Danger Danger

M y phone’s been buzzing off the hook, and the only people who would call are Brett and Allison. I didn’t think they’d notice me being at the library well past the normal dinner time because the twins have practice on Wednesday nights, but apparently, I was wrong. I haven’t been able to stop working on finding Discordia to answer; it’s like everything else has faded into the background. I’ve accessed the web, periodicals, newspaper microfiche… Still, I’m left with bupkis. It’s like this place is purposefully keeping its existence hidden, and that makes little sense.

What college isn’t looking for PR to get donors?

Stretching my arms over my head and cracking my neck, I pick up the phone to call Allison back. When she answers, her voice is strained. I don’t know what’s going on, but she seems very concerned. Instead of scolding me for not coming home on time, she tells me they are taking the boys out for a dinner with team members to celebrate their acceptance and there are leftovers in the fridge. My lip hitches in a sneer when I don’t get invited to this wonderful night out, but I say nothing. I’d rather be eating leftovers in the basement while I continue my research than watching the twins hold court for their friends, anyway.

She hangs up and I sigh, shutting down the library laptop before I gather my stuff. It’s time to walk the rest of the way home and do this in the comfort of my PJ pants and a tank top. The boys won’t be home and no one will accuse me of dressing inappropriately for a unisex family space if I don’t throw on a huge hoodie. That alone is hella appealing because I don’t even have large boobs, but my foster mom likes me to keep them bundled up like Jesus is coming down to inspect my hemlines personally.

“You’d think boys being pervs was my fault, not theirs for lacking self-control,” I grumble under my breath as I stand. A librarian cleaning up some of the used stations gives me a dark look for making noise, but I just wink and return my laptop. I don’t leave messes and most of the staff here know me by sight, but this chick must be new. When I get out of range, I mutter curses under my breath about her judgmental stare.

The walk home isn’t long and when I get there, the lights are off. That tells me no one came home before their little party and I’ll have to make sure I put on the nighttime lamps Allison prefers. I’m not sure why she believes that having lights on in strategic places will deter break-ins; the idea is ridiculous. People are just as likely to watch the house for people coming and going as they are to randomly break-in; routines are absolutely fodder for baddies to learn where and when to do their thing with as little resistance as possible. We don’t live in a high crime town, but I sure as hell don’t stick to the same route or times when I walk home. You never know what lurks under people’s skins and the worst serial killers were pillars of their communities. It’s very possible we have a Ted Bundy hiding somewhere in one of the delightful houses—in fact, statistically, it’s probable.

Enough of that, Kat. You’re going into a dark house and you’re going to scare the hell out of yourself.

My mental voice isn’t wrong, so I let my mind wander from scary killers in my search for this college. I’m going to look at the letter I hid in my secret spot when I get everything settled inside. Maybe it had some secret barcode or QR on it I missed? That would explain not being able to pull up anything about it when I looked. They could be so elite that they aren’t even publicly searchable. A little far-fetched but secret societies exist and so do elite rich people clubs regular people never see. Secret colleges can’t be that off the mark.

When I unlock the front door, I step inside and turn on the lamp on the end table nearby. This is the first light Allison likes to have on and before I can relax, I need to make sure I get them all on. As my eyes adjust to the change, a skittering sound upstairs makes me frown. We don’t have any pets; Brett’s supposedly allergic to damn near everything. Did the boys leave so much shit in their rooms that it drew rats? I shiver, stalking towards the kitchen in irritation. There might be traps under the sink, but hell if I know if they’re big enough for whatever made that sound.

Maybe a raccoon or bird got in through the flue?

I flip on the under-cabinet lights in the kitchen and bend to look for mouse traps. When I don’t find any, I grab a can of bug spray that won’t do a damn thing and head up the back stairs quietly. Halfway up, it occurs to me that there’s a small possibility that what I heard wasn’t an animal and I freeze. I mean, it sounded like a rat or something. What if it’s some shadowy weirdo who could star in an FBI procedural about killers?

All I brought is fucking bug spray!

I press my lips together so I don’t make a sound, as every plausible scenario runs through my head and my anxiety ratchets to a million. My blood pressure thrums and I can feel my body flushing as I continue moving up the stairs with the caution of someone who knows where every single creak and squeak is located. If I can get to the first bedroom, Blake keeps a baseball bat next to his nightstand. It’s not because he’d ever be a hero; he just read a fucking comic where the guy carried a spiked bat, but Allison wouldn’t let him wrap it with barbed wire. It’s been sitting there ever since.

That’s my savior—the not-quite Walking Dead baseball bat in my asshole brother’s room.

I creep to the top step, holding the ridiculous can of chemicals up to defend myself if I’m approached. When I don’t see anyone, I step to the right to miss the squeaky spot on the step and slide my back along the wall until I get to the door to Blake’s room. I’m pushing myself as flat as I can, but I stick my arm out and slowly turn the knob, only to find it locked.

