- STEVEN -

"Steven, what the heck!?" were Dylan's first words once we made it to my car. We'd waited for Landon to leave, then bolted from Charity's house the moment he did.

"I—I can't believe it either," I finally said, reaching over him to store Charity's journal in my vehicle's glove compartment. "But I know one thing. We can't let Landon or my dad get a hold of this journal."

Dylan crossed his arms. "Well, I have a brilliant idea, Steven. JUST PUT CHARITY'S JOURNAL BACK WHERE YOU FOUND IT!"

I rolled my eyes, sighing as I shot a glare at him.

"Steven, I'm serious! Your dad obviously has some serious history with that lady, and we can't let ourselves get dragged into the middle of it."

"Dylan, that's exactly why I'm doing this. Whatever Charity's trying to pull over on my dad, I'm gonna stop her."

"And what about the two dead people having funerals this week?"

My face twisted into a puzzled look. "What about them?"

"Oh, come on, Steven. You mean to tell me you haven't thought, for even a second, that maybe all this is connected? What if Landon knows something about why they were killed? What if your dad does?"

"Dylan, what does it matter?"

"It matters because maybe one of them is next! And if we keep poking around in people's houses, maybe one of us is next."

I paused. "Well, then that's exactly why we have to keep the journal."

Dylan let out a massive groan.

"Bro, if Charity's hiding something, if somehow we find out the real reason she came to EdgeWay...it could save my dad. It could save Landon—it could save everyone."

"If you're so interested in saving your dad, why not just give him the journal?"

"Because then he'd know we were in her house." I sighed, looking down. "And he already doesn't trust me."

My best friend hesitated. "This isn't just about what Charity did to you...is it?"

I shuddered in place. "Dylan," I eventually managed, "if I tell you something, you have to swear to keep it a secret."

"Steven...bro, what is it?"

I sighed, glanced briefly out the window. "I was there, in EdgeWay, the night the police found Glenn Clather's body...in fact, I was one of the ones who found it first."

Dylan gasped. "But why? What were you—"

"Me and Grace were pulling a prank on Ahmed. Then him and Irina showed up, and...and Grace came across the body down the hall."

"Dude, that's insane..."

"But that's not all. When we found the body, someone locked us in the room with it. It was dark, and I couldn't make out a face, but I heard laughing."

"Whoa," Dylan breathed. "But how did you get out?"

"A secret key my dad'd told me about. It opened a tunnel that led to his office, and we climbed out the back window."

Dylan paused. "Wait, but I don't get it. How does that have anything to do with Charity?"

"Because she joined EdgeWay the very next week! She gave my dad a ton of money, and it just seemed like...like she was blackmailing him. Like the money was just a fake out and she had some serious dirt on him."

"Oh," Dylan said slowly. "But...you think that maybe, with this journal, you can give your dad the upper hand..."

"Yeah," I muttered. "...And maybe he'd trust me again." A heavy sigh escaped my lungs. "He can tell that I'm hiding something. He called me into his office asking about the key to the tunnel, and I...I lied about it."

"Steven—"

"I had to, Dylan! What would he have said if I'd told him the truth? And what if the cops had happened to be roaming through the hallway when I did? They would have heard me confess to being there that night. They would've thought I did it!" I sighed again. "You should have seen the way he looked at me."

"Your dad?"

I nodded. "Like I wasn't just a liar...he looked at me like I was a monster."

Dylan was silent.

"And if I can get Charity off his back," I continued, "maybe he'll finally trust me again—maybe he won't hate me."

"Steven, he doesn't hate you..."

I shook my head.

Dylan's eyes fell to his seat. "Okay, Steven, I'll do it. I'll help you." He rested a hand on my shoulder.

I turned to him and smiled, and it was a real smile—a real and genuine smile.

"So, where to?" he queried.

"My house. When me and Dad were having breakfast this morning, he said he'd be out 'til after eight at least. And that gives us plenty of time."

"Aye aye, Captain," Dylan replied, nodding his head.

