“Team Edward or Team Jacob, Diana?” Priya asks. 

I chew a spoonful of vampire vindaloo slowly, the spicy curry weaving through my teeth as I contemplate whether I would rather date a boy whose kink is bloodsucking or a boy who smells like wet dog after a shower. “Team Edward. I like sparkly things.” 

Priya snatches the pot of vindaloo out of my lap. “Wrong. Taylor Lautner is fine as hell and could bite pasty little Robert Pattinson in half.” 

“Not until New Moon. Besides, I don’t need any more dogs in my life. I already have Percy.” I reach over the futon’s edge and scratch Percy behind the ears. His single copper eye snaps open then shudders closed when he realizes it’s me. 

“You’re both wrong. Laurent is the finest piece of ass in this franchise,” Victoria says from her lofted bed above the futon. “I would let him turn me any day.” 

“Among other things,” I say. 

Victoria throws a Starburst orange pillow from the top bunk, and I’m just quick enough to bat it away from Percy’s head. “Watch it! Percy’s getting his beauty sleep.” 

“It isn’t Percy who needs beauty sleep,” Victoria says. 

She laughs until the pillow smacks her in the face. “I thought you’d be learning which monsters to go for and which ones to swerve in your Goths, Ghosts, and Monsters class, Miss Ma’am. Guess I was wrong.” 

“Please. We’re not watching Twilight for your class,” Priya says. 

“I didn’t hear you complain when I suggested Twilight. Plus, it was your idea to cook vindaloo to match tonight’s blood-themed movie,” I say. 

“Vindaloo is the same color as blood, but 100% more delicious. And who doesn’t love a themed dinner?” Priya says. Since the dining center is closed Sunday nights, Priya plays chef in West Hall’s tiny kitchen once a week. Her Indian mother and Chinese grandmother taught her to prepare colorful, flavorful butter chicken, mouth-watering, bone broth pho, and other Asian-inspired cuisine. Victoria’s allergy to domesticity and my lack of culinary experience leaves us to clean up Priya’s feasts. Tonight’s dinner took longer because of the flood of residents microwaving Cup-of-Noodles or heating Pizza Rolls in the oven. People don’t venture outside the residence hall alone after dark these days. Especially females.  

“Hospitality management and event planning is getting to your head,” Victoria says. 

“Maybe biology would get to yours if you cracked open your textbook,” Priya says. “Speaking of books, how’s Dracula?” 

“I’ll read during my shift, Mom. I don’t want Meryl to crucify me tomorrow morning,” I say. My Goths, Ghosts, and Monsters professor isn’t named Meryl, but she has the cold, haughty demeanor of Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada.

I glance at my watch and double take at the time. It’s already 11:45pm. The futon groans as I rise. Percy rolls onto his feet when I grab his leash from the desk, and his tail windmills as I attach the leash to his harness. “Percy needs to potty before my shift.” 

“Do you want someone to go with you?” Victoria asks as she inspects her coffin nails. A vein in her neck, rigid as a rope, pulses rapidly and betrays her anxiety. 

Two weeks ago, a sophomore named Katherine Delano was found dead on Tri Delta’s lawn. A sorority sister found her the morning after a party and assumed the purple-red grass haloing Katherine’s head was regurgitated jungle juice. When she rolled Katherine over, her neck was slashed open so deep that the retainer-shaped bones of her spine were visible. 

After Katherine died, Victoria confessed they sat next to each other in Expository Writing. “She invited me to every wack ass party Tri Delta threw. I thought she was trying to recruit me to boost their diversity stats,” Victoria said. I suspect she’s taking Katherine’s death the hardest because of the underlying survivor’s guilt. The empty seat beside her every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday probably doesn’t help. 

“Nah, you stay here and ogle Laurent,” I say. 

“Fine, but call if you need anything,” Victoria says. 

