Dead Man's Match

One

Bright, pearly light streams through the window, illuminating a single, sparkling, brown eye. The rest of Zoe's face remains shrouded in shadows as she leans against the windowsill, though I still see the outline of a smile tugging at her lips.

"And as the girl turned around, an eerie, white mist assembled in the darkness."

As in on cue, a gentle breeze sweeps past Zoe, sending shivers down my spine. I wonder if Zoe could've summoned it on purpose, then remind myself that my best friend would've revealed any weather powers she had a long time ago.

"She felt something tightening around her waist." Zoe thrusts her hand out, moonlight illuminating her warm, beige skin. "A hand, drawing her closer and closer... to death."

I grip my comforter in suspense. I don't even have to look at Priya and Autumn beside me to know they're doing the same.

"Then she felt the trickle down her neck, a small stream, a darkened, warm river oozing from her head, crawling down her spine, and dripping into a puddle by her feet."

Priya lets out a little shriek beside me. I clamp down on the growing unease in my belly.

"The ghost had finished with the knife. That way was far too easy. Now, it wanted to slowly savor the moment when it brought her life to a close."

The knife. I resist the urge to squeeze my eyes shut.

There are no knives in this room, I assure myself. And the story is almost over.

I try to match Autumn's breezy expression beside me. After all, horror stories are meant for entertainment — usually. But my thin lips refuse to tilt up any further than a solid line. Anxiety prickles at my skin, down my neck and spine, sending tingles shooting down my thighs, my calves, just like the sticky substance in the story.

"The ghost had squeezed her head too hard, so all the blood from her brain was leaking out. Within the hour, she'd be dead."

My hands inch around to cradle my elbows. I take deep breaths and try to imagine myself in my "safe place." Slowly, I begin to tap, tap, tap, alternating between elbows.

"I thought you said that the fog wrapped around her waist," Autumn interjects. She's reclining against a baby blue comforter, one I used during my butterfly phase when I was seven, hence the multitude of yellow butterflies swooping across the fabric. Autumn couldn't care less that it has a little girl design. In fact, there's very few things she cares about. So far, the list we've identified is algebra, geocaching, and beat boxing.

Zoe sighs. "Okay, fine. The fog squeezed so hard that it cut off oxygen to her brain, leading to internal bleeding."

"Is that medically accurate?" Autumn peers over her tortoiseshell glasses. With her frizzy brown hair pulled back in a low ponytail, she almost has a teacherly quality.

"She's dead now, so blood. The end."

Blood. Death. A fresh wave of anxiety washes through me. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, grateful for the cover darkness provides. Please don't notice anything. Please don't pay attention to me.

Adrenaline courses through my veins, making my heart race and my hands twitch. I clasp my fingers together, feel them digging against each other. My body freezes inside my sleeping bag. I don't dare move until the looming panic subsides.

Deep breaths, I remind myself. That "in four out six" routine never works for me, so I focus on the way my lungs expand as air inflates them, my chest compressing as the air releases. That's all that's moving. Your lungs, keeping you alive. Your heart, keeping you alive.