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Chapter One

Ruth

O ver the years, people have told me to ‘speak into the universe the things I want to come to pass’. Now granted, they were probably talking about getting an A on my report card, or the year in ninth grade when all I wanted was for Jamie Brinkley to ask me to the dance.

But I guess the universe was most listening when I was five years old and looked up from the TV to tell my mom, in the earnest way that only a child can, that I was going to be a muppet when I grew up.

She laughed, giving me an indulgent pat on the head and adding it to the list of things she hoped I’d grow out of, but I guess something must have stuck. How else can I explain the fact that I’m a month into my sophomore year and all I have to show for it is the ability to do three cartwheels in a row, dressed as a cartoon toad?

Looking in the mirror of the studio space I booked for the night, I see Gunther, the Allbreck University Mascot, staring back at me. His too-wide smile is almost a taunt as I peer out from the mesh stitched between the green lips, trying to ignore the feeling of sweat stinging my eyes. I thought by now I’d at least have my shit together a little, found some classes I like, maybe made that group of ride-or-die college friends everyone always told me I’d make, but most days, it kind of feels like this is all I’ve got.

Sometimes I wonder if the only thing that’s special about me is the suit I pack away at the end of each game.

The music I’ve been practicing to drops out for a moment as my phone lights up with a text. I go to check it, fumbling to unlock the screen in my oversized costume hands, but flip the device face down when I see that it’s Marshall asking if I want him to look over the English assignment due tomorrow morning.

The one I haven’t done.

I get back into position at the center of the space, shoving aside the anxious little kick my heart gives against my sternum. Nothing else matters when I’m in the toad zone. Not the classes I’m failing, not my sort-of-ex who acts like we were never more than friends.

All I am is foam and fur and a can-do attitude.

I picture the crowd as I rehearse what’s basically muscle memory. The way they scream every time I take to the field, the feeling that I’ve finally found someplace where I’m doing things right, where I can let out all my big feelings and restless energy. One step leads into another, my mind finally clearing.

I don’t know if it’s the music, or my complete obliviousness to anything happening around me, but whatever it is, I don’t hear the door open at the back of the room.

Arms wrap around me from behind. I yell as I’m pulled backward, kicking out as well as I can in foam feet. Someone grunts as I make contact, their words muffled by the toad head. The mask takes a knock in the struggle and gets thrown off center, obscuring my vision as the mesh stops lining up with my eyes.

Holy shit. This is a dream, right? I must have slipped and knocked myself out because there’s no way this isn’t a nightmare.

My earlier anxiety feels like child’s play, adrenaline making me thrash around as something wraps around my legs and torso. Suddenly, I’m in the air, lifted off my feet.

“Put me down! What the fuck?” I scream as I try to shake myself loose, keeping up a steady stream of incoherent protests.

My head bumps into the door as I’m carried, the voices laughing and hissing to one another as we move. There’s a few of them, maybe four? Five?

A hinge squeaks next to my ear the same way the rear entrance always does. Oh god, we’re leaving the sports complex. I fight harder, trying to dislodge the arms around me, but it’s no use.

The words of the police officer who gave our fifth-grade Stranger Danger class echo through me. Never let them take you to a secondary location. I fight for all I’m worth, but the costume doesn’t make things easy, even on my best day. Restrained and disorientated, I don’t stand a chance.

I try to hold back tears as I hear the sliding door of a car, or maybe a van? Jesus Christ, am I being bundled into the back of a van? What the actual hell is happening right now? Okay, okay, I need to stay calm and think through this. I am not going to die today, not in this outfit.

“Dude, what the fuck?” I hear from somewhere in front of me.

There’s shushing and arguing that I can’t hear. Something is digging into my back, maybe a seatbelt clip? Am I lying across a backseat? I mean, it’s better than the trunk, I guess… Holy shit, what the fuck is going on? Am I about to get dumped in a ditch?

This is what I get for listening to all those true crime podcasts. This is fucking karma, and now they’re going to talk about my mutilated corpse in between BetterHelp ad reads.

‘Police found the victim swaddled in some kind of green fur. Maybe it was a cult thing?’

I manage to get myself together enough to squeak out a question. “What’s going on? Where are you taking me?” My voice is thick, each word catching in my throat.

The sound of the engine starting sends my panic into overdrive and several hot tears make their way down the sides of my face, pooling uncomfortably in my ears. I try reaching up and pulling the head off, but something keeps my hands at my sides.

“Would you chill out?” a low voice speaks from somewhere nearby. “We’re not dangerous or anything.”

“Yeah, because that’s so fucking reassuring!” I squawk, indignation momentarily cutting through my terror.

“I can’t really hear what you’re saying,” the voice comes again. “So, I’m just gonna assume you’re agreeing with me.”

“Fuck you, you maniac!” I struggle some more and almost roll off the seat before someone shoves me back into place.

I try to keep my breathing under control as we drive, the movements of the vehicle jostling me as we traverse potholes and round corners. It feels erratic, but at least the costume might provide some kind of protection in case we end up off the road. Like a really cheerful crash helmet. God damn, I must be hysterical if I’m considering the protective qualities of a sponge head.

