The Thirteenth

~Chapter Fifteen~

The Thirteenth

Chapter Fifteen

BANG!

BANG!

I was jolted awake by the sound piercing the cold, deathly stillness of the air. My head spun around towards the direction of the gunshots. I saw a silhouette of a man next to the dying tree at the far end of the cemetery. I slowly got to my feet, steadying myself. I checked my watch. It was four thirty.

The thought of having slept alone in the cemetery leaning on my mom's tombstone didn't feel as great as I thought. I rubbed my eyes, trying to focus on the silhouette bending over something. Who was he? What was he doing? Had he killed the person?

A shiver ran down my spine. What if he killed me? Should I confront him? If I did, it would definitely not end well, just a gut feeling.

My legs found the courage to take little steps forward. My shoes made little squeaking sounds as I moved, but it didn't seem to draw the man's attention. When I was about ten feet away, the man stopped what he was doing. I stilled, holding my breath. I tried to slide away, using the tree as my savior, but I was too late.

"Now, what do we have here?" A gruff voice spoke. I let out a shaky breath. My legs turned weak.

When I didn't answer, he stood up. His body came closer. The moonlight shed some light on his features, or what was left of them, at least. He was completely covered in black. He had a mask to conceal his face and a hoodie thrown up, leaving only his eyes.

Those eyes...It was him, but accent wasn't.

My eyes ran up and down his figure to confirm my thoughts. I was sure. It was indeed Mr. Wilson. When I met his eyes, it narrowed. He seemed to recognize me too.

"Who really are you?"

"What are you doing here?" His original accent was back.

We both asked at the same time. He seemed angry. He let his hoodie fall off his head and removed the mask. His recently shaved jaw looked so smooth under the moonlight. His brown hair was left messy. He walked to the van parked near the second gate, and returned a minute later.

"Come with me." He commanded in a no-nonsense tone.

I hesitated. No ways in hell, was I getting in the van with a killer! "I'm not going with you. I'm gonna call the cops immediately."

He exhaled sharply and before I knew what happened, I was being hauled off to the van. My body awkwardly hung across his broad shoulders. I started to thump his back, but he soon threw me into the front seat. He ripped a strip of tape, gagged me and drew out an injection.

My eyed widened fearfully. His angry gaze remained on me while filling the syringe. I shook my head and tried to pry him off with my hands. His large hand handcuffed mine, while the other pushed my hair from neck to inject me.

A tear slipped from my eye. He looked at me, as I struggled. "Don't fight it," he bit out. The needle pricked me. He still didn't release me from that death-hold.

After about a minute when I felt groggy, his hands loosened and he rested me against the seat.

I was swallowed by a traumatic past, bewildering present and a terrorizing future.

*

I was strumming the string of the guitar when my mom entered my room. She had a smile on her face, a poor attempt to cover the paleness of her face.