What the hell?
The figure knelt down, seeming to peer inside the car. I still couldn’t see their face, but by the all-black ensemble adorned by the large hood, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to put two and two together. It was the creep from the hallway!
I was pretty sure that I’d locked the car doors when I got in, but I wasn’t taking any chances. My shaking fingers fumbled with the side panel, reinforcing the locks. I still couldn’t peel my eyes away. Had I hit this person? They didn’t appear to be the least bit injured. A leather clad hand suddenly pounded down on the frontend, igniting a strange crackling sound from beneath the hood.
All of the gauges above the steering wheel suddenly died, leaving the entire dash pitch-black. I frantically tried restarting the engine, but I was only met with a rattling click. What did they just do? Looking back up at the stranger, I choked on a scream, seeing two blazing red lights flash beneath the shrouded hood where the eyes should have been. My eyes crazily blinked, trying to rid themselves of the obvious mind trick, but it wouldn’t go away. This person’s eyes were…glowing.
Through the rapid hustle of the windshield wipers, I could also see the other hand move behind the stranger’s back.
No.
No.
No.
An L-shaped rod came into view, and I quickly realized it was a tire iron.
Crying out every curse word imaginable, I kept twisting the key in the ignition without any luck. The hood hoisted back up as the individual leapt off it to the ground in one fluid motion.
“Come on, come on!” I slammed my palm against the steering wheel as my other hand tried one last time to turn over the engine. As if answering my prayers, the vehicle roared back to life. My foot slammed down on the accelerator, not particularly concerned with whether or not I plowed this psycho down. The car lurched forward, but jolted back to a stop just as quickly.
“Shit!”
The figure loomed toward the driver’s side of the car, and I throttled the gears into reverse. Punching down on the accelerator, the Civic floored back. An ugly crumpling sound scratched the undercarriage, but the car didn’t stop as I drove up onto the sidewalk. The shattered remains of one of the large potting plants lining the town square spat out of the frontend. Apparently, that was what I’d hit. Angling the car parallel to shop windows, I threw the gearshift into drive and sped off down the sidewalk. As the next intersection came, I jumped the curb and swerved back onto the street, stealing a look behind me in the rearview mirror. The rain made it impossible to see much of anything, but I could still make out the singular shadow looming across the road as lightning struck again.
Chapter 6
Emperor’s New Clothes
Apparently, word about the police cruiser out front spread like wildfire among the Real Housewives of Mystic Harbor, because not five minutes after Officers Blake and Stevens arrived did Mom storm in the house. I told the police all about the attack—with the exception of the whole glowing red eyes bit—and even showed them the photo I received when I retrieved my cell phone. They exchanged nervous glances.
“Could we have a word with you in private?” asked Stevens, motioning to my mother.
“Whatever it is, you can say in front of her,” snapped Mom.
Both officers grimaced.
“Officer Stevens here also checked with local hospitals to see if anyone came in from a hit-and-run. Nobody matches the case,” said Blake. “And on our way up here, we passed over the bridge where your daughter claims this all happened. The only thing there was a dead coyote on the side of the road.”
“Is it possible you may have been mistaken about what you saw?” Stevens directed to me.
“Unless this coyote happened to be six feet tall and wearing a black sweater, I wouldn’t say it’s likely, no.” I tried answering as politely as possible, but from the moment they walked in the door, their stance was made pretty clear. Either they were a part of the massive conspiracy, or they just thought I was bat-shit. Safe to assume the latter.
“Look, I went to Belleview High, too,” said Blake, who looked to be no older than twenty. “So I know how immature the guys there can be. The whole thing with the text and chasing you was probably just some moronic prank gone too far. When I was in school, my friend was forced to shave his head after another member on the basketball team put glue in his hair gel.”
“It’s not uncommon for people to see things after going through the kind of trauma you did. PTSD isn’t something to be ashamed of,” added Stevens.
The conversation didn’t get any better from there. If anything, everyone became more and more convinced that I was fit for a straitjacket. Blake urged me to come back with him and Stevens to the precinct, where a therapist would be more than happy to speak with me. Mom insisted that it wouldn’t be necessary, practically shoving them out the door.