LOST

There it was again—the prick at the back of my neck, the jolt in my system. It was barely midday, but I knew it was the same person. Someone was following me. Their unwavering stare felt like something crawling against my skin. I didn’t bother turning around; I would never see the culprit anyway. I’d never caught them before, and today wouldn’t be any different.

I nearly jumped as a loud squeak filled the air. Again, the bats appeared. Their screeches continued until there was a sudden silence, followed by an anticipated thud in the snow. Another one had died. I didn’t glance at it, knowing I wouldn’t be able to stomach the fear and nausea that would wash over me when I saw it.

Western long-eared bats—although the sight was gruesome, their dead bodies were still identifiable. They were harmless to humans, preying only on insects. But for weeks, something had been killing them. And for weeks, something had been stalking me—never when I had company, always when I was alone. It left behind these dead bodies like a cry for attention, a way to scare me. It was weird, abnormal. Western long-eared bats were rare and never appeared in winter. Was the thing killing them also the one haunting me? One thing was certain: the cries for attention? I wouldn’t answer them. Whatever this thing was, it didn’t want me dead; it wanted me afraid, slowly trying to drive me insane.

It never showed itself when others were around, and the street I was walking on was now desolate, with only a couple of cars passing by. Even if I said anything, no one would believe me. If I showed the bats’ bodies to someone else, I’d be seen as a cruel kid who murdered animals for fun. The facts were irrelevant; it didn’t matter that the bats’ sightings were irregular for this time of year. It didn’t matter that I was known to be frightened of animals. The truth was too unsettling for anyone to face. Frustrated by the helplessness of my situation, I took the long way back home, knowing there would be people there.

“Archie? Archie!” I sat up, dazed and confused. Where was I? “This is Homeroom, young lady,” Mrs. Laurel chided with a frown. Right, Homeroom. I was in school. The class had just begun. It was barely 10 in the morning. When had I even gotten dressed? The lack of sleep was taking its toll. While my ′stalker′ occupied the day, the nightmares kept me awake at night. It was getting worse. How long could I last like this?

The bell rang suddenly, the noise doing wonders for my severe headache. “Archie, the principal’s office. Now,” Mrs. Laurel said with a frown, but I could see the hint of concern in her eyes. It was too late now for her to care. She had watched—had they all watched—as my life crumbled. They could have intervened when my mother lost her mind. I wished her fragile state served as the only cause of my troubles.

It had been a couple of days since Mr. Rudolph’s office had been painted, but I was still too sensitive to the smell. He looked up and visibly winced at the sight of me in the doorway. Was I that bad? That internal question made me realize how long it had been since I’d bothered to look at my reflection.

“Archie,” he drawled, pity weighing heavy in his voice. He cleared his throat. ”I understand things are hard for you right now.” I scoffed at that, and his eyes narrowed, the pity forgotten. ”But you need to take your scholarship seriously. Many would love to take your place. You need to remember that.” Taking my silence for what it was (he could shove those half-assed threats up his ass), Mr. Rudolph sighed and turned back to his newspaper, not bothering to dismiss me verbally.

I would have walked away immediately had something not caught my eye. I lunged for the paper, staring at the front page in disbelief. “What is this?” The question, though verbalized, was rhetorical. Mr. Rudolph, clearly not realizing it, responded with confusion. “Thomas, that truck driver who killed himself a few weeks ago. He had a little girl; no one knew about her. He buried her in his backyard with his wife. Truly a sick man.”

Nothing connected to me, nothing similar, but it felt ominous like there was more to it. This fleeting feeling fluttered in my chest, but it was all I had to cling to. Ignoring Mr. Rudolph’s yells, I ran out of his office, the newspaper clutched tightly in my hand. A few weeks ago, around the same time, my phantom stalker had appeared. I refused to label it a mere coincidence. I ran home, making sure to take the streets filled with people.