FEAR

FEAR

The tingle creeps along her spine. It's becoming so familiar that she barely notices it anymore. The night is dark around her and despite her best efforts to pick well-lit streets, she can't help it that the only apartment she can afford is at the end of two small alleys, shooting off what could only generously be described as an actual street. It's the same every night, as she turns that corner from the comparatively blinding light of Marigold Street - an actual street - into Wickerton. Here's where she starts counting her steps. Only 280 (give or take) steps to go.

It's a Sunday night, so Wickerton is quieter than the last two nights. Coming from a packed bar, you'd think any street would be quieter, but Wickerton on a Friday or Saturday buzzes with a persistent, grating undercurrent of activity. But Holly prefers Friday and Saturday nights. Even when she's coming home at 5am, when no one awake has any good reason to be so, their motivations are clear, and Holly can walk confidently enough past them that no one questions her.

254 steps to go, and the tingle returns. That's ... unusual. Usually the flicker of anticipation only follows her those first few steps into Wickerton. Holly risks a glace over her shoulder, usually something she'd avoid as a sign of weakness or insecurity, covering it by crossing the street as she does so. She calls this move the Check for Traffic. 

The street is empty. 229 to go.

Tonight was a long night, especially for a Sunday. The early evening business crowd didn't retire by 10 as they usually did, which meant that when the chaotic Sunday night crowd - the people who really don't have a care in the world - showed up, the bar was packed. There was something electric in the air; Holly could feel it, even behind the bar, stone cold sober. A feeling of something frenzied and unrestrained. She shivers, thinking about it. 193.

She's very rarely been tempted to drink on the job. Ten years of serving drunks tends to send people one of two ways, and she's definitely ended up on the sober side of the line. But that feeling in the air tonight ... she can still remember the bright red colour of the cosmo as she poured it into a glass, and the way her arm almost pulled it back from the blonde with the twinkle in her eye that Holly was meant to be serving. How she had to forced her hand to set it down on the bar. She shakes her head as she tries to clear it, the chaotic energy from the bar almost seeming to swirl around her again.

There's 147 steps to go when she hears it, and once she does she realises it's been there from the moment she stepped into Wickerton. Maybe from the moment she left the bar. Maybe from earlier?

A second set of footsteps echoes softly between the buildings on either side of the road. 

She doesn't yet risk a look, but one set of footsteps is always infinitely more intimidating than a group. A group of men will talk shit and make her feel uncomfortable, but one man on his own ... She starts walking a bit faster.

124, and she's almost at the turn for the first alley. The shiver that was tracing her spine before spreads out, and her shoulder shudder as it passes through them. She thinks she can hear a laugh in response, but the sound is so soft she can't have heard it, not unless the person was right behind her. The footsteps seem louder but they're not that loud. Yet.

The last word flicks unbidden through Holly's mind. It doesn't feel like her own thought. It feels like someone dropped it in her mind. Bright red cosmo. Unlit streets. A fingernail of fear down her back. Yet. Yet. Yet. 

97 and she rounds the corner. She tries not to but she can't help it. She looks around. No street-wise maneuver, just a slightly manic glance around before she turns down the first alley. There's nothing, of course, of course, but she definitely hears a laugh this time. She knows, because she feels it whisper along her neck and up into her ear. 

What would normally take her 25 steps (give or take), she discovers takes much less when she's running. She's lost count as she barrels around the corner and sees her building in front of her. The keys jingle loudly, but every clang sounds like- 

Sounds like the time her brother broke his legs in third grade. Bones cracking. This thought doesn't feel like hers either. Yet.

The keys are in her hand the air is cold - when did it get cold? - behind her as she finally slips it into the first lock and stumbles into the lobby of her building, careening towards the stairwell. She hears the front door crash closed behind her but she doesn't turn around to look as she thinks that maybe it took half a second longer than it usually does. 

There's 43 stairs in the stairwell to her floor. She's still lost her count as she takes them two at a time. The echoing sound of the second set of footsteps resonates around her, and Holly doesn't know whether it's coming from in front of her, behind her, or from her. Her eyes catch on her hand as she grabs the railing, hauling herself up. Her nails, bright cosmo red. She doesn't remember that she painted them black this morning. 

Reaching her floor, keys have always sounded like breaking bones, and her footsteps, their footsteps, have always echoed each other and her nails have only ever been red. The key slides into the lock, and the door swings open, and Holly can't help the habitual glance up at the mirror hanging on the wall opposite her door. Bright, twinkling eyes. A third and final laugh. The door closing a half second too late. The sound that keys make. Red, and then black.