Page 2 of Soul of a Psycho

Someone is watching me. I squint across the quad where a person is standing next to the corner of a similar dormitory, motionless and tall. They are dressed in black, almost blending in with the cavernous shadow of the brick building. But that’s not what makes my blood run cold. It’s the eerie white skull that peers back at me, sunken black rings for eyes and stitches across the mouth.

A chill runs down my spine and I stumble backward, hitting the step behind me. I fall onto my butt and my tailbone cries out in pain. I ignore it, scrambling to stand, an irrational fear that the figure across the quad will somehow suddenly appear over me. I twist onto all fours, crawling up the few steps and groping for the brass handle. I miss the last step and land hard on my knee. I stifle a whimper and jerk around to check if the figure is advancing, hoping bony fingers aren’t about to land on my shoulder.

But when my eyes scan the darkness… they are gone.

I blink, righting myself, but I keep my sights on where the macabre face was. I grasp the door handle for safety and let my eyes dart to the other shadowy alcoves, more afraid now that I don’t know where he is, but sure that I don’t want to find out. I quickly close myself inside the doors of Lamb Hall and push aside a suddenly intrusive thought, one that makes my skin pebble, something along the lines oflambs to the slaughter.

Chapter Two

Sky

Ihave no clue where my first class is and I break a sweat almost immediately when I step out of my room. I slip in between the throng of other students, no time to take them in or note the small clicks grouped together. I fly down the hallway and winding stairs, dodging groggy girls in bath towels, all the while tugging at the pleated skirt that is now going to be my daily outfit.

Uniforms are archaic to begin with, but this one is inappropriate, to say the least. I don’t know what committee of teen girls strong-armed the faculty at some point, but this skirt is a good four inches above the knee, and even shorter than my old cheer uniform. The only saving grace is that I can wear stockings, though I wish myself luck if I have to bend over.

It wasn’t until ten minutes ago that I realized I must have left my schedule at the airport and Ican’tbe late for my first class. I’m sure that my father has set up some sort of check system on me so that tardiness will be reported to him. And while I’ve decided that I’m angry to be here, I’ve come to the realization that I’ve never been so free before. Starting with not having to pass his visual check of me in the mornings. I also won’t have to make sure I appear just as put together at the end of the day. I won’t have to eat across from him or be on pins and needles, andas long as I can feign like all is well here, he should stay far away. It’s actually the best I could have hoped for.

I whip past a janitor, nearly taking us both out, and turn to flash him a quick set of my best puppy eyes before I keep going, not slowing down in the least. I need to find the administration office to grab a print of my schedule and then make it to class in the next—I glance recklessly at my phone screen—eight minutes.

I should have gotten up earlier. That’s what I would have done if I was at home, not wanting to trigger my father’s wrath, but I stayed up for another three hours after my unsettling encounter, barely managing to convince myself that the guy with the skull face was probably just some freshman messing around. And once I put him out of my mind, I started thinking of all the things I can do now that I don’t have my father breathing down my neck—sleeping in being one of them. Along with having seconds at dinner, carbs for breakfast—god, I would stop at the food hall if I had time—wearing my hair up or down as I please, and trying alcohol and drugs and all the things I was always too afraid to dip my toe in.

The first of which is trying pot. It’s very high up on my list.

Literally every girl back home had cannabis pens, and I always thought that if I could try it, I would know for once in my life what it felt like to relax. And I think I deserve it after everything. There has to be someone here who has pot. Maybe my roommate. I make a note to ask her when I see her. She was gone when I woke up, but I count that as a blessing. I absolutely hate mornings. I always had to fake it for my father and the last thing I wanted to do after falling asleep, thinking I was free, was to have to put the mask of niceties back on right when waking.

When I make it to the main floor, the early morning sun casts beams into the room that illuminate dust motes, and they twirl as I fly through them and out the main doors. My eyes immediately go to the spot where I thought I saw the ax murder,but nothing looks as ominous now as it did last night. There isn’t a shadow in sight, and no one looks sinister. Thank god.

I’m out of breath by time I reach the administration building, all my cheer stamina gone with those isolating three months. But if I wanted to be kind to myself, I could say that my panting is due to the nearly ten minutes it took me to get here instead. Hillcrest is way more massive than I could see last night. Apparently, our very large quad only has the dormitories, and there is a whole other quadrant for the lecture halls and another forleisure.

I smooth my skirt as I approach the weathered oak desk of a woman who has her back to me. She’s looking toward the hallway lined with doors behind her.

“Um…” I start to get her attention, and she jumps in her chair, swiveling around with a hand on her chest.

“Good god, girl. Don’t sneak up on an old woman like that,” she says.

“I’m sorry. It’s just… I’m late and I don’t know where my—”

A loud clatter sounds from down the hall, causing us both to flinch. Her lips purse, and she blinks rapidly.

“Say… Say again?” she says to me, but angles her head with an ear behind her.

“I need a copy of my schedule,” I tell her absently, now distracted as well.

I look over her shoulder, but all the doors are closed and it’s impossible to figure out where the noise came from.

“Right. Right,” she breathes, shaking her head and turning to fully face me. “What’s your name, dear?”

“Sky Lyons.”

She starts tapping on her keyboard, arching her neck forward, and squinting through her glasses at the monitor.

I notice a little gold plaque that readsDorothy Keglerand smile fondly.

“My grandmother’s name was Dorothy,” I tell her.

Her cheeks perk up. “Well, then I guess she was a very kind woman.” Her eyes flick to mine with a twinkle.

“She was,” I lie.

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