October 14, 1997

"Grant!" The little girl ran screaming from the kitchen and tore through the living room, skidding on the loose rug as she did so. "Grant!"

"Sam?" The teenager stepped out from behind the doorframe in time for the child to plow into him, nearly knocking him over. Grant caught the four-year-old up in his arms and looked around wildly, startled that his sister would be so terrified. She was shaking and thrashing, trying to climb out of his arms. He ducked behind the couch and covered her mouth with his hand, shushing her gently.

"Sam," he whispered. "Sammie, look at me. Look at me."

The little girl finally did, staring up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes. He wiped the tears from her face with the pad of his thumb, listening intently for any trace of sound from the rest of the house. The little girl finally calmed down enough that her tears stopped, though her tiny body continued to tremble.

"Look at me, Sammie. Is it Christian?" he breathed.

She nodded, and her big brown eyes filled with tears once more. Dread filled Grant's heart, and he peered around the edge of the sofa, keeping his little sister tucked safely against his chest. Her short arms held him tightly, and his dark shirt was clenched in her small fists.

A wave of anger swept through him, and his grip on his sister tightened. Christian. What a hypocritical name. His brother was more like a demon than anything else.

Nearby, a floorboard creaked.

The little girl huddled closer to her brother, tucking her knees to her chest and squeezing her eyes shut tight. Grant took a deep breath and set his sister down. The little girl's eyes opened, peering innocently up at her brother.

"Run when I say," he breathed, and she nodded.

He stood, facing his older brother.

"Hey, Grant." The boy, already sixteen years old, glanced from the couch to his younger brother. "Where's Sam?"

Grant heard his sister give a tiny, terrified gasp. "Haven't seen her."

Christian took a step forward, and Grant mirrored him, slowly moving to stand in front of the couch. "Just walk away, Grant," Christian ordered, his face hardening. "Walk away."

The front door opened, then slammed shut, and both boys froze. Heavy footsteps moved their way, and Christian, sister forgotten, sprinted from the room. Grant, following his brother's lead, dove through the doorway and into the hall moments before their mother entered the room.

His mother. Mothers should be nurturing, kind—at least, that is what he'd seen from the mothers of the other children he went to school with. He'd certainly never experienced kindness or love from his own mother. His brother, Thomas, was the only one who had never been on the receiving end of his mother's abuse, and Christian hated him for it.

Their father wasn't any better—he just sat by and watched.

"Samantha," he heard his mother coo.

Grant froze. He'd left his sister in the room, behind the couch—

"I know you're here, darling," she continued, her voice soft. "Come out, dear."

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and steeling himself for what he was about to do. He'd told Sammie what to do when this happened—she'd run out into the yard, past the well that had long since been covered and buried—through the woods and down the road until she got to the police station. "Don't stop," he'd told her. "Never stop running, okay? Don't stop running."

Sammie screamed. Grant's eyes flew open, and he burst into the room. His mother was standing over Samantha, who was curled into a tiny ball at her feet.

"Sammie, run!" He tackled the woman, sending her sprawling, and fought to hold her down as his little sister bolted from the room. He heard her mess with the doorknob, undoing the deadbolt, and then she was gone, running as quickly as her four-year-old legs could carry her.

A blow on the side of his head sent him sprawling, and he shook his head to clear it as his mother clamored to her feet. A second later, the boy lunged forward, taking the woman's legs out from under her. He had to give Sammie enough time to escape—it was a mile to the police station, but she could do it, she knew the way—

He only prayed that his mother would be too distracted by punishing him that she'd forget about his sister.

The woman kicked out viciously, and her foot connected with his shoulder. He yelled as pain exploded in his shoulder, and he recoiled, holding her arm close to his chest. He watched as the woman rose to her feet, a horrible look on her face, and he braced himself as all hell descended upon him.

~8~8~

October 11, 2011

Rock music played loudly in my ears as I grunted, hoisting the bar up into the air before bringing it back down to touch my chest. I repeated the action, keeping my breathing steady even as my arms began to quiver in exhaustion.

I had been working out for the last hour, working to get in as much time as possible before class started. I had had to wake up at four-thirty to have time to fit in a trip to the gym before my eight o'clock class, but it was worth it. My spotter nodded as I set the bar back in its place, and he wandered off to help somebody else as I gathered my things and left the building.

The sun hadn't risen yet. Everything was doused in gray light, and mist obscured the taller of the residence halls from view. Hardly anyone was awake yet—except for the jogger who flew by a moment before—but for the kitchen staff and the odd all-nighter who was cramming for a midterm. I myself had been up until one in the morning studying and had only gotten a few hours of sleep for my troubles, but it didn't matter. I rarely slept these days anyway.

A cold shower shocked me completely awake, and I spent the next hour fixing my hair and makeup while simultaneously trying to make a cup of coffee. At seven forty-five, I dared to see if the drink was cool enough to taste—and the sip of coffee proved fatal to a large chunk of my tastebuds. I only had one midterm today—History—and one other class at eleven that I hadn't had to study for. I was supposed to meet my boyfriend for dinner at five, though I wasn't sure now if I would be able to taste the food we ate. The thought of my boyfriend brought a smile to my lips, and I felt my dimples appear in my cheeks.

