Obligatory Disclaimer-type-thing: All these characters? Stephenie Meyer's. I am not making money off of this. Now, let's get on with the story, shall we?


Sh. I'm sleeping. I'm sleeping I'm sleeping I'm sleeping there's nothing there in the dark go to sleep.

And then there's that noise again. A light rustling, as of fabric. An ever-so-slight creak of the floorboards. Like a footstep.

Cold fear wriggles up my spine. There's someone in my room.

But that's nonsense. I'm seventeen, for God's sake. Way too old to be scared of the dark. That noise? You've got a pair of jeans hanging on the back of the chair that your dad bought special for your arrival. And your attic bedroom (romantic, you said, unique, when your dad said you could pick either that or the guest room) is pretty old, and there's a draft, isn't there?

So that's it. I'm going to sleep. There is no one in my room.


I sleep, but I don't sleep well. I can't shake the feeling that, despite all my rationalization, there was someone (or something) in my room. I was in and out of sleep all night. And it shows.

Great. Just great for my second day at school.

I manage, though. Thank God the people here are pretty nice, if a little too helpful. And I got over the initial awkward introductions of yesterday, so now all I have to do is act bland and uninteresting. Which isn't exactly that difficult. Until last period, that is.

There's a boy in this class who doesn't think I notice him staring. It's not a good stare. Every couple of seconds he looks away, but then his eyes gravitate back towards me. Maybe I'm being unreasonable, but I can feel the goosebumps pricking up and down my arms and the sweat forming on my forehead. I swallow nervously, then catch myself. Clamp down on the fear. Don't let it control you. Ignore him, for now. He's just some creep. Pay attention to the teacher, droning out the phases of mitosis. Cell division. That's what's important here. Don't let him scare you.

He won't let up. That look. It's like a cross between rage and hate and, well, lust. There. I said it. This isn't good. My dad gave me a can of pepper spray yesterday, but I was too embarrassed to take it to school. It's on my desk, all the way at home. Not good. Breathe. All you have to do is cross the parking lot to your car, get in, and lock the doors. Then you'll be safe. Go. Hurry up. He's watching you.

I rush out of there like nobody's business and not-exactly-run to my badass pickup truck, another gift from my dad (he's awesome, by the way; my mom and stepdad flat out refused when I asked them for a means of transportation other than my beat-up bike). Get in, slam door, deep breath. Yeah. My truck's awesome. I've named her Rosie. Seems to fit.

The drive home is uneventful, the evening just the same. I do my homework, the obedient little schoolgirl that I am, and heat up some leftovers for dinner. My dad's working late; he's a cop, which is cool. I tell myself that I'm not afraid of going to sleep. Not afraid at all.

I dawdle and delay on the Internet. I watch some TV. It's too quiet here, nothing like Phoenix at all. I find myself yawning. Might as well get some sleep. Tomorrow's another day, and I'm not afraid.


And here I am again. Awake, in the dark, curled up under my blanket, and desperately trying to convince myself that there is nothing to be afraid of.

The glow from the lamp on my bedside table only makes things worse, casting everything in uncertain shadows. And there's that noise, the same one as last night. Rustlerustlecrrreeeeeak.

…crrrreeeeeak.

…crrreeeeEAK.

…crreeeEEAK.

Oh shit. Don't look don't look whatever it is is right there at the side of your bed; if you open your eyes you'll see it staring. Don't look.

But I have to look. It's like my mom says: you gotta look, or else you'll never know it was nothing after all. I swallow the fear and force my stubborn eyes open.

No one's there.