Page 30 of Noire Moon

The High Priestess.

Goosebumps prick my arms and up the back of my neck. I’m staring at the symbol on the envelope and the gold-foiled blacktarot card that exactly matches all the mysterious other cards I’ve found recently.

It couldn’t have been my strangers all along. Could it?

My shaking hands place the card and envelope down on the cracked plastic benchtop, and I tentatively pick up the cell phone. The screen illuminates with the time and date, which I’m relieved to see confirms that I have woken up the next day since my excursion to the middle of nowhere. I’m not in some horror movie where I didn’t wake up for a week and suddenly discover my vital organs have been harvested while I was unconscious.

Furrowing my brow, I wonder why I’ve got the phone of some stranger sitting in my kitchen, when the face ID activates and immediately unlocks the screen.

This phone is registered tomy fucking face.

When it opens up on the home screen, there’s nothing loaded except for the contacts icon. As my thumb hovers to tap on it, there’s something that leaves my blood running cold.

The photo set on the phone screen is as familiar as the back of my hand.

It’s taken of me, sleeping in my bed.

Only, this photo isn’t from last night. In fact, it hasn’t been taken any time recently at all. No, this photo must be from a time months ago, which I can tell straight away because my blanket in the image on screen is the one I spilled coffee all over and completely ruined. Much to my despair at the time, I had to get rid of it, yet here is a photo of me, snuggled blissfully unaware beneath a pristine, stain-free blanket.

My head hurts. My memory of anything after my tryst with my three masked strangers is gone. I now have photo evidence that someone has been in my apartment at night watching me sleep.

I think I’m going to be sick.

My thumb trembles as I tap the contacts button. There are only three loaded into the phone. All of them are unnamed, only identified as skull-face emojis.

With my other hand, I grip hold of the edge of the bench to stop myself from slumping to the floor. I don’t understand. What does any of this mean?

At that exact moment, the phone in my hand vibrates with an incoming message. The buzzing gives me such a fright that I immediately drop it, and the device clatters onto the countertop.

The message notification stares back at me in a silent dare. Am I brave enough to see what might be contained inside? What if there are more photos of me? What if I’ve got a stalker?

God, I’m barely able to stay upright as my head swims.

With a heavy swallow, I open the message and it’s one of the skull-face contacts that peers back at me. It only says a few words, but they are ones I know will change my life irrevocably forever.

“See you tonight, little flower.”