Page 35 of Half the Summer's Night
ABI
“No!” I scream, despair coursing through me as I stumble backward, so sick with fear I’m about to throw up. How could I be so stupid? Of course I won’t be safe just because I leave the house. Of course he’s not working alone.
But then the man in the doorway speaks.
“Where is he?”
I recognize the voice immediately. Low, raspy. The same voice that asked,May I touch you?
I jerk my gaze up, my breath tight and panicky. It’s him. He’s wearing the same twisted mask, and I can smell him, a dark amber scent like the woods at night.
I drop my mouth open, but my throat doesn’t work. I can’t answer.
It doesn’t matter. My nameless killer drags me by the shoulders and heaves me violently onto the porch, then steps in front of me just as the earlier attacker bursts through the doorway.
“Who the fuck are you?” the attacker asks.
My killer launches himself at him, a dark comet that slams into the intruder’s chest and shoves him back into the house. Ican just see them through the door: two dark masses that bleed into one another as they thump against the floor.
One of them screams, sharp and short. Then it’s caught off.
I brace myself against the banister, my entire body sheened with sweat as the hot, muggy air presses around me. The silence is overpowering.
I know I should run. There’s a twenty-four-hour gas station about a half mile down Hatch Street. Once I get there, once I’m bathed in the buzzing fluorescent lights, I can call for help.
But I don’t move. I’m petrified against the banister, my pounding against my rib cage like it’s training to escape.
Footsteps.
I stiffen, whimpering with fear, my muscles tense. A dark shadow falls into the doorway.
It’s him. It’s my killer.
He stares at me through his mask, his eye gleaming in the porch light. For a moment, we just stare at each other.
Then he says, “Come inside. Now.”
“W-why?” I whisper.
“He’s dead,” my killer says. “You don’t have to worry about that. But you need to come inside. A car might drive by.”
I look over Hatch Street, illuminated in patches by the street lamps.
“Who are you?” I whisper. “Why did you?—“
“Inside.”
I peel away from the banister, moving on slow, shaky legs. I could still run. My killer makes no move to attack me. He doesn’t even have a weapon. Not that a lack of a weapon would stop him, clearly.
I can feel him watching me as I shuffle across the porch, my arms wrapped tight around my chest. When I’m close enough to the door, he steps aside, giving me room to come in.
My attacker lies sprawled in the foyer, his head bent at an impossible angle.
“What did you—“ I can’t say it. I can’t stop shaking. “How did you?—”
A bang as he lodges the broken door back into its frame. I jump like I just heard a gunshot.
“I’ve been watching you, my little detective,” he says softly, right in my ear. I shriek and whip away from him.
