Chasing September

The night is dark and wet. The rain's steady pattering is the only music for miles. Candles are lit and cast shadows against the walls, every corner seeming to get darker. Faces can be seen in the flickering of fire and they force me back into my bed. I try to sleep but I can't. The creaking of the house seems louder than the rain. The music breaks for the thunder and the lightning strikes close. The covers are up to my chin now. My eyes are darting around the room, looking for something but finding nothing.

My back is up against the wall so nothing can sneak up on me. Suddenly, every scary movie I've ever seen comes rushing into my thoughts. Every scenario that could possibly end with me getting killed has me shrinking behind the comforter. The thunder cracks louder, the lightning strikes closer, and the rain beats harder. There's the sound of scuffling footsteps moving on the hardwood floor, but I'm the only one home. I want to stay in bed but the need to know if somebody is in my home is too strong. I choose a weapon, a book from the top shelf.

I hear it again, the sound of footsteps. My heart is in my stomach. I wish I'd grabbed a better weapon, something that would do more damage. My steps are calculated, light as a feather, toes before heels. I hold my breath as I clear the hallway, suddenly wishing for a guard dog, a roommate, anything that could scare away an intruder. I find nothing but darkness and I realize my mistake in not bringing a flashlight with me. I squint my eyes, trying to see anything. I wish my phone was charged or that I had listened to my mother when she told me to get a landline. I had waved away her concerns. Nobody uses those anymore.

The living room is clear. I triple check the lock on the front door, then check it a fourth time. The wind whistles down the chimney. Can a person fit inside a chimney? I'm too afraid to look. I cast glances over my shoulder, the spine-chilling feeling of being watched setting in. I consider, for only a second, that I could have bought an apartment with a ghost. My skin crawls, like tiny bugs scuttling over every inch. I don't dare look out the window. What if someone is out there and looking in?

With good thoughts, I try the light switch to the kitchen, but any attempts are futile. Lights out. A lighting strike, closer than I would like, sends my heart into a panic and my body three feet higher. Still, nothing here. I trade my book for a bat. I consider grabbing a knife, but I would rather swing at somebody than stab.

Despite every possibility going through my mind, I check each and every room but find nothing. I relax, but only slightly, and retreat back to my room. While I was looking around the house, the bad guy would have had plenty of time to make it to my room. I don't let myself get too close to the bed. He could grab me, kill me. My closet door is shut. I know it was open when I left because I always sleep with my closet door open. I've seen one too many scary movies. The killer is always either in the closet, or under the bed.

With the bat firmly in my hands, I take careful steps. I reluctantly hold the bat in one hand, the other reaching for the wooden doorknob. I silently count to three, before yanking the closet door open. I blindly swing my bat, the aluminum only finding clothes and a few plastic hangers. Still, nothing.

Another strike of lightning and a rumble of thunder. I've always hated thunderstorms. The rain slows down for only a second, barely noticeable. I try to calm my racing heart, but every avid scary movie-watcher would know to never turn your back on the room you're standing in. The killer will always be right behind you.

I feel the breath of air on the back of my neck. My limbs freeze and my breath catches in my throat. The male hands grab me by the hips. I can't move. His lips are by my ear, grazing the skin, his teeth tugging on my earlobe. His breath is hot on my skin, his lips moving down to my neck. My head tilts slightly. I shake my head. He doesn't have a weapon; I do. I turn in his grip, raising my bat. He catches the swing with one hand. He doesn't even flinch.

"I wouldn't do that baby." His voice is like velvet, filling up the room. His lips are back on my neck, his tongue trails over the skin. The voice, the lips, are familiar. "You might mess up my pretty face."

"Pretty face, my ass." I let the bat drop to the floor in between the two of us. I should've known. "What are you doing here?"

"Besides scaring you shitless?"

"You didn't,"

"Don't lie, I saw what you did to those poor hangers."

"How did you even get in here?" His clothes are wet and his brown hair is dripping water onto his forehead. He's so close to me that his breath mixes with mine. My hands are on the leather covering his arms. Through the light of the nearest candle, I can see his eyes—they look a lot greener in this light.

"I need something."

"You couldn't have called in the morning?" He shakes his head, his hands still gripping my waist and sliding up the edge of my shirt. His calloused fingers are rough on my skin but I don't want him to let go. "What do you need, Ivan?"

"A date."

"You broke into my house, almost gave me a heart attack, just because you want to take me on a date?"

"Oh, not you." His lips form a cruel smirk. "Your friend, the blonde one."

I push his hands off me, picking up my bat and resting it up against my bed. "Well, you know she's already asked out your friend, right? I mean, you were there this morning."

He's behind me again, turning me with his hands. "Well, then, I guess I'll have to settle for you, since we'll be seeing a lot of each other this summer."

"Unfortunately."

"You won't be saying that for long," Ivan says. "I came by because I bought you a home warming gift, since I wasn't invited to the party. Don't say I never get you anything."

Ivan motions with his head to my white desk in the corner of my room. I notice there is something red lying on the top as he leads me towards it. His hands leave my body just to pick up the red pieces of fabric. They're small, lacey articles of lingerie that would leave nothing to the imagination.

"You know I've always loved you in red."

His lips press softly against my skin, only a fraction from my lips. His hands squeeze my hips once before he moves away from me, leaving the red pieces on the desk. I want him to come back and at least stay with me until the lights come back on. I don't want to be left alone in the dark. He strides across my room, sliding the window open. "Sweet dreams," are his last words before he slips out through the window, drops from the balcony and walks into the rain.

While I'm stuck standing in the middle of my room, the darkness swallowing the four walls entirely, he leaves me wondering just how, exactly, did he get into my house?