Page 47 of Creeping Lily
I just stare at the screen, my hand frozen in midair. Pick it up or let it go to voicemail? Both options feel exhausting.
The vibration cuts off, leaving the room thick with silence. Two seconds later, the screen lights up again. Same name. Same insistence. She won’t quit until I answer.
With a sigh that feels heavier than it should, I snatch the phone and press it to my ear.
“Hey, Mom.” My voice sounds flat, like all the warmth’s been drained out of it.
“Lily! Oh, good, you picked up this time,” she chirps, her voice bright, sugar-sweet. She’s in that mood again—the one where her life is all sunshine and roses, where she has no clue about the darkness gnawing at my edges.
But the darkness doesn’t need her invitation.
It rushes in, sharp and cold.
I see him again. The faceless man.
His weight pinning me against a wall, brick scraping my cheek. But last night was different. The air felt heavy. Intentional. Like a shadow that had chosen me.
I flinch before I can stop myself.
“Lily? Are you listening?” Mom’s voice snaps like a twig.
“Yeah. Sorry. Just… tired.”
She sighs like she already knows the script. “You’re working too hard again. College is supposed to be fun, not just grind, Lily.”
Fun. Sure. If “fun” means catching movement in your peripheral vision and wondering if it’s real. If it means plastering on a smile while something ugly coils in your gut and refuses to let go.
“Are you sleeping, Lily?” Her voice softens now, careful.
“Yes. I’m fine,” I lie.
She hesitates. “You sound different. Maybe it’s just the connection.”
I almost tell her. Almost. The words burn at the back of my throat—I think someone’s following me. I think I’m in danger.But what would she do with that? Tell me I’m imagining things? Or worse… believe me?
Instead, I let her talk. I give her half-answers, enough to keep her going. Her voice is warm, easy, and miles away from the landmines we used to trip over before I left home.
My eyes drift to the window. The campus outside glows soft under the streetlights, the air still as glass. But I can’t shake the weight of eyes on me, watching from somewhere just out of sight.
“Lily?” Mom snaps me back again.
“Sorry. What were you saying?”
She huffs, but there’s no heat behind it. “Anyway, I’ll let you go. Just make sure you’re eating. And sleep, okay?”
“I will,” I say, and we both know it’s a lie. “Love you.”
“Love you too, sweetheart.”
The call ends. I drop the phone beside me. The silence rushes in, but underneath it, my nerves hum like exposed wires.
My phone chimes again.
Mom: I almost forgot. Read this article. It’s important.
Weird. She never sends me articles.
I tap the link. It’s a grainy newspaper clipping. The headline swims before my eyes until I force myself to focus:
