A Deadly Sorority (Book #1 Sorority Horrors)

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I tossed and turned, tormented by my thoughts. My eyes repeatedly snapped open, eyelashes fluttering as my consciousness fought with my internal desire to sleep.

That unsettling phone conversation with Detective Johnson earlier in the day crept back into my mind like a ricocheted slingshot aiming right for my head.

I sat up, and my bed creaked as I shifted my head to gaze at the digital clock on my nightstand. The 3:30 A.M. bled a crimson red. Reminiscent of the blood poured on my car by the Crimson Lake Killer. The thought of that deranged madman caused fear to spiral through my veins, like the powerful force of water bursting through the hose of a fire hydrant.

Was he going to kill me next?

Tomorrow couldn't come fast enough. I desperately needed to know what information Detective Johnson was going to divulge.

I sat up, sweat beads dripping from my forehead,  landing on my comforter with a silent thud.

The oppressive weight of fear bore down on me like a black bear sitting on my chest. I was caught in a tight, suffocating grip. Relentless images of him flowed through my head.

Leaning over, I switched on the lamp, casting a single tunnel of bright light from my bedroom into the empty hall.

Sweating and overheated, I longed for a sip of ice-cold water to calm my nerves. Throwing the blankets aside, I swiveled my legs to the side of the bed, planting my feet on the cool hardwood floor. Yawning, I stood and made my way into the kitchen. Flipping on the light switch, I opened the fridge and reached inside, grabbing a cold bottled water.

Standing at the counter, I twisted the cap and gulped down the cold liquid as if I hadn't had anything to drink in over a week. I wiped my forehand over my mouth, wiping away the extra water that had accumulated around my lips.

I felt a cool breeze of fresh air wave past me, tickling my arms. Startled, I gazed at the window, realizing I had neither closed the curtains nor the window which I had left open earlier to air out my apartment. The view of my apartment was completely exposed. Hastily, I yanked one side of the curtain closed.

As I was reaching out to slam the window shut, my eyes widened when a man with a black ski mask suddenly locked eyes with me.

I gasped.

My heart leaped and somersaulted in my chest as his gloved hand pressed against the open window. Summoning all my strength, I raised my hands and pushed against his, thwarting his attempt to enter.

In sheer terror, I screamed, "Help!"

I struggled against the madman, my eyes frantically scanning the countertop beneath me for a weapon. That's when I saw the knife I had used earlier in the sink beneath me. Its sharp, shiny blade called out to me. Quickly, I grabbed it and strategically stabbed the man's hand right in the middle, hoping I severed a few of his veins.

He yelled out in dire pain and withdrew his hand from the window. Shaking with anxious nerves flowing through my veins, I immediately shut the window and locked it.

Breathing rapidly, I ran back to my room and grabbed my cell phone from the nightstand. With trembling hands, I dialed 9-1-1.

Placing the phone to my ear, I reported the incident.

"9-1-1, what's your emergency?" a man with a stern tone answered.

"The Crimson Lake Killer, he's at my window. Please send the police now!" I screamed.

***

I sat in the police station, in a dingy, old room, while I patiently waited for Detective Johnson. With nervous jitters, my legs shook unconsciously. Widening my eyes, I scanned the room, gazing up and down at the walls. I noticed the yellow paint chipping and tiny pieces piled onto the linoleum floor. Cobwebs hung in the corners, and the ceiling was an ashy gray.

Fear resided within me, unrelenting. I didn't know what to expect after being nearly murdered. My emotions were inconsolable, and a relentless stream of tears dripped down my face. The salty drops flowed into my mouth.

I jumped, startled, as the door creaked open, causing my eyes to widen.

"Hi, Kayla," a soft voice whispered as the door opened further.

An older woman in her 50s stepped into the room with a compassionate expression.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you," she apologized. "I'm Darla, Detective Johnson's secretary." She introduced herself while she held a box of Kleenex in her hand.

I sniffled as she approached.

"I thought you might need some Kleenex, so I brought you some." She placed it on the table in front of me. I pulled out a few, dabbed my eyes, and blew my nose.

"Would you like me to wait with you until Detective Johnson arrives?" she inquired, her eyes filled with empathy.

I nodded. "No, I'll be fine. But thank you." My attempt at a smile faltered, overwhelmed by the anxiety and fear from the incident. Now, in the police station at 4:50 A.M., I longed only to speak with Detective Johnson, believing he could assist me.

Suddenly, my phone vibrated with an incoming text message as it sat up on the rickety table. I picked it up.

Mark: Hey, Kayla! Kennedy told me you were attacked by the Crimson Lake Killer tonight. Is it true?!

Staring at my phone, I was completely baffled. I hadn't disclosed anything to Kennedy or anyone else. After the attack, I immediately called 9-1-1, and two police cruisers arrived at my residence within seconds. I had absolutely no time to share the incident. 

I was still overwhelmed and consumed with fear and disbelief. I was in no way, shape, or form ready to disclose what had just happened to me. That is, not until I had the opportunity to talk to Detective Johson and find out my next move.

Should I even continue to reside in Irvine? Or should I pack up and move back to Arizona? But more importantly, how does Kennedy know?

Kayla: Kennedy told you that? What?!

I waited for Mark to respond. The bubbles appeared on my screen, informing me that Mark was typing out a response. Then, the bubbles completely vanished. Still, I waited awhile for Mark to respond, but he never did. I decided to shoot him another text.

Kayla: Mark, it's been over an hour, and you still haven't responded. How does Kennedy know? I didn't tell her.

That marked the beginning of Mark avoiding me at every turn and never addressing my question. Ever again. And yet, the question still lingered.

How did Kennedy find out, and why would she confide in Mark?