As we walk across campus, I glance down at my dress. I’d grabbed the first thing I could find in my closet. Not too fancy, not too shabby. It’s a deep purple that reminds me of a bruise. I put a little hint of mascara on, just to make myself look more awake. I’m not trying to attract a mate or anything.

I don’t exactly love frat parties, even before what happened. They’re way too chaotic and toxic for me to enjoy. I’d much rather spend a night at home eating junk food and watching movies. But Libby is hard to say no to. And I feel a little safer knowing that we’re going as a pair. If it weren’t for Libby, I’d be hiding out in my dorm room ninety percent of the time. It would be one hundred percent of the time if it weren’t for Edith and her stupid drums. The girl doesn’t even bother to ask me if it’s okay before she practices. As far as I know, she’s not even in a band. She just likes to hit things with sticks. I have no idea if she’s good or not. But she is fucking loud.

The best way to get past my fears of social gatherings is to dive right into one, right? No time like the present.

My palms begin to sweat as we approach the door of the frat house. I wipe them on my dress and bounce a little, trying to rev myself up.

I can do this. I’ve got this. It’s just a house party. There will be annoying drunk frat bros and sorority sisters, cheesy music and not enough chips and salsa.

The music inside the house is so loud that I can feel the reverberations from the speakers as we stand in the doorway. I feel it rattling inside my rib cage, causing my heart to speed up. People are talking and whooping so loudly that I can hardly hear myself think.

The flashing light of a strobe spins in an upstairs window, throwing crazy neon lights out into the darkness.

The quick flash of the light startles me into a memory. One of a party similar to this.

Like tonight, I also wasn’t at the party by choice alone. I wasn’t there to get drunk or hook up or dance. I was there to hide. I was on the run from the killer, trying to save my own life after seeing so many of my friends’ lives stolen in the most horrific ways. And I could see the strobe lights flashing through the panels of the closet I was hiding in. I was holding my breath, fearful that the killer would be able to hear me breathing, even over the music.

I don’t know how long I stayed in that closet. It felt like hours. I didn’t want to come out, even when the cops finally arrived and assured me the danger was gone. I was too traumatized.

Someone taps me on the shoulder, and I jump, the reverie broken.

It’s only Libby, giving me an encouraging pat.

At least I didn’t punch her this time. I’m getting better at controlling my reflexes.

I force a smile. “Yay, parties.”

“Are you okay?” Libby asks.

I almost laugh. No one has asked me that in a long time. I don’t even know what the answer is. What defines “okay”? If you mean am I functioning, then yes, I’m okay. But I don’t know if I’m okay in the larger sense of the word. I don’t know if I’ll ever be truly “okay” again.

“Do I really look that miserable?”

“No, not at all. I just wanted to check in. I know you were hesitant about going, so I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Thank god for Libby. Seriously.

“I’m fine,” I insist. “I’m excited. Really. I could use some more social interaction. Let’s go in.”

Libby smiles and links her arm through mine.

We enter.

Fortunately, the attendees are already pretty drunk, so no one does a double or triple take upon my arrival. That’s the last thing I need right now. I’d need a few drinks in me in order to not notice all of the staring and whispering, but this crowd is already too far gone to be able to single me out for being an unintentional celebrity.

Libby immediately drags me to the dance floor. I’m not really comfortable with “modern” dancing. All that grinding and butt shaking doesn’t really do it for me. Where are you supposed to put your hands? Why do people think it’s okay to touch each other like that without asking for consent first?

But Libby and I crack ourselves up trying out some of our swing dance moves. Turns out swing dancing and electronic music go really well together. I’m sure we look ridiculous, but after a while I realize I don’t care. It feels good to lose myself in silliness. It’s rare that I let my shoulders down and allow some genuine fun into my life.

“Everyone’s gonna be so jealous, they’re gonna want to join Swingers Club,” I joke.

“What?!” Libby yells.

“Forget it,” I say as we do-si-do across the floor.

After a few songs, we take a break. Libby introduces me to a few sorority sisters from Kappa Delta. Libby is one of those people who can get along with anyone from any social group. I’m in awe of her confidence. Where the hell did she come from? Who raised her?

Everyone she introduces me to is welcoming and nice enough. It’s not at all what I was expecting. It doesn’t even bother me when one of the sorority girls bumps into me on the dance floor later and tells me that she thinks I’m a complete badass.

“You’re like, every girl’s dream,” she slurs, clearly a bit tipsy. “Final girls are so hot. Neve Campbell. Jamie Lee Curtis. Ripley from Alien. You represent hope for anyone who’s going through tough shit!”

Yeah, being a final girl is a real dream come true.

“The actor from Alien is Sigourney Weaver,” I tell her.

I excuse myself and head over to the keg.

I reach for a plastic cup, desperate to get my buzz on, but a male hand beats me to it.

I glare at the hand’s owner. “Hey, dude. I was here first. Wait your turn.”

I meet the guy’s eyes. Shit, he is hot. Like, obnoxiously so. Abercrombie & Fitch model level of hot.

“Sorry about that,” the hottie says, and he actually winks at me.

“I’m Eli.”

With the hand not holding the cup, he reaches out a hand.

“What’s yours?”

“Instead of asking for my name, why don’t you offer me a sip from my cup?” I ask him, artfully dodging his question.

Eli’s hand disappears.

“Sorry,” he says. “I don’t know you well enough to share. You might have cooties. Of the sexual nature.”

I feel myself tighten up. I know his type. Hot as hell. Cocky. Rich, by the looks of his clothes. Insufferable.

I’ve met versions of this guy before, and I want nothing to do with him. No one has ever told him off in his life. He doesn’t understand the meaning of the word “no.”

I turn away from him and look for Libby in the crowd.

I find her on the edge of the dance floor. Something’s different about her. Her expression is off. I realize it’s because she’s frowning, and I’ve never seen her without a pleasant expression on her face. She stares at her phone, biting her lower lip.

“What’s wrong?” I ask nervously.

“I made a new friend from the frat Alpha Gamma Epsilon,” Libby tells me.

“Wait, the frat’s acronym is AGE?”

Libby nods. “Most people don’t spell it out like that.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“He’s a new pledge, and I promised to keep an eye on him at this party. Just in case the other boys try to pull something. Like moral support. But I haven’t seen him. He texted me that he’s here and that he’d come find me, but now he’s not responding to his texts. I’m worried maybe something happened, like a hazing thing.”

“He’s probably fine. Maybe he just got drunk and lost his phone,” I say, trying to assure her.

At that moment, someone from above us lets out a bloodcurdling scream.

My blood freezes over.

Before I know it, Libby and I are running upstairs.

The scream is coming from one of the bedrooms in the attic.

Breathless, I reach the doorway, but I’m too out of breath to let out a scream of horror at what I see.

Libby, evidently, is not too winded. She screams and screams.

“Bob!” she cries. “Oh my god, Bob!”

But Bob doesn’t respond.

Bob is lifeless. His limp body is impaled on the bedpost. His empty eyes stare blankly at us.

This can’t be happening. Not again.