The chatter does nothing to reassure me and the occasional bursts of laughter are a shock every time. By the time we pull to a stop, I’ve lost track of how long we’ve been driving. The door nearest to me slides open and there’s movement around my legs.

No, no, absolutely not. I am not about to get dragged out into whatever they’ve brought me to, not tonight.

Suddenly, all I want is to stay here on this backseat. A hand touches my ankle and I kick out, relishing the shout of pain as I make contact, even if the webbed feet prevent me from doing any real damage.

“Hey! That hurt!” someone yells.

“Good!” I yell back, trying to hang on to my anger so I don’t start crying again.

“Can you get outta the car?” the voice whines. “We’re not gonna do anything bad, you just need to come inside.”

Before I can reply that I’m not going anywhere, the world starts spinning. I feel like I’ve been flipped over and then I’m moving, something solid digging into my stomach that’s awfully like a shoulder. My legs dangle helplessly as we walk. I can hear gravel crunching and faint voices.

Oh god, this is it, isn’t it? Maybe it is a cult thing? Maybe I’m about to get sacrificed like the Wicker Man?

My breaths come fast and shallow, making me lightheaded as a door shuts, cutting off the sounds of the street. Every time I think the knot in my gut can’t wind any tighter, another errant thought has it ratcheting up. I don’t think I’ve ever felt fear like this. It’s almost paralyzing, the utter dread that fills my veins. It’s all I can do to hold onto my anger in a vain attempt to keep my shit together.

If I just stay angry enough, maybe the fear won’t eat me alive.

The couch I’m unceremoniously deposited on is so spongy that I might fall through it, like some kind of Venus-Fly-Couch. Now that I have my hands back, I readjust the toad head so that light starts to filter back in.

I almost go to pull it off, but I wonder if maybe I’m better off keeping this barrier, preserving my anonymity like a safety net. Even the fuzziness of everything I can see and hear lends credibility to my argument that maybe this is some kind of fever dream. Instead of taking it off, I shove it down further, keeping the strap securely under my chin and relishing the slight feeling of compression around my face.

Maybe denial isn’t healthy, but it’s about all I’ve got. I am not fucking dealing with this shit.

There are more voices in the room now, but I can barely hear them over the pounding of my heart in my ears. I can make out frantic tones and someone starting to yell, but there are so many of them now that I can’t pick out any specific words. One of the voices gets louder and I shrink back into the couch as I feel them get closer.

“Hey, everything’s fine, alright?” they say in a low tone, like I’m supposed to just take their word for it. “I’m taking this off now.”

They don’t give me any time to react before a surprisingly gentle hand reaches under the head and, after a little fumbling, unclips the chinstrap. I try to bat them away, but without any peripheral vision, I’m like a cat chasing a laser pointer, and they’re able to brush my hands aside with ease. It takes a few tugs to get the head off, but then there’s light streaming into my eyes. I cringe away, blinking rapidly as the room comes into focus.

I’m sat in the middle of a long sectional with a group of men around me in various states of dishevelment. One is practically holding up his friend as they both stare at me. I fist my hands to stop them from shaking. I am not about to freak out, not here, not in front of them.

The room is dim, lit by two large standing lamps in each corner. A faint halo of blueish light highlights the man standing directly in front of me. The light flickers a little and peering around him I see a large television on mute, showing the menu screen of some video game. The animated figure feels like he’s taunting me with his three pre-programmed dance moves.

Sprinkler, Dougie, Floss. Sprinkler, Dougie, Floss.

The room smells faintly of beer and takeout. I go to rub my eyes, almost hitting myself in the face as I forget that I have the green mascot hands on.

“Fuck,” one of the guys says, drawing out the word into at least four syllables.

“Dude, shut the fuck up,” another hisses.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? You were meant to bring back Gunther!”

“I did!”

“Not the person, you ass!”

Gunther? Why the hell are they talking about-

Oh shit.

Realization starts to dawn on me as they continue discussing Gunther, the African Giant Toad that lives in the administrative building. He -or rather, a line of various Gunthers- has been the Allbreck mascot since the school’s founding, and if these guys were trying to steal the toad, then I have a pretty good idea what’s going on.

There’s no way, right? This has to be a joke because if this is what I think it is…

Frantically turning my head to try and pinpoint anything that can confirm my suspicions, there it is. I almost groan when I see a pennant pinned to the wall above the fireplace, under a crest for a fraternity I don’t recognize. The bright blue symbol of Beaufort College stares back at me, and I feel my muscles sag as I realize that I’m probably not about to get murdered.

No, the reality is much, much stupider.

I open my mouth to speak, to maybe cuss them out a little, and then demand that somebody drive me home, when I hear a low voice from somewhere behind me, accompanied by heavy footsteps thundering down a staircase. One by one, the guys standing around me look up at whoever is coming down the stairs with increasingly guilty expressions. Someone ducks behind the curtain in an attempt to hide and one guy looks as if he’s about to speak before someone else shoots him a look and he clamps his mouth shut.

The voice is cold as ice, a quiet fury that has them shuffling around, nobody willing to be the first to answer.

“What the fuck is going on down here?”