****

"I still can't believe Landon was there."

I shook my head as I sat down at my dining room table, pulling up an extra seat for Dylan.

"This is crazy," Dylan continued. "I—I just...why? Why the heck is all of this happening?"

"One way to know for sure." I held up the journal.

"I don't know, man. I'm starting to have second thoughts...again. I mean, I get that you're trying to do your dad a solid by getting her out of his hair, but...I'm starting to wonder if she's even guilty in the first place. She's one of the nicest people I've ever met, and blackmail just seems so...so not like her."

"Dylan, come on, bro. We're so close. I can feel it—"

"Feel what, Steven? You've literally got a stolen journal and a spare key to the house we just broke into. Please tell me just what exactly you 'feel.'"

"The truth, Dylan. It's somewhere in here, and I'm gonna find it. Charity's up to something, and Landon showing up at her house like that proves it."

Dylan rolled his eyes as I began to read aloud:

"Tuesday, September 25th, 1984—Prudence and I spent the day at her house yesterday. We were both getting a little tired of campus food, as well as some of the dirty looks she kept getting from a few of the men. She's honestly so pretty. Some days I wish I had her looks, especially since she says she won't be using them.

"I really don't get it. To hear her tell the story, God gave her the gift of singleness like Paul. But Paul never called it a gift. He even said he had every right to look for a wife—"

"Oh boy, you were right, Steven," Dylan cut in, holding up his hands. "Some single lady getting tons of attention. Call the cops!"

I ignored him. "But Prudence won't come off it. She insists that God's called her to be single, to live a life devoted to Him. I suppose that's a good thing, even if she keeps getting all those mean looks from men. I don't know, I've always thought it'd be lovely to find a man to grow old with. And children—I really hope I have children one day.

"But the guys here don't stare after me nearly as much as they do (or, did) Prudence, especially when classes started a month ago. Although...now that word's gotten around that she's not on the market, perhaps having a smitingly attractive roommate means a few more boys might be headed my way." Charity's entry for the day ended with a doodled smiley-face.

I shut my eyes and chuckled lightly.

"What's so funny?" Dylan asked.

"This thing is a gold mine."

"Yeah, definitely," Dylan retorted, sarcasm leaking through his tone. "The thirty-year-old journal of a seminary student is just about as scandalous as it gets."

"Dude, don't you see it?" I prodded.

"See what?"

"She was jealous. Even back then, she just had to stick herself in places where she didn't belong. Who cares if Prudence was 'called to singleness' or whatever bull she said? No one—no one but Charity would care about something like that...just like no one but Charity would pop up out of the blue and try to worm her way into my dad's life!"

"Steven, I don't know...that's a stretch, man."

"Dylan, listen. I was outside my dad's office when she came in and basically bribed him into letting her join the church. And from the way things sounded, Dad was not happy that she showed up." I glanced for an instant at the journal, holding it tightly in my hand. "The two of them have some twisted history, Dylan, and I'm gonna get to the bottom of..."

EEEEK! A shrieking pitch ripped through the air.

"What the—"

EEEEEEEEK!

There it was again, like the scraping of a copper dagger down the blackness of a chalkboard. A heavy thud boomed, followed quickly by the shattering of a window and the crunching of its scattered glass under foot. Steps echoed swiftly, one after another.

Running—someone was running.

"What the heck?" I whirled around to face the hallway, glimpsed nothing but bare walls and blanched carpet, even as the pounding footsteps grew louder—it sounded like they were in my dad's study, or maybe the guest room, or...or maybe both?

I raced from the dining room to the kitchen, Dylan following, and grabbed two butcher knives from the silverware drawer.

"Dylan, here," I ordered, handing him one of the knives. "Take this."

We moved slowly forward, side by side as we stole sporadic glances in every direction. I felt my grip tighten as we turned the corner, a solitary closet the only figure before us in the hallway where we now stood.

"Steven, what's going on?"

The noise of footsteps had ceased, and now stillness hung in the air and crawled over my legs and arms, inviting goosebumps to do the same.

