The Psychopath Next Door

36: Into the Dark

She's not real.

Calla focused on the road. Her hands were tense on the wheel, knuckles white with strain. She took the next bend too quickly and cursed, slamming on the brakes.

"Don't you know how to drive?"

Not real. Not real. Not—

"How many times are you going to tell yourself that?" Tracy mused from the backseat. Calla felt something cold brush her neck and she cranked up the heat, gritting her teeth.

It's just a draft.

"And now you're ignoring me." The girl—the ghost?—snorted. "Rude. You did kill me. The least you could do is acknowledge it."

Calla squinted at the road. Pale yellow light filtered through the towering pines, but it wasn't enough to see by. Not by a long shot. Twilight had settled over Greenwitch, sinking the town into darkness.

She fiddled with one of the levers, muttering to herself. Headlights. Where the hell were the headlights?

"Um, hello? Pay attention to the road."

Calla glanced up. Distracted as she was, she hadn't even realized the Mustang had drifted into the left lane. She jerked the wheel to the right, cursing.

"Great. Just what I needed. To die twice." Tracy's petulant whine suddenly turned sinister. "Maybe this time, I'll drag you down with me."

Calla's focus drifted to the rearview mirror. A pair of bright blue eyes glared back at her.

She sucked in a surprised breath.

"What?" Two pale hands gripped the leather seats as Tracy pushed herself forward. Her face was inches from Calla's when she murmured, "Did you think I was a hallucination?"

"You're not real," Calla snapped. She pressed on the accelerator and the Mustang lurched forward.

Forty.

She took the next bend in the road without hitting the brakes. An empty water bottle rolled across the backseat.

"Shit. Shit. Shit," Calla hissed, jerking the wheel to avoid hitting a fallen branch. The tires screeched. "I should have just let him die."

But here I am, she thought, the speedometer climbing rapidly. Am I really going to die for this kid?

A gravel driveway appeared ahead. She could brake. Turn the car around. Pretend she'd never left that parking lot. But she didn't stop. She flew past the driveway and pursed her lips, holding back a frustrated scream.

Tracy sat back, her eyes still boring a hole into the rearview mirror. "Look at me."

Calla glanced down at the speedometer.

Forty-five.

The road straightened, and she immediately recognized Pleasant Grove—one of Greenwitch's few gated communities. She whizzed by, craning her neck to examine the guardhouse positioned outside the gate.

It was empty. Any hope that the guard on duty might notice her reckless driving evaporated.

"Look at me," Tracy hissed. Cold air bit at Calla's neck.

"No," she whispered. Her head throbbed.

Fifty. The engine began to whine.

"Look at me."

Calla let out a wild scream. She reached up and grabbed the rearview mirror. With an audible snap, she ripped it from the hinge and threw it into the passenger seat, her chest heaving.