Chapter Three

The morning came with a wave of wrongness. The insistent gnawing in my gut wouldn't relent. I'd tried to ignore it, forcing myself through the motions of a typical Tuesday – light jog, eggs, and bitter coffee. But the unease, a thick, suffocating blanket, clung to my skin. Only when I finally escaped to the screened-in front porch with my dog-eared paperback did a semblance of peace settle over me. The gentle sway of the hanging ferns, the dappled sunlight filtering through the screen, the rhythmic chirping of crickets... it was almost enough. Almost.

Then, a scream ripped through the idyllic scene. A high, keening wail that sliced through the quiet like shattered glass. I slowly abandoned The Hobbit. From the safety of the porch door, I cautiously looked past my yard. My parents' house was nestled on the corner of two quiet residential streets, usually peaceful, so the ear-piercing cry rang like a bell of despair.

There, in the center of the road, lay a woman sprawled out, her figure partially obscured. Her once-vibrant clothing, now crumpled and stained, clung to her as if pleading for help. Towering over her was a bulky and grotesque figure, its presence unnerving. The outline of its body appeared twisted and malformed, casting a menacing silhouette against the asphalt. As it knelt beside her, its movements were jarring and disjointed, like a puppet with tangled strings, evoking an instinctual feeling of dread. The air was thick with a sense of foreboding, amplifying the weight of the moment as I stood frozen, caught between the urge to intervene and terror. Filth, caked mud, and something else... something dark and viscous, smeared across the attacker's clothes and face.

"Get off of her!" I roared in shock, my voice cracking with a terror I stll hadn't processed. What the f&@k? Leaving the safety of my porch, I bolted out the squealing door towards the woman now sobbing in the street. I squared my shoulders, trying to project an image of strength I didn't entirely feel. As I neared, the brunette woman's sobs got softer and softer with hiccups. Her body was twitching on the dirty pavement.

The figure paused, its head slowly swiveling upwards. Empty, milky-white eyes stared blankly at me before resuming his task. Short tufts of dark hair stuck to his face, slick with blood. The woman's blood. Something about the way the morning light caught the man's skin, the unnatural pale sheen, sent a jolt of fear through me. Then it hit me. It wasn't just the savagery of the attack; this was... something different. The woman had fallen completely still. Silent. I stumbled back, the need to escape overwhelmingly presenting itself. I had to get inside, away from this... this reality.

But before I could reach the porch, a powerful hand clamped down on my left shoulder, yanking me down to the rough ground. I landed with an 'oomph'. The hand dug in with sharp bruising force, having fallen with me. I threw my right elbow back blindly. Breaking free, I was scrambling to my feet. With eyes darting around frantically, I looked for anything I could get my hands on with the attacker right on my heels.

Beside my mother's half-abandoned tulip bed, partially hidden beneath a layer of dead leaves, was the handshovel, a tool used more for decoration than anything else. I snatched it up, turning to face the man, his milky gaze now fixed on me, a dangerous hunger gleaming in vacant eyes. He was edging towards me without hesitation. I swung, the dull edge slicing across their left arm. Nothing. I stabbed wildly to stop his desperate advancements as he made a swipe at me. Nothing. One final desperate thrust aimed for his eye socket. If I couldn't deter him, I could blind him. At least I thought. The man finally collapsed, but not before his blood-soaked fingers brushed against my cheek in his descent. After sinking to the grass beside the end of the pavement. He, too, grew completely still.

I stood there, panting, the old handshovel still clutched in my trembling grip, the silence suddenly deafening, punctuated only by the frantic beating of my heart.

As I stumbled inside, a sense of calm washed over me, almost like I was in a half-trance. Shock consumed me. The door clicked shut before the lock softly switched into place. I made my way to the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the warm water cascade over me, still fully clothed. I stood there a long time staring at the cracks in the white tile of the shower wall. Did I ...? No. Maybe. I closed my eyes and let the water wash over me. What have I done?

After coming to my senses, I steeled myself. I did what I had to. I knew I needed to warn Adam. He was all alone, and that thought alone had my heart pounding against my ribcage. Finally, I turned the water off. It had long since turned cold. I awkwardly struggled to remove my socks and clothing, my fingers clumsily working to peel them away as I fumbled nervously. I let them flop hopelessly in the bottom of the shower.

Redressing in my room, I finally glanced at my phone and was surprised to see nine missed calls from Adam. Concern washed over me like a cold plunge; why had he called so many times? I quickly dialed his number, but it rang endlessly without an answer. Feeling a bit anxious, I decided to send a few texts before considering the possibility of the terror earlier happening to Adam. My Adam.

I dashed around the house in desperation. Slapping a random black backpack from my closet with the first clothes I could get my hands on, my mind was racing. I was constantly checking my phone. I slid the pack's straps on and buckled them together swiftly at my chest.

Without hesitation, I dashed out my back door, sticking close to the ground. All those mornings of mindlessly jogging the neighborhood flickered amongst my thoughts. I stealthily ran, hiding from anything that moves, cutting through yards and backyards after quick scans to make sure they were clear. I only had one thing on my mind. I had to get to Adam.

Eventually, though, I got ahead of myself and jumped over a fence into a yard filled with people.