"Bro, I—I have no idea..."

"Should we...should we check the closet? I mean...somebody could be hiding in there."

And what'll we do if they are? I stared at the bare closet door.

"I...I guess so..." I trailed off.

Dylan was silent.

"D...do you have your phone? Mine's dead."

Dylan felt his pockets. "Crap! Mine's still on the table in the dining room."

"It's...it's just a quick run back through the kitchen," I offered. "And there's even a house phone that's still on the hook right outside the kitchen. I'll stay here and make sure no one comes outta that closet...last thing we want's for this guy to make a break for it."

"Steven, that's a bad plan. What if he comes after you while I'm gone?"

"Dylan, it'll take two seconds. Run!"

Dylan sighed but obeyed, holding up his knife for protection as he sped back into the kitchen.

Inching closer to the closet, I wasn't sure anyone was even inside. But I was tired of being afraid, of sounding afraid. Especially in front of my best friend.

"You might as well come out," I called in as commanding a voice as I could. "Me and my friend are armed. We can seriously hurt you."

Someone giggled...but not from inside the closet.

In a small square area at the far end of the hall, where the hallway I was standing in intersected with the one adjoining the living room, the lights flicked off.

I gasped, saw a hand emerge in the quasi-darkness. It was petite and feminine, and so was the rest of the body that stepped into view.

The figure standing before me had unmistakably blond hair, shining even in the dimness. Her head, hands, and feet all seemed drawn as through a single brushstroke—no outlines of clothes or shoes to obscure them.

No way—a naked chick. I started moving closer as I felt my body tense. She was thin, but her hips curved satisfyingly, voluptuously; I couldn't look away. As I drew nearer, she raised a single finger and twisted that white-blond hair in the dim light that reached it.

Then she drew her arm across her breasts and pressed her back against the nearest wall. She tilted her head, flipped her hair with a single wristflick, and stole out of sight through the hall archway.

That was...she was beautiful.

Mouth agape, I was frozen in awe, scarcely able to process the light pitter-patter registering in my ears. Pitter-patter that sounded a lot like...footsteps?

My eyes ballooned as I snapped back to reality. I spun a hundred eighty degrees and swung the butcher knife I held. A gloved hand caught my own and slammed it against the wall, blade falling to the smooth white carpet. A fist wrapped in leather slammed into my upper right cheek, knocking my head to the side as a thunderclap of pain blasted through my face.

I was dazed from the hit, but I still turned back and swung a fist of my own. My gloved opponent ducked the punch and sprang to the ground to grab a weapon with two prongs.

A hammer?

WHAM!

A heavy blow slammed upward into my crotch, and I folded, collapsing to the ground.

The black sole of a hard-bottom shoe stomped against my throat, crushing my breath into shingly rasps as my vision blurred with involuntary tears. I strained to inhale, felt my assailant kneel down and grab my mouth. He rammed something inside it, something white and puffy that scraped across my tongue, scratching at my airway.

I lifted my trembling arms to swat at him, shove him off me, but he forced his shoe down harder on my neck.

Agony shrieked through my limbs.

He grabbed my legs and forced them apart. My guy parts roared with pain, throbbing as I squirmed in fear.

He lifted the butcher knife I'd dropped and thrust it into my upper thigh, ripping my baggy jeans and tearing into my flesh.

His massive soles still crushing my throat, the sound that escaped my lips was the groaning and shallow shell of what would have undoubtedly been the loudest scream of my life.

I looked up and widened my eyes, noting for the first time the face of my attacker. Dark black and pale white melded, smearing together in what I imagined might have been the makeup of choice for a demented harlequin. Beneath the gratuitous streaks of powdery paint, sharp eyes stared back at me through a garish mask—the likeness of a demon—sporting a pointed nose, swollen lips, and short sabered teeth.

He lurched down, that horrifying face stopping only inches in front of my own. I winced as he glared, my body aching all over. His hand forced my chin upward, and moments later a strap of leather twisted around my neck. He drew it tight, looping it through a metal square that was cool to the touch and tinkled as it moved.