“Will do,” I say, waving my phone. I slip into the dark hallway with Percy. The fluorescents switch off at 9pm, but the lobby lights are motion activated, so they burst to life as Percy and I stroll through. Thankfully, nobody’s avoiding homework on the dust-filled purple sofas. I love my third-floor neighbors, but I couldn’t stop to chat. 

Percy and I jog down the blood orange stairs. As we enter the first-floor lobby — better known as the flobby — I glare at my archenemy, Carson. He pointedly glances at the wall clock beside the front desk. 

“Percy pees like the wind, Carson. I’ll be back in time to take over,” I say, opening the door. 

“You’re supposed to arrive five minutes before your shift,” Carson says. 

“Those extra five minutes give you plenty of time to finish whatever you’re watching on the monitor,” I say. 

A muscle twitches in Carson’s cheek. “Remember our deal.” A month ago, I caught Carson watching tentacle porn at the desk and rubbing his crotch. I took a video of his disgustingly unprofessional behavior on my phone for evidence. Now we have an understanding: I won’t report him to our boss, Leona, if he doesn’t reveal my tardy streak to Sunday shifts. 

“Remember why we made the deal,” I say.

I don’t wait for Carson’s rebuttal as I follow Percy outside. Periwinkle moonlight washes over the grass. It trembles in the crisp October wind, a sea of blue fingers wiggling. I shiver as Percy saunters and sniffs, squatting to pee on a dandelion. Wind whistles through tree branches while Percy pulls me around the side of the building. He wanders towards the ancient basketball court and gazebo between the three dorms neighboring West Hall: Mudrock, Hamilton, and Fuster. Picnic tables crouch like four-legged creatures beneath the gazebo’s gabled roof. Percy’s ears flatten when we near the entrance. 

“Come,” I say, tugging on Percy’s leash. The last thing my one-eyed dog needs is to challenge a rabid raccoon to fisticuffs. Percy doesn’t budge, though. The hair on my forearms rises as Percy growls and snaps his teeth. I squint into the shadows, and finally notice a boy leaning against a picnic table. His head lolls on his neck, and his manspread legs nearly fill the wooden bench. Something shifts above his crotch. Ope! Not something, someone. 

“Oh my God,” I mutter. The girl’s head moves up and down, a fishing bobber who caught her prey’s attention. The guy grins at me. His teeth shine like glow in the dark stars. 

I grab Percy’s harness handle and drag him suitcase-like back to West. I let go when we round the corner of the building and practically sprint to the stairs. My intestines braid themselves into intricate knots. Would I ever be horny enough to give my boyfriend a blowjob in public? Is that what couples do nowadays? Wow, okay Boomer. I don’t need to worry; I’m as single as a Pringle. 

We hustle past Carson, and I drag Percy into the elevator. When it dings open, I jog to my room, unleash Percy, and grab my backpack. 

“Night, y’all!” I say. 

“Night, night. I might visit you later,” Priya says. 

“You need SLEEP, heifer,” Victoria says. 

The door slams on the resulting argument. I run through the lobby and downstairs, practically jumping down each flight. As I enter the flobby, sweaty and breathless, Carson asks, “Were you a truant in high school?” 

“No. Why?” 

“Your tardiness might suggest otherwise.” I walk behind the desk and put my backpack on the counter beside the printer. Carson writes “3 minutes” in his pocket-sized notebook.  

“Did you ever kill small animals in high school?” I say. 

“No. Why?” 

“Your inability to empathize with others might suggest you’re a serial killer.” 

“Haha,” Carson says. He shuffles past me, finally relinquishing the swivel chair. “Good night, Dylan.” 

“Sweet nightmares, Kirsten.” 

Carson disappears down the first-floor boy’s wing perfumed with the stench of Fritos and farts. I log onto the computer, check the mail catalog, then return to the front desk’s office chair. It’s nearly as old as Bessie B. West Hall. The worn faux leather seat sighs with each movement, the underlying springs waiting for a chance to surface and stab me. Once settled, I grab Dracula from my backpack and flip to my bookmark. 

