Jael's mad at me, I think.

We're stuck in traffic and I'm sure that's not helping. We finally made it off campus, and now we're rolling through town. These roads are not designed for thousands of people all at once. There are too many stop signs and not enough traffic lights.

I watch him for a while. He doesn't seem to notice, and eventually, I say the line that I've been practicing in my head. "You don't have to be whatever it is that you're being."

Jael shudders from a thought and studies my expression. We're waiting for our chance to turn at a stop sign, so it's no breach to our safety.

"And what exactly is that?" Although his eyes dart back to the car ahead of us, his face brightens, and I take that as a good sign.

Hmmm. What's the right word here? I suppose I can rule out anger. Directed at me, that is. He's probably not jealous, either. He has the dominatrix girlfriend. I won't flatter myself into believing I could wreck that bond in twenty-four hours without trying. Is it concern? That's a stronger word than I'd like to use, too.

"Upset," I go with. "I know what you're probably thinking..."

"Somehow I doubt that." His expression sours at either me or the bad driver in front of us. He's forced to slam on the breaks.

Would the car in front of us just go already? I'm not usually road-ragey, but these are extraordinary circumstances. It's painful to sit on my own behind, and the jerkiness is chipping away at all things "nice" about me.

"You think I'm flaky and irresponsible," I blurt out, shifting my weight. Much to my chagrin, it doesn't ease the discomfort. "And that I'm asking for trouble. And that I just expect a man to sort it all out for me."

Jael is not an aggressive driver. He's skilled and confident, and that's not the same thing. He's been patient overall, probably for my sake, but the situation is taking its toll. Our lack of progress is clearly stressing him out. It's clear that he has somewhere else to be by the way he keeps checking the dashboard clock.

"I don't think that," he insists with word emphasis and strong eye contact. We're at a standstill again. "But trouble will find you. I haven't heard an unkind word come out of you. You just scream asshole bait. I'm amazed you've survived this long. What's your secret?"

We roll one car-length closer to our escape route—a right turn when everyone else seems to be making a left.

"I'm really fast?" I say it like I'm guessing. And I probably am. It's an untested theory.

Would I be able to outrun a football player? Maybe someone like Ted, but Ian is the epitome of strength, speed, and agility, and his stride is about two feet longer than mine.

"You'd have to be!"

I laugh and it feels good, but it's also exhausting. I slump into my seat, careful to avoid the bruised flesh and raw nerves, and close my eyes. "I wish they'd just leave me alone," I sigh. "A week. That's all I ask!"

"You should have said that to Ian Tierney." Could a name be said with any more contempt?

Doubt it...

After a weak giggle, I set an elbow on the armrest and lean my head on my hand. "I don't think it will matter anyway. A day ago, he probably didn't even know my name. A day from now, he probably won't remember it. A weekend of debauchery will give him permanent amnesia."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that."

My eyes snap open. "Why? Do you think he's actually into me?" On second thought, I don't want his honest opinion, or a tailored response to ease the blow of you're not special. Either way, I'm not emotionally prepared to handle it. "Never mind. Don't answer that. I wouldn't want you to crush my dreams."

Jael slams on the gas pedal, sneaks in the turn, and the speedometer finally thrashes to life. "So that means you're into him?"

"I didn't say that."

"But you didn't deny it, either."

"I don't know. It's too much for me to process right now. He's beautiful, but..."At my word choice, the dashboard lights glint through his rolling eyes. He should give me a chance to finish before being so dramatic. "I'd rather not be his next 'victim,' a warm body to stab and leave for dead."

At that, I get a smirk. "Wow, that was dark."

"'Tis the season, I guess." I start gathering my belongings and wits together. We're almost home. The word still feels foreign to me, but tonight it actually feels like I'm moving toward some shred of stability. It's not a given in my life and never has been.

"I'm actually impressed." He comes to a stop ahead of a parking spot. In a fast but smooth reversal, he parallel parks his truck flawlessly on the first try. "There's hope for you yet!"

"Well, then, the night wasn't a complete loss."

"I'm glad I could help."

