railing. He looms over me, tall and lanky but undeniably strong. Menacing. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as his eyes bore into mine, cold and calculating. The realization hits me—this ketchup-faced freak could easily push me right over the railing, dropping me into the mock zombie horde below. That’s how I’ll die.
“What’s in it for me?” he asks, his voice a low, dangerous whisper.
I lean back, the rancid, sour stench of his breath making me swallow back another gag. “Please, Lyle,” I repeat, my voice barely above a whisper.
His lips curl into a grin that makes my stomach twist. “How about you suck my dick?”
I recoil, revulsion surging through me. “No, Lyle, please, I’m being serious,” I whisper, desperate.
He leans closer, his breath hot and rancid against my cheek. “Come on, Tori Grace. I’ll comerealquick. I promise.”
My mind races, my body flushes with white-hot adrenaline. I glance around, looking for a way out. The strobe light continues to flash, disjointed shadows fly out around me. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat echoing loud and wet in my ears. “No,” I say firmly, trying to muster some courage. “I can’t.”
His grip tightens on the rails, his knuckles turning white. His face is so close I can feel the heat of his skin, smell his tangy sweat. I push against his chest, but he doesn’t budge. “Let me go, Lyle,” I say, my voice rising in desperation.
He laughs—a low, hollow sound that sends my intestines into a hard thick knot. “Not until you give me what I want.”
I look down at the zombies below, then back at him. My options are limited, and I really can’t think straight. “Fine,” I say, in a steady voice. “Just give me some space and I’ll do it.”
His grip loosens slightly, and I seize the opportunity. I duck under his arm, slipping out of his grasp, and sprint down the walkway. His laughter reverberates behind me, dark and mocking.
I reach the end of the walkway and burst through another door, slamming it shut behind me. Ragged gasps tear at my throat, and I press my back against the wall, trying to steady my frenzied heart. The room is decorated like an ancient underground crypt with deep, dark shelves lining the walls. Each shelf cradles a skeletal figure in tattered clothes, their hollow eye sockets fixed on me eerily. In each corner a large black coffin stands upright. There are no other doors out of here, nowindows. Shouldn’t there be bright red exit signs in these rooms in case of an emergency?
My hands tremble as I push away from the door, my fingers brushing against the cold, rough stone. My eyes dart around the crypt, searching for any sign of an exit, but the shadows seem to shift and dance, playing tricks on my mind. The skeletal figures seem to inch closer, their bony fingers reaching out. I blink, and they're back in their original positions.
Oh God, no, no, no. Please don’t let me lose my mind.
This feels too real, too visceral. Every part of my body screams that something terrible is happening here. I have to get out. And the thought of seeing Lyle or Marissa again is unbearable—I just need to find Hayes and escape this nightmare.
Stumbling over the uneven ground, my legs feel weak and unsteady. The need to find Hayes propels me forward. My heart races uncontrollably, and if I don’t find a way out of here soon, it may bust through my ribcage.
I feel along the walls for doors or hidden passages. My fingers scrape against the stone, and a sliver of hope sparks when I see one of the skeletons holding something. An envelope clutched in its bony hand.
I reach out, my breath hitching as I inch closer to the grotesque figure. Its hollow eyes watch me. I grab the envelope quickly, but as I pull it away, I notice something odd. My hands are smeared with what looks like blood.
No. Not blood. Ketchup.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up inside me. The absurdity of it all is too much. I wipe my hands on my jeans and tear open the envelope, pulling out a blood-smeared note. The dull light in the crypt makes it hard to read, and I have to squint to try and make out the words.
“A box not for gifting... but for a last trip... I carry your form when... life's grip does slip.”