The fireplace cackles while I read about the bats boogying in Transylvania. The stiff-backed gray couches remain empty in the flobby. The automatic lights flicker off one-by-one in front of the desk. My only company is the portrait of Bessie B. above the fireplace. The string of pearls noosing her neck is the same shade as her sclera and cotton candy curls. The portrait wigs me out because Bessie’s eyes follow you around the flobby, a silent watchwoman surveying her territory. I hide behind the frosted glass wall that separates the desk from the flobby, but I still feel Bessie’s stare. 

My eyelids droop as the clock strikes 1am. The front door opens while I debate logging onto Netflix and finishing Twilight. 

“Ah, fuck,” I mutter. The couple from earlier stands in the vestibule. I recognize the girl now; she’s a volleyball player who lives on the fourth floor. The girl swipes her ID in the card scanner. The computer chimes, showing her picture and name: Molly Matthews. 

“You need to check your guest in,” I say as the pair parades in. I don’t miss Molly’s eye roll before I grab the guest check-in clipboard from the bottom desk drawer. 

Molly and her boy toy approach the front desk. “Can I see IDs?” 

Molly hands me her student ID. The boy stares at me when he reaches into his front pockets. His hands linger a little too long. Maybe he isn’t reaching for his wallet. Keep it in your pants, pervert. I busy myself copying Molly’s info on the clipboard. 

The boy finally presents his driver’s license as I finish copying Molly’s info. He slides it across the desk, and our fingers touch when I pick it up. I yank my hand away because his skin is ice cold. It was chilly when I let Percy out, but it wasn’t frigid. The faster I copy his info, the better. 

Ezra Clark reads the license. “ALASKA” blares across the top left corner in blue letters. A pastel mountain frames the photo on the left side. I glance between the portrait and the boy standing before me. Something’s off. The license portrays a boy with shoulder-length rust-red hair and round cheeks. Ezra is all angles, knife-sharp jawline and cheekbones along with close-cropped bronze hair. His eyes are lighter in the photo, too. More blue than black. Is it legal to wear colored contacts for your license photo? 

“Something wrong?” Ezra leans on the counter. 

“Just wondering what brings you to Kansas,” I say. 

“My father’s an alum. I’m getting an architecture degree just like him.” 

“You must be a night owl. There’s usually architecture students chugging energy drinks and racing to finish their projects by sunrise in the flobby.” 

“The best things happen at night,” Ezra says with a wink. 

“Are you done?” Molly asks. The question is colder than Ezra’s hands. As if I’m a threat to Molly’s wandering mouth. 

“Yep.” I slide the license to Ezra. 

“See you later,” he says. 

“Have a good night.” My stomach swan dives. While I’m sure Ezra meant we’ll see each other when he leaves, there was a suggestiveness to the statement. 

“We will,” Molly says. She grabs Ezra’s leather jacket sleeve and pulls him to the elevator. The door opens with a cheerful ding, and they disappear inside. 

I almost gladly return to Jonathan’s long-winded, trivial monologues. However, my eyelids droop lower and lower with every sentence. I force myself to reread the same paragraph each time I drift off, but I’m helpless against the late hour. 

“Hey!” 

My head snaps up, and I drop Dracula. How long was I out? I roll my neck, and a sharp stab of pain slices through the muscle with the motion. Long enough to get a crick. 

“Sleeping on the job?” Priya says. Her long, curly black hair frames her face. She should be careful; if her hair grows any longer, we’ll have a Cousin It situation on our hands. 

“Until you showed up.” I yawn. 

“You’re lucky Leona didn’t catch you. She would have fired you on the spot.” 

“Did you stop by for a lecture, or is it just a perk of your visit?” I say. I pick up Dracula. I don’t know where my bookmark slithered off to, so I put it face down next to the keyboard. 

“I heard someone scream on the fourth floor,” Priya says. 

“Did you check it out?” I say. 

“I’m not on the clock.” 

