HAZEL
17 YEARS OLD
“Wait up, Hazel,”Sarah’s high-pitched voice calls from down the hill.
But I can’t stop.
My feet carry me, up and up. Muscles burning as I find my way along the well-hidden path, I dodge rocks and tree roots threatening to trip me.
I’m almost there. I can see the looming intricately woven iron bars from where I’m huffing up the steep incline.Just a little farther, I tell myself, feeling tiny beads of sweat gathering beneath my many layers. Ignoring the stitch in my side, I pull on my stubbornness to make it there.
The three cans of stolen beer courses through my veins. Liquid sloshing like a tumultuous storm in my otherwise empty stomach. As alcohol battles my senses, my head buzzes. A giggle escapes my lips as I trip over my own feet, coming down hard on my knees.
“Whoops.” I cackle.
Trees are thicker up here, almost as if they’re multiplying to conceal the forbidden Wixom Manor. Everyone knows it’s haunted. It’s a rite of passage for little shits like us to go poking around. No matter how ill-advised it may be.
I pick myself up, not bothering to dust my clothes off. Maybe it’s a sign, but I’ve come too far to turn back now.
We shouldn’t be here. The guards would flip if they found us absent from Kingston Prep, the “school” our parents had us shipped to for being problematic teenagers. They’re intent on straightening us out for society. Desperate to have us fall in line or break our spirits.
A chill snaps down my spine as the icy wind picks a fight with my auburn hair, obscuring my vision temporarily. With gloved hands, I tug on the long strands to tuck the stray pieces behind my ears. It’s much colder than at the base, the temperature plummeting with each passing minute. Upstate New York is frigid this time of year, but this type of chill seems drastically different from what I’m used to. Almost as if this land really is as evil as they say.
Finally, I reach the top of the hill, seeing the eerie, decrepit mansion towering behind the fence that separates us from the most haunted house in the state. Or so the legends say.
As I stare up at the house, the air kicks up a handful of fallen leaves, obscuring the view. I sway on my feet, feeling as if I could fall over at any second.
That last can of beer was a terrible idea.
Squeezing my body through the wrought-iron gate, I suck in my stomach and wiggle my breasts past the narrow bars, hoping to be the first to touch the front door. The rest of our group isn’t far behind, and I never go back on a dare.
“Typical. Always have to be first,” Sarah says as she squeezes through, her boobs getting stuck.
I laugh.
She’s not wrong. My competitive streak runs deep.
“These things are a hazard.”
“I can’t help it if I’m naturally blessed.” She tries wiggling. “Don’t just stand there, gawking. Help me out.” Her arm flails, hand catching my bracelet-covered wrist.
“They’re the same size as mine, nitwit.”
The boys are miles behind, it seems. Always goofing off. Pranking each other or letting out farts and laughing about it. Knowing them, they probably bought a joint to share off one of the night shift guards.
We fell in with each other, all having been deemed massive fuck-ups by the people who were supposed to love us the most. The six of us were kidnapped from our beds and dragged to the compound that masquerades as a school. Tucked away from society deep in the Catskills, they wring our souls into conformity. Promising to mold us into the perfect sons and daughters our parents always dreamed. Forcing us to follow their strict rules.
But tonight? We’ve escaped through the vents during a shift change.
Matty, Kyle, Ace, River, Sarah, and I crammed our bodies through the narrow opening and took off running, grabbing our contraband we’d hidden in a junked tractor tire. We have until morning to do whatever the fuck we want, and we have every intention of taking full advantage of it before we’re discarded back to that place of horrors. Probably to be strip searched again while we’re whipped for even looking insubordinate.
I rub my elbow where a constellation of bruises line my skin from earlier that day. I’d been caught doodling in the margins when I was supposed to be taking notes about Our Lord and Savior.
God is patient. God is kind. God’s followers have lost their minds.
Pushing my melancholy thoughts away, I focus on helping my friend maneuver her way through the bars.
“What’s the hold up?” Kyle yells.
