Haunted (The Woodsview Murders, #2) SNEAK PEEK

Prologue

Prologue

Friday, October 17th, 2014

"This better freaking work," Chris muttered as he trudged through the forest behind Davis Hall, dragging a hockey bag filled with three cases of crap beer. He couldn't figure out how he'd gotten stuck doing the dirty work, especially when the whole thing had been his roommate Jeff's idea.

The plan was simple. Jeff was going to wait in the third floor bathroom of the dorm with a bundle of rope. Chris would haul the bag of booze around to the back of the dorm. Jeff would throw down the rope, Chris would secure the bag, and Jeff would haul it up. Then, they'd have three cases of beer in their dorm room, and neither their Resident Assistant nor dorm security would be the wiser.

Chris had convinced his brother's friend Matt—a senior—to buy beer for them a few days ago, and it had been sitting in the trunk of his car for the past two nights.

Thank God it's been cold out, he thought, or this stuff would be skunked to hell.

The lights of the dorms twinkled in the distance, a bright contrast to the dark forest that bordered them. Chris trampled over the brush, relying on the thin beam of light from his dollar store flashlight to get him there. The student parking lot was a good quarter mile from the dormitories and there was a paved path, but Chris wouldn't risk it. The last thing he needed was to be stopped by a campus cop asking about the contents of his bag. The brush and shadows would have to do.

Chris cursed as the beam of his flashlight fell on a creek that ran in both directions. There was barely any water in it, but the gap from one bank to the other was wide and the sides were steep. There was no way he could throw the hockey bag to the other side without shaking up the beer.

Finally, his light landed on a log that ran across the creek. It was only a couple hundred feet from him. Chris heaved the bag onto his shoulder and crunched through the autumn leaves toward the makeshift bridge.

Nice and slow. That was the key to making it across. He placed one foot on the log, pressing down a few times. It was solid and seemed like it would hold his weight. He shifted his hockey bag to balance it as he went across.

As soon as his rear foot left the solid ground, Chris wobbled. He leaned hard left and managed to stabilize himself, but the hockey bag swung wildly. He drew in a breath, relieved to have just avoided a nasty spill, and started across the log again. Only a few more steps and he'd be home free and on his way to a hangover.

Chris's left foot was mid-stride at the first impact.

Something heavy smashed into his head, and he toppled off the log, landing on top of his bag of beer.

A warm, thick liquid traveled down his face. Chris reached up, finding a geyser of blood erupting from his head. His mind swam. What the hell had he run into?

He worked quickly to untangle his arm from the hockey bag. Chris took a deep breath and fought for solid footing in the muddy, trickling water. The pounding of his head didn't help.

The flashlight was a few feet away, just out of reach, casting a long white beam on the creek. If he could sit up, maybe he could crawl. Was the ground moving or was it just his head?

The angry splash of footfalls through water caught his attention. Had Jeff seen his clumsy move? Had he come to help? Jeff wasn't one to pass up beer, even if it was the cheap stuff.

Chris wiped his arm across his head and focused on the two black work boots standing in the mud a few feet away. Those weren't Jeff's boots, at least he didn't think so.

His eyes moved up from boots to black pants. Then to a face. Except it wasn't a face. It was an orange mask, with a weird symbol on it.

He'd seen it before. Somewhere. Where had he seen it? Jeff had told him a story about a guy in an orange mask when they were high one night. But the details wouldn't come to him. For all he knew, it was Jeff behind the mask, screwing with him.

"What the hell, man?" Chris asked groggily, trying to blink away the haze. "Help me up." Chris held up his arm, now free of the bag. He tried to push himself away from the water that ran over his hands. With the biting October air seeping into his lungs and the icy water soaking his jeans, he knew that he should be cold. But he wasn't. Everything was numb.

"Seriously," Chris said, unable to stand. "I'm hurt."

The black boots stepped toward him and suddenly there was movement. A shiny blade sliced through the air moments before a stinging sensation enveloped Chris's throat. Fresh, dark blood squirted out in front of him, steaming in the night air. He fell back into the mud. The flashlight tumbled from his fingertips and landed in the creek, the beam shining on his face.

Chris needed to get away—he knew that. But he didn't have the strength. He tried to at least muster a scream. But when he moved his mouth, all that came out was a muffled gurgle, as he choked on the life that was pouring out of him. With each cough, his vision dimmed at the corners, darkness threatening to swallow him.

As Chris struggled to pull in each shallow, wheezing breath, the masked figure crouched down beside him. For a moment, his attacker sat in silent observation, watching Chris slowly slip away. But just before he lost consciousness, the killer pulled out a phone and held it close to Chris' face. Chris didn't hear anyone on the other end, but even if there was, they would have been drowned out by the sound of his heartbeat thumping in his ears...slowing...slowing.

Thump...Thump...

Thump.........Thump.........

Thump.

Chris's vacant eyes forever stared into the inky vastness of night as the cold creek water ran red.