I groan. “Was it a happy scream?” 

“What does a happy scream sound like?” 

“Like a scream that doesn’t force me to investigate.” 

I dial the Staff on Duty number. Brodie, the Resident Assistant on call tonight, never wakes up when I need him. This semester, Brodie slept through drunk guys sending lobby furniture to different floors on the elevator, a suspiciously large poop in a second-floor shower, and a lizard chasing residents in the basement. I bite my cheek as the phone rings and rings. 

“Goddammit, Brodie,” I say as I hang up. 

“Do you want me to go with you?” Priya says. 

“Yes. I can run faster than you.” 

Priya pinches my arm on our way to the elevators. After we step inside, I ask, “Was the scream in the lobby?” 

“I was unlocking my door when I heard it, so I’m guessing they were near the girls’ bathroom,” Priya says.  

I groan. Maintenance was less than thrilled the last time the Fourth Floor Flushers left a fecal surprise for them to clean up. We ascend in silence. When the doors open, I see a girl in a towel dripping water onto a mauve couch. Mascara smudges beneath her eyes, and shampoo bubbles weave through her hair. 

“Are you the RA on duty?” she asks. 

“No, I’m working the front desk. What’s up?” 

“There’s a bat in the bathroom. It flew into my shower stall and tried to bite me,” the girl says. 

Thank goodness. I’ll choose a bat over a serial killer any day. “Stay here. I will go trap it.” 

“I’ll stay here and crowd control,” Priya says. She sits next to the girl in the otherwise empty lobby. 

“Helpful,” I say. 

I walk down the hallway to the communal bathroom. The violet carpet is freckled with red, blue, and green dots. I trail my fingers along the white cement brick walls, dread tap dancing through my chest. Reports about bats gliding around residence halls grew as summer faded into fall. Last week, a girl in Fuster woke up to a bat crawling across her comforter, its jaws snapping and hungry. A bat squeezed under a door in Mudrock the week before and cornered a girl in her room. Luckily, her roommate came home and trapped it under a trash can.

Ugh, my minimum wage salary doesn’t cover pest control duties. I should have pounded on Brodie’s door and forced him to do his job. 

I arrive at the bathroom and gather my waning courage before pushing the door open slowly. Nothing flies at me, and no leathery winged creatures slide across the slick floor. Steam from the shower floats towards me. The air is sticky and humid; sweat gathers under my arms and prickles along my hairline. She couldn’t turn off the shower? 

I approach the short hallway of shower stalls. Steam slithers beneath two of the white partition curtains. The girl didn’t mention anyone else here. To be fair, I wouldn’t check for stragglers if a bat tried to make me its midnight shower snack. Then it’s every girl for herself. 

“Hello? This is the Community Assistant from the front desk. Someone reported a bat in the bathroom. Please exit immediately.” 

No answer. Which shower did the girl in the lobby use? 

I take a deep breath, mentally preparing to see tits or teeth. I approach the closest shower on the right. The white changing curtain is pulled aside. Water trails from the stall to the door. This must be the shower lobby girl used. 

I survey the changing area from the safety of the hallway. Water splashes over the shower’s low lip and pools on the floor. I step inside and pull the second curtain aside. I reach into to turn off the water when something shrieks near the drain. It echoes off the slimy, moldy walls and digs into my ears. A bat army crawls across the shower straight towards me. I scream and step backwards, but lose my footing on the wet floor. I land butt first in a puddle. The bat drags itself forward with hook-shaped thumbs. I crabwalk out of the stall as it drops to the bathroom floor, scrambling after me. The little shit is fast. 

My back slams into a stall on the opposite side of the short hallway. I lunge for a trashcan under the wall of mirrors to my right. The bat ignores me, making a mad dash for the shower running at the end of the hall. I crawl after it with the trash can, but it wiggles under the changing area curtain. 

“Hello? The bat is outside your shower,” I say. The only sound coming from the shower is the soft patter of water hitting tile. Is it weird to open the curtain and catch the bat? Duh, it’s weird, but it’s better than being bitten. Right? 

