She is running, the heels of her five-inch Barbie pink stilettos click-clacking against the pavement as her legs furiously thrust forward. Her dress is torn; her heavily made-up face has become pale, and her eyes, outlined in a thick contour of black, are as wide as that of a deer caught in the headlights. When she trips on her own feet, she flings off her shoes and continues running barefoot, her neon-colored toenails gleaming like beacons in the darkness. It is a midsummer’s night, but her arms are prickled with goose bumps, and shivers tingle up her spine. She glances over her shoulder and quickens her pace, her breath coming in short but heavy intervals, making it seem like she is gasping for oxygen. The air smells strongly of drink; she can still taste the alcohol that had passed over her tongue a just a short while ago. At this moment, however, she is not overtaken by the effects of drink, for the adrenaline pumping within her seemed to have beaten out all other sensations in her body. Her heartbeat is flying; she looks behind her once more, her eyes searching for something in the night. Perhaps she imagines it, but for one terrifying second, she catches sight of a figure in the shadows—a moving outline blacker than the surrounding gloom. She begins to tremble. Her bottom lip quivers, and a chilling scream escapes her throat. Her eyes dart desperately toward the several unlit mansions along the road, but no help comes. She is alone.
Her body tenses as something sharp bounces off the back of her head. It lands behind her, and she stops to see what it was: one of her own hot pink stiletto shoes. A warm trickle of blood oozes down onto her neck, which is suddenly grasped by ice-cold fingers. They wrap around her tightly, sending her into an oblivion darker than the shades of night. The last thing she hears is a raspy, all-too-familiar whisper:
“I have you now.”