A belt buckle?

My eyes blurred as realization battering-rammed into my brain: this creep was gonna strangle me to death with a leather belt.

I could hardly move, could barely think. Whatever parts of my brain were somehow still functioning forced my eyes to dart around, to trace the thick white walls as haze clouded my vision. My arms twitched, but I couldn't raise them. The hallway was as plain and whitewashed as ever, save for the puddle of blood slowly soaking the carpet through my jeans.

Where's Dylan? The thought pounded through my head. Where is he?

The leather belt pulled even tighter. Oxygen seeped in through my nose, but my lungs still burned.

I could feel it coming, could feel the muscles skidding to a halt—the encroaching blackness clawing at both corners of my dulling field of sight. My eyes fluttered as the man in the demon mask finally stood to his feet, taking a long stare at my weakly writhing body.

A bright light followed, flashing for an instant before flitting away, shuttering to black just as quickly as it had begun. Gone in a flash...

No—it was a flash.

A flash? But...?

I blinked droplets of water from my eyes, saw through liquid fog the rectangular body of a smart phone.

A picture? This creep just took a—

More laughing.

No. No, this isn't real!

He was laughing.

The demon was laughing at me. Then he was turning...and running away.

His footsteps thudded lighter and lighter with each passing moment. But it felt as if his laughter still hung in the air—his twisted visage, that horrific and piercing glare, still lingering inches from my face as I whimpered in terror.

I shut my eyes, forced myself to focus on the silence that I knew was there. He's gone, I told myself over and over.

Slowly, I peeled my right arm off the floor and angled it under myself to push upward. My right leg, crimson stab wound pulsing, was too numb to move. I bent my left instead, thrusting my body upright.

Grabbing onto the hallway closet door handle for support, I drew myself into standing position. I managed to pry the belt from my neck and cough up the ragged cotton from my throat. I limped ahead, moving against the pain screaming from my leg. I caught the wall at the front of the hallway, then dragged myself into the kitchen.

The house phone rested on its short brown stand beyond the kitchen's wall. I picked it up the moment I could and dialed 9-1-1.

A brief buzzing of the dial. "What's your emergency?"

"My name is Steven Hall." My voice was weak, a gravelly husk that plummeted the moment I spoke. "Someone just...just broke into my house and...attacked me. I got stabbed...got stabbed pretty bad, and I—"

I stopped mid-sentence as my eyes swept suddenly ahead and into the dining room. "Oh no," I breathed.

"Sir?" asked the woman on the phone with me. "Sir, you said someone attacked you. Are you injured—?"

"DYLAN!" I screamed. "DYLAN, NO!" I dropped the house phone and ran to him, the pain in my leg seeming for a moment to subside as I raced to the spread of carpet where my best friend was sprawled and bleeding.

The black belt tied around his neck was the first thing I noticed.

It's...it's the same. That creep did the same thing to me...

But rather than stabbing him in the thigh, whoever attacked Dylan had opted to slice one of his wrists and leave him face up on the dining room floor.

He was unconscious, but the horizontal cut on his arm pulsated rhythmically, pumping an ominous red liquid onto the carpet surrounding his right palm. I ran to the cabinet above the kitchen sink and grabbed one of the cloth placemats, then hurried back to Dylan and wrapped it around his wrist, pulling it as tight as possible.

"Come on, Dylan," I begged. "Come on. Don't do this to me, bro."

When I'd wrapped the wound, I rushed back to the house phone, praying the operator hadn't hung up on me.

"Hello?" I begged. "Please, someone..."

"Sir, I'm here," she responded without even a second of deliberation. "We've triangulated your location, and officers have been deployed. We're sending an ambulance as well."

"Thank you," I breathed. "Thank you so much."

"I'm going to need you to stay on the line with me," she ordered. "Now, I want you to tell me exactly what happened."

"O-okay," I stammered. "I just...please hurry."

"Don't worry, Steven," she replied. "Help is on the way."