Page 64 of Phobia

And that’s where the trouble began.

No matter where I went, I couldn’t shake the feeling I was being watched. Not just watched. Hunted, the way the monster used to hunt for unsuspecting kids. The sick feeling churned inside of me, crawling up my spine. When it reached my neck, nearly suffocating me, I whirled around, teeth clenched, prepared to throw down with whoever was standing behind me in the cereal aisle.

No one was there.

Swallowing thickly, I snatched a box off the shelf without looking at it and carried on my way.

I turned the corner to grab some popcorn from the next aisle over when something on the floor caught my eye.

A black square, surrounded by a white border, lay on the linoleum. A polaroid. An old polaroid by the looks of it.

Someone had written something on the back in a nearly illegible script.

Carson, 9.

My stomach lurched as I turned the picture over. I barely registered a glimpse of the naked boy, crying and terrified for all eternity, before I shoved the photo in my pocket and raced to the end of the aisle. Glancing this way and that, I stared down anyone who so much as glanced in my direction. None of the shoppers paid me much attention. They were too busy picking up last-minute bags of candy and party decorations to be concerned with someone wigging out next to the display of frosted pumpkin bars.

Was I losing my mind? No. I wasn’t imagining that fucking picture. Although, I couldn’t help but wonder if this is what Jamie felt like every time he saw a ghost, minus the physical proof right there in his pocket.

Exhaling a breath, I pushed my cart to the checkout and left as quickly as I could.

I tried to shake off what happened with the smell of freshly-baked cookies, but the creepy feeling came back while I stood in the center of the cookie store. The place was too small for someone to lurk without me seeing them, but the feeling was there nevertheless.

I told myself I was being paranoid until I found another fucking polaroid under my windshield wiper.

Nate, 10.

Rippingthe photo out, I shoved the fucking thing into my pocket without even looking at it. My focus was on searching the surrounding area, looking for any sign of the monster.

Colored leaves tumbled down the sidewalk and jack-o-lanterns grinned in the bright sun, clustered in window displays and on stoops. Winslow looked like a postcard but I knew how deceiving looks could be.

I needed to find the monster’s fucking truck, then I could put an end to all of this. The last thing I needed was for that asshole ghost to drop one of these fucking pictures in Jamie’s lap—or Chief Treadwell’s.Thatwas a story I didn’t feel like explaining to anyone, no matter how sympathetic they might have been to my tragic little backstory. Jamie didn’t need to see any more of the monster’s handiwork and I sure as shit didn’t need the police sniffing around when I was trying to get a job with them.

Climbing behind the wheel of my SUV, I pulled out into traffic and headed back to Jamie’s. Was it too early to start drinking? I mean, usually, Jamie and I refrained from alcohol on Halloween but this year we could both do with a shot—or ten.

I was stopped at a light, stewing about the physics of how ghosts transported objects from Point A to Point B, when a very familiar beat-up brown truck rolled by.

“No fucking way,” I muttered.

Yanking on the wheel, I pulled a U-turn in the intersection, ignoring the horns blaring behind me. The truck was right in front of me, but I still couldn’t get the damn registration numbers. The hunk of rust that served as a bumper was turned downward, hanging on by a frayed twist tie, which meant I couldn’t even make out what state it was from. All I could tell about the driver was that he had a bigger frame and dark hair, just like the monster.

The truck sped up, weaving around a small blue car that laid on its horn.

I stepped on the gas, darting past the same car. As we rounded a curve, I gunned it, trying to catch up to the truck before he escaped down River Road and disappeared in the countryside somewhere.

Red and blue lights lit up my rearview mirror.

“Fuck!” I slammed my hand against the steering wheel. Debating the consequences of not pulling over while trying not to lose sight of the truck, I ultimately gave up the chase with a frustrated growl and pulled to the side of the road.

License, insurance card, and registration in hand, I rolled my window down with a huff and waited to see which officer it was. Since I’d spent the summer interning for Winslow PD, I was hoping I could bullshit my way out of a ticket.

Chief Treadwell himself stopped beside my window, eyebrows raised behind his mirrored aviators. “Galvan. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Uh, driving, sir?”

“Over fifty in a school zone? You in a hurry?”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “Shit. I’m sorry, chief. I didn’t even realize it was a school zone. Just a lot on my mind today.”