Prey Drive by Jen Stevens
Chapter 7
the lamb
a shift at Old Soul once this week, which put Rosie in a much better mood. I've adjusted my schedule enough to account for drive time—and extra talking time, in Mrs. Botless's case—and while things are still chaotic, I've settled into a routine that feels more manageable.
I've taken the night off from waitressing, opting for a solo Gilmore Girls marathon instead. By the grace of God, I managed to make enough this month to cover my rent, and it's only the twenty-first. Every dime I make after this can either go in my pocket for things like groceries or gas, or I can add it to the jar for next month's rent. Either way, the weight has been temporarily lifted, and I can breathe for a minute.
So I'm taking that breather alone and in peace with a pack of Truly and Netflix. It's going great.
Until it isn't.
I'm three deep when I hear a noise in the garage again. Pausing the TV to end Lorelei and Rory’s constant banter, I crane my head to listen. Five full minutes pass before I decide that it was nothing. I turn the TV back on, but lower the volume just in case.
Three episodes and two more Trulys later, I realize I haven't even been watching the show because I've been so paranoid about the imaginary noise in the garage.
Or was it imaginary?
Finally, I decide I'm wasted enough to go to bed and pray that I was right before, back when I was still sober, and could convince myself it really was all in my imagination.
But if that's the case, why do I have this eerie feeling I'm being watched again?
I’ve been living in ignorant bliss this whole week, refusing to allow myself to believe there really was a man standing in my backyard, or that he was staring right in at me. It was easy to do when I’ve hardly been spending any time in the house outside of sleeping and rushing through a shower or shoving food in my mouth as I walk out the door. Now that I’m alone again, the creepy feeling has returned tenfold, and it refuses to be ignored. Suddenly, Halen’s teasing about me being all alone in these woods with a serial killer seems much more plausible.
I’m racing toward the back of my house and leaping onto my bed as my intrusive thoughts get the best of me. I’m convinced there’s someone in my house waiting to kill me.
But sleep is weighing too heavy for the fears to consume me once I’m comfortable in bed, especially with the alcohol running through my veins. As soon as the room stops spinning, I feel sleep take me under, and I'm passed out in what feels like minutes.
Something wakes me a couple of hours later. There's a long, discombobulated moment where I'm confused about the time and whether I really fell asleep or not, my consciousness still hazy from the alcohol. But when I realize it was a creak in the floorboard that woke me, I shoot up in bed and look around the room.
It's still dark. My clock reads 3:33, and I'm instantly reminded of all the times Kennedy rambled on about the witching hour. Maybe the noise wasn’t a killer at all… but a ghost.
Could there be a ghost in the house? That might explain the light…
Would that be better or worse than someone breaking in?
No. I shake my head in an attempt to rid myself of the thought.
Ghosts aren't real. No one's breaking in.
The man isn’t back.
You're drunk. Go to sleep, I think. Or maybe I said it out loud, I don't know.
I lie back and turn away from the bright, moonlit window. Within seconds, sleep takes a hold of me once more, and I don't wake again until the morning.