It's dark.

I shouldn't be walking across campus alone, especially given the current circumstances, but none of my sorority sisters are enrolled in night classes. Even if some of them were, I doubt they'd be attending.

I don't blame them.

Three Greek girls have already died, all stabbed to death by someone the media has christened the Sorority Slayer.

Personally, I think it's a stupid name for a serial killer. It reminds me of a cheesy horror movie where you laugh at the bad acting more than you scream. But that hasn't stopped fear from spreading through our sleepy college town like a bad case of mono. It's a wonder classes haven't been canceled.

University Promenade, the heart of Edgewood State, is normally filled with students. Tonight it's empty. A late autumn breeze carries a chill that is entirely unrelated to the approaching winter months. It's sharp in a foreboding sort of way, and I cast a glance over my shoulder as I pick up the pace. As far as I can tell, I'm alone. But the fog rolling off the nearby lake makes it impossible to separate the shadows from anything sinister.

Click, click, click.

Other than the sound of my heeled boots echoing across the flagstones, the world around me is silent. It's as if nature herself knows that danger hangs in the air. She's holding her breath, waiting.

Then, suddenly, a branch snaps.

I whip around and scan the tree line, but find nothing. My ears strain against the silent night, listening for any signs of company, but there's not even a rustling of leaves. Still... I can't help but feel like I'm being watched.

You're just imagining things, I tell myself. Keep walking.

So I readjust my backpack and continue down the street. Two blocks ahead, I can see my destination: Goalpost, a sports bar that I waitress at on the weekends. The floodlight above the door casts a pool of golden warmth on the sidewalk, and I hurry toward it, eager to escape the unknown of the dark.

When I arrive, the tension between my shoulder blades finally dissolves. Goalpost is usually packed with students on Friday nights, but today most of the tables are vacant. A small group of employees is gathered in front of the TV mounted on the wall, and I cross the room to join them.

"...most likely a caucasian male between the ages of twenty and thirty who either attends Edgewood State or teaches there," announces a woman wearing a blue and yellow FBI jacket.

A jolt of surprise shoots through my body. "They have a suspect?" I ask.

"No," says Mark. He's the manager of Goalpost... also, my ex boyfriend. "The police are giving a profile." He glances back at me and then does a double take. "Ellie, what in the world are you doing here?"

I shrug off my backpack and flash him a small smile. "It's pay day. I came to pick up my check."

"Did you walk here alone?" From the way he's scowling at me, he already knows the answer.

"Couldn't be helped," I tell him. "I had class in the engineering building until nine and the campus bus doesn't run this way."

His eyes go wide. "Jesus, are you trying to get yourself killed?"

"Don't worry. I carry pepper spray," I respond, patting my coat pocket.

Mark shakes his head at me in disbelief, like I've grown a pair of horns. "Next time you give me a call, okay? Doesn't matter where you are, I'll come pick you up."

"Yeah, thanks. I'll definitely take you up on that offer." I'm lying, but it's the only way to get Mark off my back. I understand why he's concerned—I fit the victim profile perfectly: blond hair, athletic, sorority girl. However, now that we're broken up, there's no way I'm accepting a ride from him. It would be too awkward.

Time to direct the conversation away from me.

"So," I say, gesturing to the TV as I take a spot at one of the bar stools. "What else are they saying about this serial killer?"

"Just that he's one twisted son of a bitch." Mark grabs a pint glass off the shelf and pours me a beer. "All three of the girls he's killed? Sliced up so bad they had to be identified through dental records. Sick, huh?"

Gina, another Goalpost waitress, butts into our conversation. "That actually tells the police a lot about the unsub."

Raising a brow, I say, "Is that so?"

"Well, it's obvious from the overkill that he hates women," she explains. "Most likely he was rejected by a girl who looks very similar to his victims."

"That's an interesting theory," I tell her and take a sip of my drink.

Mark grins. "Just because you watch Criminal Minds, doesn't mean you're some fancy behavioral expert. Leave the sleuthing to the professionals, Nancy Drew."

"Whatever," Gina says, flipping him off. But there's a smile on her face too.

We spend the next twenty minutes watching the news in silence. When I finish my beer, I stand and make my way across the bar. "Where's my money, Mark?"

"Checks are somewhere on top of my desk," he calls. Which means it will probably take me an eon to find them. Mark is the most disorganized person I know.

"It's called a filing cabinet, ya slob," I shout as I step into his office. "Invest in one!"

Gina follows behind me and shuts the door. It's obvious from the look on her face that I'm not going to like what she says next.

"Hey, hon. How are you holding up?"

"Oh, you know." I rub my arms and do my best to avoid her gaze. "As good as I can be."

"This must be so terrifying for you," she responds. "I mean, I'm scared shitless. I can't imagine how I'd feel if I were in your position." Gina is one of the only people who know that I am the person who found the first body. It happened two weeks ago on my daily run. I always take the same route, a three mile circuit around the lake. I was about a quarter of the way done when I tripped over an arm. Her name was Abigale Hood.

"I try not to think about it." My voice comes out sounding tight.

Thankfully, Gina picks up on my cue. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry. I won't mention it again." She pauses, and I can tell there's something else on her mind.

"Yes?"

"Okay, there this thing I've been meaning to talk to you about for a while now," she says in a rush. "If there was a chance that I had feelings for Mark... and he potentially returned those feelings, would you totally hate me? I know guys had a thing like forever ago, so I want to make sure I'm not breaking any girl code or something."

Four months, but who's counting? "It's fine."

Her entire face lights up. "For real?"

"Totally." I force a smile. "And FYI, if you think nobody noticed you guys flirting, you're both idiots."

Gina blushes and runs a hand through her flaxen hair. "Thanks for understanding, Ellie. It means a lot to me."

"No problem."

"All right, I better get back out there."

Once she's gone, I can finally focus my attention on finding my check. I spend five minutes hunting through the paper on Mark's desk before I locate an envelope with my name scrawled across the front. Then I slip out the kitchen door so I don't get any more grief about walking home alone.

The temperate outside has dropped significantly, so I zip up my coat and hurry along as fast as possible. I only make it three blocks before I feel it again—the sensation of being watched. This time when I whirl around, someone is standing behind me.

His blue-gray eyes are familiar, and it takes me no time at all to recognize him as the investigator working the Sorority Slayer case. Detective James. He spent more than a hour interviewing me after I discovered the body.

"Holy crap." I press a hand to my chest. It takes a moment for my heart to stop racing, but when it does, I say, "Detective, were you following me?"

He bristles. "Sorry for scaring you, Ms. Jackson. I just have some follow up questions regarding your statement from the other day."

"Um, okay?"

"You told the first officer on scene that you found the first victim while out for a run?"

I lick my lips and try to ignore the adrenaline inching its way into my system. "Yes?"

"Interesting."

"What's so interesting about that?"

"Your clothes were collected as part of evidence," he states, like this is something I'm not already aware of. The whole process was a pain in the ass. The only reason Gina knows about my discovery of the body is because I needed someone to drop an outfit off at the police station for me to change in to. "I find it interesting that you were wearing jeans. Tell me Ms. Jackson—do you normally wear denim while exercising?"

Shit.

Dread traces an icy finger up my spine. My legs scream at me to run, but there's no point. Detective Jame's eyes gleam with intelligence. It's in that moment I know he knows.

I'm the Sorority Slayer. 

Host's Note: These have been the ten stories of Fear. How did the team do?