Psychotic | Tate Langdon (ON HOLD)

6. This is Not a Game

The next day, Tate was absent from school again. We never exchanged phone numbers so I'm stuck wondering where he might be. I'm laying with my back against the bed, swinging my legs in the air. My bluetooth speaker is blasting Mr. Brightside by The Killers, tapping my pencil against the loose leaf paper along with the rhythm. Each teacher has given us at least a pound of homework and as much as procrastination is nagging at me, I need to get it done.

My paranoia has utterly taken over and I keep seeing a shadow at the corner of my eye, even though I know well enough it's not there. The dream keeps replaying in my mind and I shake my head repeatedly, as if that clears my thoughts. I'm convinced it was actually there because my emotions and feels were much too vigorous to just be something I imagined during my slumber. My mind is focused on my homework and I distract myself from those dangerous thoughts.

A shot of anxiety courses through me when a hand slams onto my shoulder. I turn my head and the pounding of my heartbeat slows down when I see Tate. I have so many questions that are caught in my mouth because I'm too shaken up to speak. He's wearing a long-sleeve black shirt and the same jeans as the Halloween Party–his threads of dirty-blond hair mussier than I've ever seen.

"It's just me," he assures, sitting at the foot of my bed.

I let out an inaudible squeak, at loss for words. "H-how do you know where I live?"

"Address book." His behavior is eerily serene, considering he practically just broke into my house.

I cock my head to the side, "Already?"

His dark eyes never leave mine, every word that escapes his lips making him lean closer to me. "Yeah, they register people's information when they enroll." I nod in understanding and refrain from protesting. Part of me is relieved that he's here; my parents are at work and I don't want to be home alone–not after the other night.

I notice that he's carrying something behind his back and I say, "What's that?" He holds out a large box, and displaying on the front is OUIJA in big letters. It shows a picture of the planchette, replacing the O. My mood brightens and my frown eventually perks up into a grin. "A ouija board?"

"Yeah. I promised you at the dance that we would play this someday, and I'm keeping that." Tate winks at me and a flutter went off in my stomach. He unboxes it and sets the board on my bed, taking out the planchette.

The silence is more deafening than loud screaming in my ears so I make small-talk, "Why have you been absent recently?" For an unknown reason, I feel the need to prepare myself for the answer, as if he committed a crime.

He pauses and that only makes my anxiousness intensify. "I dropped out."

The words hit me like a brick and I shoot him a crazy look. "You dropped out? Why?"

"Because I have better things to do."

What the hell kind of answer is that? "Tate, we're halfway through our senior year."

"Haze, you don't need school." The only thing I get out of that sentence is the brand new nickname he's given me. "Your entire future doesn't depend on your education. I would rather live my life."

I'm shocked by how nonchalant he's acting, as if school doesn't matter. "Um . . . okay?" I overthink it and now I'm jumping to conclusions. It's about me. There's no logical explanation as to why it would be, but my paranoia begs to differ. "Is there a reason why?"

"No, I just don't want to go." Tate is beginning to sound exasperated by my endless inquiries, so he changes the subject before I can, "So, you have to put your index and middle finger from both hands on it." He shows me a visual representation and I follow his orders. "And you ask it questions. Don't laugh or make jokes about it–this is not a game." I expect him to laugh, but he's serious.

I shift so I'm comfortable on the bed and think of a question. "What's your name?" The room goes eerily silent and I zone out on the wall until I feel a jerk under my hand. I jump in fear and let out a terrified squeal when I see it moving across the board. "Tate, stop it, this isn't funny."

But he's watching intently. If he was moving it, he would be snickering his ass off. "I'm not."

"Yes, you are, please stop," I say through giggles.

The lens moves to H, but Tate's hand doesn't appear to be lifted as it would be if he was moving it himself. I gulp as it slides to a variation of letters; A, Y, D, E, N. "Hayden?" I ask, being reminded of the fact that he's right here next to me and I settle down a bit.

Out of nowhere, he sniggers and I yank my hand off the ouija board. "This isn't real."

"No, you can't leave without saying goodbye!" His voice pitch raises and he grabs me by the shoulders gently.

With a hint of sarcasm, I lean towards it and mumble, "Goodbye."