The walk to class was brisk and cool, and and I slid into my seat with five minutes to spare.

"Hey, Sam!"

I smiled kindly to the young woman standing in the doorway. "Hey, Kates. What's up?"

"Oh, nothing much." The other girl plopped down in her seat and rubbed at her red-rimmed eyes.

"You didn't sleep last night, did you?" I asked, resting my chin in my hand.

"What, me? Oh, I slept. I slept for hours—" her claim was interrupted by a yawn that threatened to split her head open. "Okay, I didn't sleep. Did you bring me coffee?"

In answer, I pulled out a thermos and handed it to my friend. The girl unscrewed the lid and inhaled deeply. "Oh, thank God. You, Sam, are a saint."

"Hey, Samantha!" A sophomore girl with heterochromia leaned back in her seat and grinned. The unique splash of her brown in her left eye, which was otherwise blue, gave others the impression that her eye glowed with several different colors. The effect was slightly marred by the large pink flower tucked behind her ear, something that all pledges in the girl's sorority had to wear—it looked nice, but it distracted from her eyes. "You ready for the exam?"

"Are you kidding?" A boy my own age who sat directly behind me leaned forward and grinned. "I'm pretty sure Sam's got a hundred and three in the class. She's set."

"Alright, everything off your desks except for a pencil—that includes coffee, Ms. Eve."

Kate nodded and attempted to chug the rest of the thermos as the professor turned away, resulting in a strangled gasp and several attempts to prevent coughing up the drink onto her neighbor's back. The girl in front of her took panicked scoots forward as the teacher turned back around.

"You have three hours to complete the exam: I do not expect that any of you actually need all of the allotted time. Even so, do not rush, and a reminder that there is no class on Monday, so remember to read pages one hundred and seventy-three through two hundred and fifty for our discussion on Wednesday. You may begin as soon as you have your exam, there is to be no talking."

The professor handed out the exams, and I began as soon as the paper was in front of me. I blew through it with ease, though I spent over two hours on the essay portion of the exam, making sure that I included every date, battle, and notable person of rank involved in the Second World War. I was the last person to leave the classroom, and I had just enough time to walk through the doors of my Creative Writing class before my teacher started taking roll.

"Ah, Ms. Ward, thank you for joining us." The middle-aged woman smiled without spite and handed me a thick stack of paper held together by a binder-clip. "Marvelous work."

By lunchtime, I was exhausted. I had received the highest grade possible on my short story—though my professor had advised me to go on and turn it into a novel, since it was about a hundred pages too long for a short story—and had done exceedingly well on my other exams, except for science. I had decided to go ahead and take chemistry this year, and I was only managing to scrape together a B because of the extra credit I had been gathering all semester long.

"… and if I don't get an A on this midterm, there's almost no chance of me getting an A for the semester," I ranted, rolling over to face the ceiling. "Which, if I want to keep my four-oh, I need to—why are you laughing?"

"I'm sorry," Thomas struggled to contain himself, "It's just that I was just like you when I was in college. You're going to do fine, I promise—you're not even majoring in a Science, so you should be fine."

I grinned, warmth filling me at the sound of my brother's reassurance, and rolled back onto my stomach. "Yes, I know, but I still want to have a high GPA!"

"You're a Freshman in college and have a four-oh, and you're probably the only one who isn't out drinking every weekend. You're you're are on the Dean's list, you're involved in a sorority and few other clubs I don't know the names of—you're going to be fine, trust me."

"Thanks, Thomas." I pulled my teddy bear to my chest and rested my chin on it. "How's Anna?"

"She's good. She misses you—we want to fly you out soon, we love having you. Say, Thanksgiving?"

I laughed, a joyous smile taking over my face. "I'd love that."

"That is," Thomas interrupted slyly, "If Jonathan doesn't have something planned for you already."

"Jonathan's going to visit his family in Florida, I told you that already," I protested, laughing.

"How's he doing, anyway?"

"He's good," I pulled my blanket up to my chin and nestled into my couch. "We have a date at five."

"You sound tired." The concern in my brother's voice made me smile sleepily as my eyelids drooped. "How much sleep have you been getting?"

"Not enough," I replied, blinking quickly to stay awake.

"I'll let you go, then," Thomas told me, a smile in his voice. "I'll tell Anna that you called."

"Okay," I murmured. "Thomas?"

"Yeah?"

"Happy birthday."

"Thanks, kiddo. I'll talk to you soon, okay? How does Monday sound?"

"Monday's great. 'night."

"Goodnight, Sam," he chuckled. "I love you."

"I love you too."

