Page 21 of Biker Boo
Down the road out of Hell, where the pavement turns to gravel and the trees close in like shadows with teeth.The moon’s fat and mean overhead, lighting up the path just enough to tempt me deeper into the dark.
I should turn back.
I don’t.
The trees blur past, and the wind tears at my jacket.The creek’s not far now, just past the old ridge where the cemetery begins to spill into the holler.Where he is.
I feel him again.
That prickling crawl at the back of my neck.
The masked man.My ghost.
My — Biker Boo.
It’s stupid.I should be scared.But I’m not.Not really.
Because when he stares at me from the woods, it doesn’t feel like a threat.It feels like possession.Like he sees all the parts of me I try to hide… the broken pieces, the jealousy, the fury.And he wants them anyway.
My heart races faster than the engine.I glance in my mirrors while slowing down to a crawl.Nothing.
Still…
Still…
Shit.
The tire hits a slick patch of wet leaves on the curve near the river, and I’m flying, airborne for a second, then crashing down hard, scraping my elbow as the bike topples.It skids toward the edge of the embankment, coming to rest against a rock.
I groan, pushing myself up onto my knees.
Everything spins.
“Damn it,” I whisper, shaking my head.
That’s when I hear it.A branch snapping.Footsteps.Crunching leaves.I spin around, breath catching in my throat.
“Hello?”
No answer.Just the wind.
And then… Biker Boo steps out from the woods like a nightmare stitched from smoke and shadows.
Black hoodie.Black jeans.Same horror mask — white, cracked, like porcelain horror.The sight of him blows through me like a jolt of lightning to my spine.I should scream.
I don’t.
Instead, I rise, blood sticky on my palm, jacket torn.
He stalks toward me.
Deliberate.
Silent.
Like he owns the night.
My heart beats so hard it feels like it’s going to punch through my ribs.
