Page 7 of Hot Ghoul Summer

No. Not in a violent way. Not in a sexual way.

But his eyes...

Stop it. Near-death experience. He wants to turn over a new leaf.

Crippling loans.

I look up at the house. There are lights on in the upper rooms, but none on the ground floor.

Well, maybe he can’t do the stairs. Maybe he’s comfortable in bed, recuperating.

But if he’s supposed to be dying, where are the people to take care of him? Nurses? Family?

Oh. Duh. Me. I’m probably the only nurse-family member he has. Probably the only one dumb enough to give his sorry ass a second chance.

As I slowly step out of the car, I recall that Gary’s sister and brother never came to visit after he married Mom. I used to think it was because they didn’t like us, but Mom told me it was because he’d borrowed so much money from both of his siblings and never paid it back.

A sudden shiver races up my back, like someone ran an ice cube along my spine.

You know what? If I’m not comfortable, I’ll just leave. I pat the pepper spray in my pocket and think of the medical teams in Doctors without Borders, those brave men and women going into disaster areas and war zones for the greater good. Here I am, afraid to walk into a house in a nice neighborhood in a sweet little beach town.

Shame. You’re not worthy of your nursing pin.

I push the car door shut with a bang, march across the gravel drive, and stomp up the stairs to the wrap-around porch. Ooh. Wrap-around porch.

Besides, I took self-defense classes, and I have pepper spray. I’ll be fine. If I could handle that drunk linebacker during practicum, I can handle severely injured Gary.

With false bravery, I pound on the door. “Gary! Can I come in?” I figure he won’t be moving around much.

I don’t figure on the door opening and a burst of wind from inside the house sucking me into a huge, dark entryway. Yes. It came from the inside. Like a giant invisible vacuum that pulls me in and slams the door shut behind me with a slam that echoes.

“Hi, you must be Molly.”

A man in a dark hoodie is suddenly in front of me, and I know he wasn’t there a second ago.

I blink. I back up.

And the door is gone.

Just—gone. My back hits a solid wall. “Ow!” The noise is more a gasp of surprise and fear than pain.

“Oh, careful, love! Sorry about that. I... I sort of made a trade for you, and I can’t really let you leave at the moment.”

The man’s voice is soft and apologetic, with a trace of an accent I can’t place. Like Cockney but more refined.

“What’s going on? Where’s Gary?” Hand in purse. Pepper spray in palm.

“Hmm. Hang on.” The man closes his eyes, and I stare at him in the darkness. His skin is so pale that it illuminates the room.

Like he’s glowing.

Humans don’t glow. There are no bioluminescent humans.

Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm...

“He’s driving a stolen Toyota down the PA Turnpike. Hm. As if I wouldn’t catch him just because he’s in a different vehicle.” There’s a mocking little chuckle in his tone, one that sends bile burning the back of my throat.

This glowing psycho is not going to be the reason I end up on the true crime channel—unless it’s as the survivor who tells her story, the one who gets away.

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