𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐘 (+𝟏𝟖)

CH. 14: LITTLE RED

M A L L O R Y

The violent persona of the Reaper has confused psychologists and law enforcement for decades, a grotesque specter haunting the shadows. While the public remains fearful of his return, experts theoriz—

A frustrated groan, somewhere between a growl and a sigh, escapes my lips as I mash the backspace key. The cursor devours another lifeless paragraph, masticating the remains like a vulture over roadkill, before blinking at me mockingly—taunting me to come up with something better, something organic.

I slump against the headboard, rubbing my eyes in dejection. The rain picks up outside, but the tapping against the windows does little to alleviate my stress.

Two pages. Two fucking pages in, and I hadn't even scratched the surface of what I needed to say.

It's late, I'm exhausted, and the assignment was due in four days. I glace at the time at the bottom of my screen— a quarter past midnight. Three days now.

The storm grows stronger, lightning flickering beyond the windows as the wind claws at the trees with callous fingers. Rainstorms usually calm me, but this one carries a sense of foreboding. I can only hope it doesn’t wake Luca; I've got enough on my plate.

My focus returns to my paper, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, waiting for words that never come. But, out of nowhere, thunder crashes overhead before the table lamps flicker on either side of me.

Then complete darkness.

“You gotta be shitting me.” As soon as the words leave my lips, the storm is quick to rudely respond with another loud thunder clap, as if to confirm it was indeed not shitting me. Well, fuck you too, Rain Man.

The power's out and the X over the globe icon on the taskbar tells me the Wi-Fi is down. Wonderful.

My frustrations soon die a rather quick death when a more uncomfortable feeling overtakes me, stirring unease within my gut as the hairs on my neck stand.

It wasn't the storm or the darkness that had me on edge. No, something was wrong, very wrong.

My eyes dart toward the far corner of the room, and my heart almost stalls when they close in on where shadows gather thicker than usual, creating a figure. I blink, adjusting my eyes, convinced it's just a trick of the dark. But when the next flash of lightning strikes, illuminating the room for a split second, I see him.

Fear constricts my airways, eyes widening in shock as he steps out of the corner and into the moonlight pouring from the large windows, the wooden floor creaking beneath the weight of his boots.

This isn't real, this isn't real...

A man, tall and imposing with the same black balaclava, and facemask obscuring every feature except those cold, electric blue eyes that starred in many of my nightmares. There’s no mistaking him.

The Long Island Reaper.

I blink hard, trying to snap myself out whatever fucked up dream this is as he lifts his hand, a glint of steel catching the light—a knife, long and sharp.

Shit, shit, shit! This is real!

Fear loosens its grip on my throat, allowing me to scream before my legs move on their own, bolting towards the door. My hand barely grazes the knob before my scalp is on fire— his hand yanks my hair, sending my body crashing onto the hardwood floor.

I stare up in horror as he towers over me, blocking my only exit. With swiftness, I grab the lamp from the bedside table as he approaches, swinging it at his head with another scream, hoping someone hears me. He reacts quickly, knocking it out of my hand before wrapping his own around my throat.