The building goes quiet as people go to sleep and soon the only noise comes from the street. Cars hum past, tires squeal. Soon I don’t even hear that. There’s only the shadows and my breath rasping in my throat.
My hand goes numb, and I know I should move. I could go to one of the burger places that is open twenty-four hours and buy one coffee that they refill all night. I might be safe there. But I can’t move.
At first, I think I’ve fallen asleep, or my eyes are playing tricks on my exhausted mind, as all I sense is a faint coil of smoke. I watch it thicken and then I can smell it too, like the rank, acrid burning of rubber. The tendril thickens. My breath catches as another pushes out from the shadows to join it. Then there’s three. I gasp as more spread out like vines, or roots seeking something. They stretch out from beneath the bed, coiling over the floor, seeking prey.
Seeking me.
My legs twitch like they want to run, but I can’t force myself up. I’ve been running my whole life. Now I can finally stop. It’s better this way.
Over.
Or should that be Under?
A laugh bubbles up, breaking out of my throat in a harsh and broken sound.
The tendrils stop as though they can hear me. A breath is all I can take before they twist and race toward me.
The paralysis that had held me in place snaps and I struggle to my numb feet. I don’t want to be taken.
“No! Get back!” I scramble into the bathroom and slam the door.
One smoky tendril slides under the door. I reach out to grab a towel, but there’s nothing there. He took the goddamn towels?
I climb into the bath and lie in the bottom like I can hide. High on the wall is a tiny window that I’ll never be able to fit through. I hold my breath until my lungs burn, and stare at the rim of the bath, waiting for the tendril to peek over.
Something touches my ankle and all the air I’d been holding erupts in a scream. It echoes around the bath. The tendril wraps around my ankle and pulls me toward the drain.
My fingernails scrabble at the smooth surface before latching onto the plastic shower curtain. My skin starts to heat and burn where the tendril touches. I scream and at the last moment, remember not to fight and attack the tendril. But my manners and calmness have been forgotten.
More tendrils reach out of the drain, wrapping around my legs.
There’s banging on my door.
“Help!” I twist, trying to use the shower curtain to drag myself away. The plastic hooks snap and scatter, spilling over the floor and I fall back into the bath smashing my elbow. I cry out again.
The door to my apartment bursts open, and the voices get louder.
“I’m in the—”
I’m yanked so hard I hit my head. Stars form and the air leaves my lungs. Then there is no air around me. I blink and my vision blurs. I’m under water. Just as I’m about to freak out, my head breaks the surface. I suck in a breath and reach out, my hands splashing through the water as I reach for the muddy edge.
What the hell happened?
How did I fit through the drain and end up in water?
I kick toward the edge, but it’s getting harder and harder to move my legs. Something is holding onto me. Panic flares again. I kick and struggle against whatever is trying to drag me beneath the surface. My fingers claw at the mud. My mouth is barely above the water and I’m sinking. I’m going to drown.
I can’t move. The mud encases my legs and sucks me down. I take one last gulp of air and give in.
Hard hands wrap around my upper arm and snatch at my hair, then I’m yanked out of the water and onto the muddy shore. I stare at the feet in front of my face. They are huge razor-sharp hooves instead of flesh and toenails. I scramble back, and I end up sitting in the puddle he pulled me out of.
This time it doesn’t swallow me. It’s only two inches deep and no bigger than my bath. I splash frantically, as though I can make it open and send me home. But I go nowhere. The puddle is just that. A puddle.
How does that work?
How did I swim to the surface only to almost drown?
Drowning might have been better.