The Campus Killings {#LGBTQ #HORROR #FRIGHT}

Chapter One

Elsewhere in Aberdeen a few days later, a young man named Jake Featherstone sat in front of his bedroom mirror, an open suitcase on the bed behind him.

Jake frowned as he looked into the mirror, staring sullenly at a photograph he had tucked into the corner, his lips pressed together into a thin, sad line.

Around him, his bedroom seemed to be boxing him in — the empty blue walls, the ajar oak wardrobe and metal desk and the open drawer before him with the mirror perched above.  It felt like he hadn't truly lived here, as if he was in some stranger's room, staring at himself with regret, though there was something in the back of his mind he had forgotten to do.

Jake regarded his own reflection anxiously as he twiddled with his hands — he was a pallid, black haired man just shy of twenty years old, with brown, oval eyes and a permanent look of discontent carved into his features, his lips curved downwards into a pout.

His raven hair was scruffy, messily curled across his forehead and a white AC/DC t-shirt stretched tightly over the form of his slim body as he dug his nails into his jean leg.

He was unable to hold his own gaze for any longer, he looked back to the photograph — a beautiful, smiling Chinese woman with a curtain of straight black hair framing her face, itself marked with laughter lines and dimples, accentuating her maturity but also her youthfulness.   To anyone else, the glint of mischievous delight in her honeyed eyes would've brought comfort, but for Jake, it was just another symbol of his sadness.

Before he could dwell too long, there was a knock at his door and as he looked up, he saw his father, who poked his head around the door sheepishly.

The man's eyes scanned the room, taking in the open drawers and wardrobe with equal concern and attempted stoicism.

Lucius Featherstone, or, as he was known by his friends, Luke was a smartly dressed man in his late forties who had curled, sandy brown hair that was neatly combed back and a pair of piercing deep blue eyes that somehow held a softness as he looked at his son.

"Are you finished packing yet?" he asked, his voice dripping with a little worry that betrayed his attempt at professional coolness.

Lucius' voice was both gentle and a little rattling, the poshly accented voice curling around the vowels with a poise that almost betrayed the attempt at connecting with the boy before him, with something rather excruciating about the distance between them and the awkwardness of the question.

Jake bristled at the words — so that was what he was doing before he got distracted, "Barely even started.  I was going to but I— I guess I let time get away from me."

His father looked at the contents of the case, which consisted of two barely folded t-shirts, a singular pair of jeans and two mismatched socks and sighed.

"Jake." he cocked his head disapprovingly before coming to sit on the bed, "I thought you said that this is—  You said you could handle it, that you were doing—" he sighed softly, "Are you sure this is what you wa—"

Jake cut him off sharply, throwing his hands up defensively, "It's what I want!  That's what I told you, isn't it?"

Lucius' gaze dropped, seemingly hurt by his tone and almost immediately, Jake felt regretful, like it was he had been the one shouted at.

He's just trying to help, part of him argued, whilst the other part countered, he just wants to get rid of you.

"I'm sorry, dad." he sighed, his voice becoming a little choked despite himself, "I shouldn't be an arsehole to you, you're doing your best.  This hasn't been easy on you either."