Page 10 of Trick me. Treat me

“Oh my God.” My voice comes out as nothing more than air.

Mr. Pickles remains sitting in front of the window watching him. Not hissing, or growling, or puffing up. Just… watching.

“Pickles.” My voice shakes. “Come here.”

He doesn’t move. I take one step backward and my phone vibrates again. I flinch so violently I almost drop it.

Unknown

That’s not an answer.

My eyes snap back toward the trees. He’s too far away for me to see his eyes through the mask. But he’s looking at me. I know he is. I can feel it. My heart is slamming so hard against my ribs that it hurts. I type back with trembling fingers.

Me

Who are you?

His head tilts. Slowly. My stomach drops as my phone buzzes almost immediately. Yet… I didn’t see him text me. I can’t even see the light from a phone around him. What the…

Unknown

Wrong answer.

“Nope.” I stumble backward. “Fuck this. Nope.”

I need to call the police. Lacey. Harris. Anyone. I hit the emergency call button, but nothing happens. There’s no signal. Of course there’s no fucking signal.

The WiFi. I can call through⁠—

The screen changes. The WiFi disappearing. What the fuck? I swipe down, a disconnected sign showing. I frantically tap the network list in my settings, finding the one I had connected to earlier. I tap it with a shaking thumb, watching as it loads. And loads. And loads. Then:

UNABLE TO JOIN NETWORK.

“No. No, no, no.”

I try again. Nothing. My breathing starts coming too quickly, my pulse hammering so hard I can hear my blood whooshing in my ears. I look toward the window. He’s gone.

Every thought in my head stops. The space between the trees where the large figure was, is now empty. Oh God. Where did he go?

I hurry toward Mr. Pickles and scoop him off the floor. He whines in protest but I clutch him against my chest, muttering my apologies as I frantically try and figure out what the fuck to do. I have nowhere to fucking go. The doors are locked, I checked the fuckers twice. Shit. What do I do. My eyes race around the room, my brain going 100mph. The kitchen. Living room. Stairs. Too many fucking windows to count. I need something. A weapon of some sort.

My pepper spray. It’s in my bag upstairs.

I put Mr. Pickles on the couch, telling him to stay as I run for the stairs. My bare feet slap against the wood as I take them two at a time, my stupid tiny shorts riding higher with every step. I don’t care. Someone is outside. Someone is outside with a fucking knife.

I reach the bedroom and grab my bag from the bed. My hands shake so badly I struggle with the zipper.

“Come on. Come on, come on, come onnnnnn.”

I yank it open, digging past charger wires until I find it, gripping it with a shaking hand so tight my knuckles bleach.

Something knocks downstairs and I freeze. Three slow knocks.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.