Free Kissing Midnight by Laura Bradley Rede

shoulder in her best Judy Garland voice. “See you there soon!” She disappears behind a pile of boxes, leaving a trail of red glitter behind her. I can hear her ordering the cab.
    I sigh. Home is sounding good right now, but there’s no use arguing with Delia. She always gets what she wants.
    Better get back to work.
    I pick my way toward the box marked MND. In a moment I’m pushing aside a papier mache donkey head and shorting through gauzy wings and garlands of flowers. My hands are busy, but my mind keeps wandering back to this morning at the library. He bothered to switch my work assignments, which was…intrusive, sure, but well intentioned. At least, I think it was. I mean, he did it to help with the dance, right? And maybe to get to Delia through me. Guys are always doing that.
    Although, if he wanted to talk to Delia, why not just find us at lunch?
    Was he just trying to get me alone? The thought thrills and terrifies me. There’s no doubt Dev Renard is the sort of guy most girls would kill to be alone with, but adding someone like Dev to my life might be enough to put me over an edge.
    Snap.
    I sit up sharply. What was that? Another mouse, I’m sure, but my nerves are shot. I freeze perfectly still, straining to hear, but all I can hear is my own heart pounding. My mind explodes with a million memories of things I saw at Westgate, things I never want to see again. I try to shove the images into a room at the back of my mind and slam the door shut.
    It’s nothing.
    Snap .
    It isn’t nothing. It’s something—something too big to be a mouse. My pulse is racing. “Delia?” Maybe she came back for something. She’s always forgetting something. “Dev, is that you ? ” If this is his idea of a joke, I’ll kill him.
    Footsteps. There’s a chinking noise and then—
    “Hide in the kitchen
    Hide in the hall
    Ain’t gonna do you no
    Good at all…”
    Elvis’ voice booms through the warehouse.
    The jukebox.
    I’m up and on my feet, the prop knife still clutched in my hand, before it even has time to register. Someone is in the warehouse. Someone who isn’t answering. But they’re at the jukebox, which is in the back, which means they aren’t between me and the door.
    I creep toward the front, bent nearly double so I can’t be seen over the piles. One step. Two. My heart is pounding so loud that I’m sure they can hear it. Three steps.
    There’s a sizzling noise overhead as the florescent lights flicker out and the warehouse is plunged into darkness.
    I yelp before I can stop myself and slap my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming. Whoever they are, they must have heard me. They know where I am now. I can’t stay here.
    But I can’t run. The room is a maze of God knows what and it’s pitch black. I could break my neck, bring a pile down on my head, get turned around and lose the door completely…
    If I haven’t already. I think I know where the door is, but I can’t be sure. I inch in that direction, my ears straining for any sound.
    But I can’t hear anything over the sound of Elvis singing.
    Stretching the prop knife out in front of me, I prod the darkness, taking another step. My jeans catch on something sharp, and I stifle another yelp as the fabric rips, the tearing noise loud in the sudden silence. The song has ended. I can hear the shush, shush , shush of the record spinning and the chunk of another falling into place. And something else. Panting breath, heavy and wet.
    “One way or another I’m gonna find you,
    I’m gonna get you get you get you get you…”
    Blondie screams to life over the speakers, drowning out the sound of breathing before I can tell where it’s coming from. The prop knife shakes in my sweaty hand. You’re imagining this. It’s one of your episodes . But is it? Or is it someone’s idea of a joke, or worse? There’s nothing to do but creep toward where I think the door is and get out of here as fast as I can.
    But even if I get out, will I be safe? The