The line clicked, and I set my phone on the floor before bringing my knees to my chest and dropping off to sleep. The sound of knocking woke me up a few hours later, which was just as well—I'd been having a nightmare. I rose, groggy and off-balance, and made my way to the door, staggering as I did so. I glanced in the mirror—I looked far more unkept than I normally did—my makeup had rubbed off, revealing the dark bags under my eyes and the faint scars on my face—the little makeup that still remained was smeared under my eyes, making the circles appear even darker. A baggy sweatshirt fell past my hands, hiding my brutally short nails from view.

"Just a second!"

I splashed water on my face and rubbed the dark makeup off quickly, making me look at least a little more presentable. There wasn't much that could be done about my bedhead—my night-terrors caused me to sweat, which meant that my carefully straightened hair was now damp, frizzy, and spiraling out of control. I splashed water onto my neck and tugged at my clothing, which was suddenly restricting—I pulled the sweatshirt off over my head, leaving me in old jeans and low cut sweater whose sleeves still dropped past my wrists.

More knocking.

"I'm coming!"

No one ever really knocked; the only people in the building were other female students, and everyone knew that they could just walk on inside whenever. The only people who knocked were strangers and maintenance.

I unlocked the door and pulled it open, smiling and trying to look as awake as possible, expecting to see an RA who would let me know about some event happening that night in the lobby. I was not expecting to see a man.

His back was to me. I didn't recall meeting anyone of his build, so his appearance confused me. He was tall, about half a foot taller than I was. He had dark hair that was cut short but was all messy, as though he'd run his fingers through it several times out of frustration—likely because he'd been waiting for so long for me to answer the door. He was wearing a tailored suit, which fit his form nicely, and he was well built.

"Excuse me." I cleared my throat. "Are you looking for me?"

The man turned around. He looked disturbingly familiar, so much so that I took a step back, holding tight to the inside doorknob. "Yes, I'm looking for a Jennifer Guiles, does she live around here?"

My stomach dropped. "I don't know a Jennifer, sorry." I leaned against the door, I frowned. "Have we met?"

The man's face was expressionless. "No."

"You seem familiar."

The hand hidden by the door drifted to rest on the pocket knife in my back pocket. Something in the man's eyes was startling, frightening—and suddenly I knew exactly who this man was, and it filled me with such intense fear that my heart immediately began to race, and my palms began to sweat.

"I don't know, maybe you just have one of those faces," I decided, praying that I sounded nonchalant. "I hope you find your girl," I added, shrugging. "I don't think there's a Jennifer in this building, though. You could try the main office; it's in the old building with the clocktower on top, you can't miss it."

Nearly two decades of lying to stay alive were what fueled me now, and I forced my heart to still, to calm down, and my too-short nails refrained from tapping impatiently against the door. My tone stayed friendly, if not confused, and I found myself praying that someone—anyone—would walk down the hall. No one did.

"Thank you, miss…" he waited expectantly for my name, and I heard a chorus of alarm bells go off in my head. At that moment, the alarm on my phone went off, and I jumped, startled.

I laughed it off, shaking my head. "Sorry, I have a date tonight, and I really need to get ready. Good luck on your search!"

I closed the door lightly and had to use all my self control to keep from dead bolting it shut. He would hear, he would know. I did turn the tiny lock, the one that could be broken, but it was soundless, and it was something, and it bought me time.

I walked backwards into the room, keeping an eye on the door—and the shadow that was no longer standing in front of it—and turned off the alarm on my phone. I dialed 911 while I could. The reminder of the last time I had called the police on this man appeared in the forefront of my mind, and my hands began to shake as I set my computer to play music—loudly enough that no one eavesdropping could overhear but softly enough that the policeman on the other end of the line could understand me.

"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?" the police dispatcher asked.

"There's a man on my hall," I murmured, taking a deep breath. "He's been stalking me." Suddenly the walk back to the door seemed frighteningly long, and I found myself glancing back at my window and pondering the likelihood of injuries should I have to jump. It wouldn't be the first time I'd had to jump off a building to get away from somebody, and it wouldn't be the last.

"Alright, please remain calm—do you know this man?"

"Yes."

"Is he in the room with you?"

The suggestion made my heart clench in fear, and my breathing grew shallow. Suddenly I felt like a six-year-old again, trapped inside a burning building. "No."

A shadow appeared at the foot of my door, and a whimper escaped my lips. "Please, hurry," I gasped. "I'm on the second hall of Mosley, room Two-Seventeen, please hurry." Tears of fear stung my eyes, and my hand shook so badly I could barely hold the phone steady. "Please hurry."

"Ma'am, remain calm. Keep talking, please, we have someone on the way."

"I c-can't, p-please help me—"

The shadow hadn't moved.

"Ma'am—"

The doorknob turned, and the little lock caught. My breath caught in my throat, and I wrenched the window open as the doorknob jiggled. My phone lay abandoned on the bed. I kicked out the screen and grabbed my phone as the lock clicked—I glanced over my shoulder as the door opened and I jumped—wide brown eyes stared back at me, and the man shouted in anger as I fell two stories. Wind whipped my hair back—I hit the ground—pain shot up my shins—and I rolled.

An instant later, I was on my feet, running for my life.