Whatever You Do, Don't Read This (A Horror Short Story)

Part 2

Part Two

Apparently, Leah left. My bedroom is empty again. In fact from the sound of it, my entire sorority house is empty, aside from poor pathetic me. There are twelve of us juniors and seniors who live here, so there's usually somebody around at any hour of the day or night. I'm the only one with my own bedroom - the pointy-roofed turret at the top of the world's creakiest staircase. It's great for privacy... not so great for broken ankles.

I like living here though. It definitely beats the dorms. The house is off-campus on a residential street, but we get along OK with the neighbors. The houses are set far enough apart that our noise doesn't bother them too often – and it certainly won't be a problem tonight. It's dead quiet in the house. The only sound I can hear is my own breathing, in and out.

Everyone must have left together, I guess. Sorority girls travel in packs, and they were all heading to the same place. It's 10:00 PM on Halloween night, and the frat with all the hottest guys is throwing a rager on the other side of campus. I doubt I'll see my friends again before dawn.

I let out a sigh. I can't help but feel sorry for myself. I broke my ankle coming home from a different party last week, when one of my heels got stuck in a crack in the sidewalk. And now my entire fall semester is pretty much ruined. Lovely.

I stick out my tongue at the bright orange cast. How am I going to survive five more weeks in this thing? Maybe I should just get it over with and hack my own leg off at the knee. That pick axe Leah left over there looks like it might actually be sharp enough.

"What do you think, Eric? Should I do it?"

(Yes, I talk out loud to my life-size Eric Thorn cut-out. Yes, I know that's kind of odd. What can I say? I'm a writer. He's my muse...)

Anyway, he looks like he could do some damage with that axe, except for the fact that he's made of cardboard. He's posed there, shirtless, with some rather impressive muscle tone on display. I have to give the boy credit: Eric Thorn may not be the greatest singer on the planet, but he certainly keeps himself in shape. It's not all photoshop either. I saw him live in Seattle over the summer – blew my budget on floor tickets and waited in line all day for a prime spot along the railing – and let me tell you, those pecs and abs are 100% real.

The thought warms me, but only for a moment. It's nowhere near enough to distract me from my mood. Everyone's out having fun, and I'm stuck here by myself, with nothing but my phone and my dirty fanfics to keep me company.

I pick my phone up and glance at the screen, silently willing a Twitter notification to appear. "If you're ever going to follow me back, Eric," I mutter darkly, "Now would be a good time."

But of course he doesn't. I don't have that kind of luck.

A notification shows up on my screen, but it isn't a new follower. Looks like a direct message. I frown at it for a moment. I don't recognize the username.

@PhlebotomyFan?

"Well, that isn't creepy at all."

I definitely don't remember following anyone with a name like that. Weirdness. How is this person even DM'ing me? I click the message open, and my confusion only deepens.

Did you read it?
http://www.wattpad.com/152986994

Something cold twists in my stomach, as my eyes skim over the link. I recognize it from the read request I got on Wattpad before. It must be the same person. What the hell?

I fire back a DM in response.

Who is this?

The reply flashes back instantly – as if they already had it written and ready to go the moment I responded.

Whatever you do, don't read it.
You've been warned.

"OK, no," I say to my phone. "Not cool." I don't know who this @PhlebotomyFan is, but I don't appreciate the scary-stalker creepitude. Not tonight. I try to tell myself that it's just one of my friends playing some Halloween prank. Probably, right? Too bad it's not very funny. I'm definitely not laughing. And I'm not wasting any more of my time on some Twitter troll. I quickly navigate to the account settings and bring my thumb down on one of my favorite options:

Block @PhlebotomyFan

"Bye loser."

I say it harshly, with more confidence than I feel. I don't know why, but I can sense the hair standing up on the back of my neck. It doesn't help, the way my Eric Thorn keeps glaring at me over there. Why does he look so different tonight? It's like his face looks a million times angrier than usual.

It's probably my own conscience playing tricks on me. He's looked that way ever since I posted my latest Thorn Porn update. Maybe I took it a little too far... I won't bore you with the details, but let's just say the real flesh-and-blood Eric probably would not have survived the kind of torment I just put him through....

"Sorry, Eric," I say to him meekly, but his expression doesn't change. "Dude, I can't unpublish it! My readers will kill me. You know how they get!" I just posted that one-shot yesterday, and it already has a long string of comments demanding the next update. This fandom is downright voracious when it comes to their smut. Trust me. I know first-hand.

I grab an extra pillow and toss it at Eric's head. It glances off his shoulder and knocks him forward. The cardboard teeters back and forth on its edge for a second, and then he falls flat on his face at the foot of my bed – out of my line of sight.

Good.

So much for being my muse. I can't help but feel relieved to have his eyes off of me.

I suck in a deep breath, and try to shake this disconcerting feeling in the pit my stomach. It's just the silence in the house, playing on my nerves. I kind of wish Leah would come back. Maybe I should text her, and tell her she forgot her axe. But... I don't know. That's kind of lame. She obviously doesn't care.

With a scowl, I return my attention to my phone. Forget texting. Forget Twitter. Maybe I can find something entertaining to read on Wattpad. I click on the app, and my inbox comes up, with that read request again. Honestly, it's like this damned story is haunting me!

I don't open it, but I'm bored enough to check out the story info page. The corners of my mouth turn down as it comes up. There's no cover, just a stark black rectangle where the cover image should be, and the story details beneath.

Whatever You Do, Don't Read This

That's the actual title? Seriously?

I let out a little snort. I guess that's not the worst title though. Reverse psychology... and apparently it's working. My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline when I notice the story's ranking, and I do a double-take. That can't possibly be true. This thing is ranked #1 in Fanfic?

"No way," I say out loud, squinting at the screen. I check the fanfic rankings religiously, and I've never seen this story here before. In fact, it looks from the timestamp like this book was just posted last night. How could it have gone from nonexistence to number one in the space of one day? It must be friggin' mind blowing.

Unless there's something glitchy going on...

I glance down at the description, and that's when I feel another chill run down my spine. It's just a single sentence. A sentence that I recognize... the same words, exactly, that @EricThorn himself just tweeted tonight to all his fans.

Don't you lovelies ever ghost on me.

"Oh my God," I whisper. I laughed off Leah before, but maybe she was right. Maybe Eric really is on Wattpad. Maybe this book is #1 because he posted it himself. Could that be true?

My jaw drops open, and all my misgivings are replaced by a shiver of excitement. I move to hit the Read button, but I stop short. My attention is distracted by the sound of slow footsteps on the staircase, just outside my bedroom door.

To be continued...

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