***

Although the Halloween decorations might suggest otherwise, our flat isn't all that creepy. At least it shouldn't be.

The walls are white and impersonal. The furniture is practical only. There are bright overhead lights, windows in every room, and lamp posts outside. Yards are small and other houses are just a holler away. It's not new construction, but it isn't all that old either, especially for Virginia. The house is probably about a hundred years old.

After the week I've had, I should be sleeping through the average creaks and rattles. It's a windy night. The windowpanes seem loose all over the house. Still, I can't shake the feeling that I'm being kept awake by something else as well.

It all began with a thump on the roof. About a half-hour later, there was a pop and the sound of breaking glass. It came from the vacant apartment downstairs . . . I think. Looking down the main corridor, everything was dark except for the orange glow of the back stairwell. I've never seen that door left open before.

I was in the bathroom at the time, just out of the shower, wearing only a towel. All I could really do was shrug to myself and re-close the bathroom door.

Jael had said he was leaving, but he didn't mention when, where, or for how long. I somehow convinced myself that he must have broken something on his way out and forgot to lock up. This wasn't like him, though, and his truck was in the front of the house. It obviously has its own exit.

I tried not to dwell on this fact and went to bed soon after. When every stress and worry started to warp into something nightmarish, my bedroom door creaked open and slammed shut. The deodorant on my dresser toppled to the floor, so it wasn't just my imagination.

Nothing out of the ordinary happened until I closed my eyes again. There was a fast clicking skitter. At first, I thought it was coming from the roof—a squirrel or something—but then I heard this rumble, like a growl or a snarl. It came from beneath my bed.    

Now, I'm staring at the ceiling. If it wasn't for the shivering, I'd be scared stiff.

Every time the exhaustion begins to dull my senses, something louder or weirder occurs. Pretty soon, my sleep reflex goes away entirely.

I roll over and stare at the digital clock for a while. Then that abandons me, too. After a particularly harsh gust of wind, the power goes out. The heating vent breathes its last breath, and the temperature drops almost immediately. The heat wasn't set very high to begin with, and the room is drafty at best.

With a sigh, I set my feet on the floor, hoping to gather the courage to shut any windows or doors left open. Just to cover all bases. Just to make sure. While I'm pulling my sweatshirt over my head, there's a woosh by my feet and something punctures my heel.

I shoot to standing with a yelp. My eyes shift to the ominous black gap beneath my bed. With minutes spent watching it from a cautious, upright position, I see nothing, hear nothing.

Eventually, I pull my phone from the charger and turn on the flashlight. After a gulp that does nothing to clear the glob of fear, I kneel on the floor and hunch over, gritting my teeth against the resulting stab to my sore lower back.

There's nothing even under there. Nothing to hide behind. Only dust bunnies.   

I don't have the time or inclination to linger there and push to one foot with the bed as my crutch. My other foot is throbbing. Is it wet or just cold? Am I bleeding or just crazy?

Lifting my heel to the side, I almost lose my balance and the contents of my stomach at the sight of blood. It's too much for a Band-aid, but not enough for the Emergency Room.

By the light of my flashlight, I hobble to the bathroom, tracking blood everywhere, I'm sure. It doesn't do my back or tailbone any favors. I'm practically crying by the time I crash down on the closed toilet.

Bundling up some toilet paper, sweating and shivering already, I take a deep breath. I'm squeamish around blood as it is, and I feel extra dizzy and nauseous, like I was poisoned, too.

I dab at the wound. There are two puncture marks. Is it a bite? It didn't sound like a snake, but what the heck do I know? I was half asleep for most of the torment, and I know next to nothing about snakes in Virginia. Or anywhere for that matter.

On my feet again, the bleeding just slightly more manageable, I rummage through Jael's medicine cabinet. It's practically empty. No ointment, gauze, or tape. No Band-aids at all. He's a twenty-something male who has yet to show fear or express pain. So I can't say I'm surprised.

I limp to the kitchen. Unfortunately, we're out of paper towels. I acquire an old but clean dishtowel instead and tie a knot around my ankle that doesn't want to stay. Then I look through all the drawers, hoping to find something to hold it with. String, duct tape, rubber bands? Coming up empty handed, I knock on Jael's door.