That motherfucker!

Brett and Allison insist we have to keep our rooms unlocked and though I never questioned it, clearly the boys ignored that edict. It makes me wonder what the hell he has in there that he’s trying to keep secret, but now isn’t the time. I can spy on my idiot foster brother later; right this second, I might come face to face with a crazed psycho and like a dumbshit movie heroine, I’m not running away. Instead, I’m silently tip-toeing even closer to the next door as I watch and listen for movement.

When I hear nothing, I try the knob on Bryce’s door and have to bite back a curse when it, too, is locked. Those mouth breathers are going to get me killed and I’m going to haunt this place forever. Hell, I might even follow them to college and purposefully fuck up their sex lives until they die. I cannot believe this shit. I mean, the odds of their insolence and everyone’s absence when I come home late almost feels too coincidental, right?

“I hope they catch a virulent strain of the clap and piss snot for months,” I whisper to myself. My hand flies to my mouth when I realize what I did and I have to clench my entire body so I do nothing else stupid. Once my fury passes, I close my eyes and breathe in several slow, calming breaths so I don’t start shaking.

Anger and anxiety are not good bedfellows.

The confluence of my issues fades as I look at the shadows in the rest of the hallway. The next room is mine, but it’s on the opposite side of the corridor. I know I don’t have any weapons in there, but I could probably find something to improvise? I’ve got books heavier than this bug spray can, so that might help. Although, I’m not sure anyone in history has defeated a Dahmer with a Dickens anthology, but there’s a first time for everything, right?

Dropping to the floor, I watch for a few more moments, then slink across the carpet to the other side. I don’t know why I feel like doing an army crawl like I’m trying to get under lasers in a heist job movie will help, but since a bleary-eyed sociopath hasn’t appeared, I must be good. Standing slowly, I slide down the wall until I hit my door and turn the knob. It rattles a little and I flinch, swallowing hard as my blood pressure kicks up to the torrent in my veins. If I don’t get inside without incident, I’m gonna start hyperventilating for sure.

I push the door open enough to slip inside and quickly close it when I’m in. My room is dark except for the glow of my lava lamp, and it doesn’t look like anything is out of place. Breathing a sigh of relief, I pad over to my closet, holding up the can just in case there’s a fucking axe-wielding murderer that pops out, and when it’s not occupied, my shoulders slump. For a moment, I stand still, trying to let my nerves settle again, and when they do, I sink to my knees and crawl into the messy space.

It’s dark, so I have to fumble around, but I work the vent open and grab the Discordia letter to stuff in my pockets. I don’t know why I felt like it was important to get this before I grab the big ass Dickens compendium and finish searching the upstairs, but something told me I needed to keep it close. Once I tuck it away, I rise and head over to my bookshelf, looking for the biggest hardback I can find. Turns out it’s not the Dickens, but a collected Shakespeare and I chuckle to myself. Willy would be cool with his books being used as weapons in a street fight, so I suppose this is kismet.

Don’t judge me—my mind wanders off when I’m scared and it’s even worse when I’m scared and anxious.

Now that I’m armed in a very Scooby fucking Doo way, I open the door to my room and sneak into the hall again. The only thing left to explore before I hit the stairs was Brett and Allison’s room. I assume they must keep some important documents or jewelry there, so it would make sense if the intruder was in there. But I’ve seldom been in that room and I’m not sure I’d know if anything was taken unless it’s ransacked. The door is always closed and we’ve been instructed not to go in without permission. Blake and Bryce may do it when our parents aren’t home, but again, I’m the good one. I’ve stayed out of their space as requested.

Unfortunately, that streak is going to end because if there really is a person here, it has to be in their room. Biting my lip as I walk carefully to the door, I keep listening for the noises I heard earlier, but I don’t hear them. There’s a weird buzzing on my skin, but I chalk it up to the thumping of my heart in my chest. My hand reaches out and turns the handle slowly, watching as the room is revealed. All I see is the perfectly made bed and other furniture, but I know the person has to be in here.

Ugh. I’ll have to go all the way in and look around.

I feel gross invading someone’s private space and I should have called the police before I even came up here. But I didn’t want the rest of them to come home to flashing lights and a donut eating dickhead lecturing me on wasting police resources if it turned out to be nothing. So I’m left with nosing around until I locate the animal or the killer clown—neither of which is appealing. My eyes scan the outer room and there doesn’t seem to be anything out of place, so I walk towards the small hallway leading to what I assume is the bathroom and closet. When I look at the gorgeously designed bathroom with fancy fixtures, it’s empty, so I know my last stop is the closed closet door.

Now or never, Kat, I tell myself as I fling the door open.

My eyes open wide as I look at the sight before me— what in the fresh fucking hell is this?