Page 2 of Unholy Night

Closing my eyes, I count to three and breathe deeply. Glancing outside once more, the snow is falling harder, and I no longer see the indentations leading to the house.

It was probably a wolf or something.

Making one more pass around the room, I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the unwanted paranoia. Blowing out the candles on the dresser, I remove the oversized t-shirt I’m wearing. I hate sleeping in clothing, it’s suffocating.

The room is dark except for the string of Christmas lights decorating the accent wall. Making my way over to the bed, I freeze mid-step, the hair on the nape of my neck standing up.

I’m not alone.

My breath catches in my throat, leaving me paralyzed with fear. My mind wars with my body to either run and hide or curl into a ball and squeeze my eyes shut.

I choose option one as the surround sound in the bedroom comes alive, blaring ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ through the speakers. My hands fly to my ears, my brain rattling against my skull as I sprint across the hardwood floor, slipping and sliding. Diving into the closet, I shove the folding door in place, peeking through the wooden slots.

A shadow appears across the floor, and terror claws at my chest. I can’t see the doorway from this angle and the deafening music is too much.

I can’t fucking think.

A broad figure comes into view, and I slap a hand over my mouth, trying to silence my breathing. Short bursts of air barreling through my nose is all I can manage right now, terrified of what will happen if the intruder finds me. Sinking to my knees slowly, I inch backwards until my feet hit the wall. I shift into a sitting position, pulling my knees into my chest.

Breathe, Isabelle.

Quietly.

Through your nose.

In and out.

Don’t be like those dumbass girls in horror movies.

Don’t cry. Don’t breathe too loudly. Don’t sniffle.

My heart hammers in my chest and my stomach clenches. There’s nothing in the closet to use as a weapon and even if there was something, I can’t concentrate because of the damn music. That shit alone has me on the edge of a panic attack.

This is torture.

It’s sensory overload and I’m about to break.

Pushing my palms against my ears as tightly as I can, it does little to muffle the sound. The bass has the wall behind me vibrating against my back, the floor trembling beneath my feet.

My chest tightens and the small space begins to close in on me. The clothes hanging from the rod dangle over my head, touching me just enough to freak me out. Will he come through the wall behind me? He came into my house, so he could bust through the wall, right?

Just as I fall into a downward spiral, the closet door is ripped open, a large, imposing figure towering above me.

Suddenly, the tiny closet doesn’t seem so bad.

The clothes get shoved to the side and I scream in horror. He tilts his covered head to the side, watching me.

Waiting.

I don’t move. I don’t blink. I don’t breathe.

Before I can process another thought, he lunges, gripping the back of my neck roughly, dragging me out of the closet. His strength forces me to my hands and knees, the wooden floor rough against my palms as I try to find traction. Fear has me in a chokehold, my body limp and useless in his grasp.

He doesn’t stop until he reaches the bed, his large hands gripping my biceps, pulling me to my feet. I’m spun around, his broad chest pressing against my back. The contact is enough to snap me from my fear induced paralysis.

As I try to spin around, a strong arm wraps around my middle, his other hand covering my mouth. My eyes widen and it feels as if the corners will split open.

Warm breath fans across my neck, his soft lips resting against my ear. “Fight me, pretty girl. It makes me so fucking hard.”