“Hey, Wooly,” Seth said.
“Seth! What’s up, man? What have you been doing?”
“Just hanging out.”
“Yeah? That’s great, man, that’s great! Hey, I saw on Facebook you’re coming to Charleston for school.”
“Yeah. Where are you going to college, Wooly?”
“Right here, man. We’re going to be freshmen together. Where you pledging?”
“Huh?”
“What fraternities?”
“Oh,” Seth said. “I don’t know if I’m doing all that.”
“Come on, you don’t want to miss out,” Wooly said. “We’re all Sig Alphs in my family. I can get you in, no problem. We got a phat, phat mansion, right off-campus so we can do what we want. The best parties. Puss, puss, pussy all over your face.”
“Okay, thanks. I’m still not sure—”
“When are you coming down for orientation?”
“On the website, it says I can go any weekend in June, July, early August—”
“Yeah, you can come any weekend,” Wooly said, “But you have to come two weeks from today. The Southeastern Funk Fest. All weekend, in the streets. Blink 182’s gonna be there, Incubus is gonna be there, Willie fucking Nelson is gonna play—everybody. I’m taking four tabs of ex and a thermos of vodka. We’re gonna get crunked like skunks, chipmunk.”
“Sounds pretty good,” Seth said. Wooly had always gotten under his skin a little, but most people seemed to love him.
“Fuckin’ A,” Wooly said. “And you can meet my Sig Alph boys. I’m basically already a brother ‘cause I’m so legacy. I’ve been going to their parties all year and damn. Just damn.”
“Okay. I’ve got finals this week, but I’ll call you—”
“Come on, man. Two weeks from today. And check it out—maybe I can set it up so you can crash at the Sig Alph house. Like I said, pussy, pussy, pussy.”
“My girlfriend’s probably coming with me,” Seth said. “Probably just get a hotel room.”
“Yeah, if you want to make it lame, make it lame, bring your girlfriend,” Wooly said. “Oh! Okay, sorry! Um, I mean, don’t do that, man. We need to hang out and catch up. Bunch of Grayson guys will be around, too. This is a very bros-before-hos situation.”
“I’ll see, man,” Seth said. “But we can definitely hang out when I’m in town.”
“What’s this I’ll see shit?” Wooly asked. “You’re coming. You are coming. I’m telling people you’re coming.”
“Okay, I’ll come that weekend.”
“Fuck yeah,” Wooly said. “And you gotta let that high school pussy go, man. Repeat after me: I am not fucking married.”
“Nah, we’re pretty serious—”
“I am not fucking married. I’m not hanging up until you say it, bro. I am not fucking married. I am not—”
“Okay!” Seth said. “I am not fucking married.”
“Fuckin’ A. I will see you in two weeks. If you don’t come, you’re a fucking dead man.”
Seth laughed. “All right, Wooly. I’ll be there.”
Wooly hung up the phone. “Okay? Was that okay?” he asked.
The man standing over him gave an evil grin. “That was fine.”
Wooly shuddered. The man’s voice sounded like a razor cutting through ice.
The man had come in through Wooly’s French doors, which led out to his balcony overlooking Charleston Harbor. Wooly had been sitting at his desk rolling a fattie of kush for a concert that night. Pink Floyd’s “Learning to Fly” was thumping his subwoofers, and the room was lit only by his black-light posters.
The man had stepped in from the darkness, dressed all in black, with that crazy grin. His freakish gray eyes locked onto Wooly instantly. Wooly had started to stand up and yell for help—maybe his brother would hear him downstairs—but the man grabbed his forearm and squeezed it tight, making Wooly spill the bag of bright green, eight-hundred-dollar-an-ounce kush all over the carpet.
And that was when things got fucked up.
When Wooly was a little kid, there was one movie that scared him more than any other. Pumpkinhead. A witch summoned a demon to carry out revenge against some teenagers, and that demon, with his swollen wrinkled head, his evil sneer, and his blank eyes, had given Wooly nightmares and wet beds for months.
The guy’s gray eyes reminded him of that demon’s eyes. And this guy’s face seemed to flicker a little, and Wooly could swear he kept glimpsing Pumpkinhead’s sneering face underneath.