He's not in there. Or he sleeps like the dead. Or he'd rather ignore me until I go away.

Cracking the door open, cringing at what I might discover in there, I shine my flashlight into his room, confirming my initial suspicion. He's not there and no one else is there, either. I'm glad I didn't interrupt something with someone I'll never likely warm to, but the disappointment comes in stronger. In an instant, it's overwhelming.

The small desk snaps me out of my self-pity. I still have a wound to tend to and no supplies. The laptop computer flickers to life when I nudge it by accident. I probably couldn't circumvent the password even if I tried for hours. The log-in screen does serve a purpose, however. The computer is battery powered and it brightens the room. I check the light switch too, just in case, and get what I expect. The power is still out.

I can't deny that I'd be curious at any other time, but under the circumstances, I don't have the urge to snoop through his stuff. I do just want a sturdy roll of tape. Something along those lines...

There's nothing really to find, anyway. Wires, cables, old phones, chargers, gadgets I don't recognize.

I'm about to abandon the cause when I come across a faded, wrinkled photograph of a kid that could be Jael and a woman who might be his mother. There's no father, but who knows what that could mean? Did he take the picture? Is he out of the picture—then, now, or always—or dead like my biological father?

I avoid sharing this part of my past, now more than ever, because I can get away with it, thanks to the distance from home, and because no one at school would understand.

Could Jael and I actually have something in common?

"Something I can help you with?"

I drop the photo back in the drawer and slam it shut. "Do you know where I might be able to find some tape?"

Ivy leans into the doorframe, a candlestick in hand, amused while I mentally kick myself with my own bloody heel. 

"What do you need it for, might I ask?" It's like she already knows the answer. Maybe she enjoys watching me squirm. The question seems to serve no other purpose.

A stocky guy with wild, bleached, over-gelled hair appears behind her. He looks like he ate a boy band and absorbed their combined attributes, including their muscle tone and odd choice of style. He's wearing too many mismatched layers and he's not that tall, but he's unnaturally broad.

"Hello, Sam. I," he states like he's as full of himself as his bulk and attention to detail would suggest, "am the notorious Rollin that I'm sure you've heard so much about."

I haven't heard of him at all, but I'm not in any mood to mention that. I nod curtly instead. It's too late—or early—to cough up any pleasantries for the likes of him.

Ivy raises an eyebrow, still expecting me to explain myself. She tilts the candle toward the towel that's sloppily tied around my ankle.

At that moment, the power blips back to life. Jael's alarm clock starts blinking. Ivy flips the light switch. After hours in the dark, the adjustment is painful and seems to take forever under such pressure.

When I can finally see at some baseline level, I unwrap the towel, to show her, to get a better look myself.

And . . . there's no blood. The puncture marks are gone. I don't even have the bloody toilet paper as proof. I flushed it down the toilet. The wood floors are dark, so even if I tracked blood everywhere—assuming it's still there or was ever there in the first place—who knows if anyone would be able to see it?

"Looks like you'll be fine," Ivy comments, shutting the light off, presenting the open doorway to me with an eerie flourish.

I slip past her, both grateful and confounded by her indifference and the escape being offered, no excuses necessary.

When I'm in the hallway, a few strides past Ivy and Rollin, she calls out to me: "Don't worry, Sam. This will be our little secret."

I turn back and steal a glance of Rollin's hand on her hip. He's smiling at me like he's about to get with us both.

In shocked silence, I watch them move in a haze of candlelight toward the back stairwell.

What just happened? Forget what to say, I don't even know what to think.

And why is Ivy here with some meathead, who is not her boyfriend, while he's not home?

Not your problem, I remind myself, but is that really true? I have no idea what they're doing, but I have no doubt, in some way, they're the ones keeping me up.

Fearing this whole ordeal will repeat itself, I don't go back to bed, even though I should. Instead, I take my comforter to the couch and turn on the TV, all the while wishing I could go back to my loud, sloppy, inconsiderate roommate in the dorms. Better the devil you know than the devil you don't.