I push myself upright and raise the trash can high. “Staff coming in.” I whip the curtain back, expecting to bat to launch itself at me, but instead I find a foot sticking out of the shower stall. Five glittery pink toes rest on the scummy floor. 

I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste salty, metallic blood. Did the girl faint after I told her about the bat? Or was she already like this? 

Slowly, I open the shower curtain. Water drizzles onto a pale body and mixes with the blood oozing from a smile-shaped slash across the girl’s neck. Blood mixes with the water, carving a bubblegum pink path between the girl’s boobs, across her taut stomach, and through her straw-colored pubic hairs. A razorblade in the girl’s right hand winks at me. I recognize the cinnamon freckles and sunshine hair matted against the wall. Molly Matthews. 

I drop the trash can and clap a hand over my mouth before I vomit on the dead girl in the shower. Bile pounds against the back of my teeth, stale and greasy. It burns as I swallow it. Suddenly dizzy, I crouch before the corpse. 

What happened? I checked Molly and Ezra in only an hour ago. Everything seemed fine. Why would confident, beautiful Molly kill herself? Did something happen with Ezra? Oh God. If Molly is here, where’s Ezra? In her room, awaiting her return? 

Movement on Molly’s shoulder catches my attention. A brown hook digs into Molly’s collar bone, and I watch the bat drag itself over her shoulder. It screams, almost human-like, then crawls up Molly’s neck. The bat sinks its fangs into Molly’s ghost-white neck, and its bronze body shivers with pleasure as it slurps Molly’s blood. 

I scream and stand. I slip and slide across the damp tiles, but I don’t stop running until I’m in the hall. I slam the bathroom door shut and lean against it, my legs shaking so hard I can’t support myself. 

Priya jogs up the hallway. “I heard you scream. Do you need me to call pest control?” 

I shake my head. “Call 911.” 

###

I hang up my phone after explaining the situation to Leona. Female residents poke their heads out of their rooms. Their hair cyclones in every direction on their heads, and a few dawn mint green clay face masks. 

“Please remain in your rooms,” I say for the tenth time. 

Relief floods through me when Priya hurries up the hallway. “911 is on their way,” she whispers when she’s close enough. She called the police in the staircase so none of the residents would overhear. “I woke up Brodie, too. He’ll be up shortly.” 

“Thank you,” I say. 

“What happened?” Priya says. 

“I’m not sure. It looks like she killed herself. Her name is Molly. Was,” I say. The word tastes black coffee bitter. 

“How did she do it?” Priya says. Her usually vibrant copper complexion is ashen. 

“She slit her throat,” I say. 

Priya’s eyebrows rise. “Like Katherine?” 

“I don’t know. I guess so?” Tears gather along my lower eyelids. Katherine and Molly’s whole lives were ahead of them. Both were here working towards degrees and future careers. They probably had friends and family, people who sent care packages full of snacks and prepared childhood bedrooms for breaks and poured them birthday vodka shots that tasted like fruity nail polish remover. What a waste. I don’t know why Molly’s death is hitting me harder than Katherine’s. Maybe because she’s the second girl my age to kill herself in less than a month. Or maybe because I was one of the last people to see Molly alive. Either way, I will never know why and standing here wondering about it won’t help Molly. “I’m gonna go to the front desk so I can let the officers and EMTs in. Can you crowd control until Brodie shows up?” 

“Of course,” Priya says. 

My numb feet take me to the lobby. I punch the button for the elevator. As I descend, I realize it’s the same elevator Molly and Ezra rode earlier. Did something happen here that made Molly want to die? 

I hurry out of the elevator when it opens on the flobby. The clock ticks closer to 3am, the end of my shift, but I won’t be going to bed anytime soon. My shoe squeaks against the linoleum when I walk behind the desk. Beads of water sprinkle the floor. I glance at the ceiling, but it’s bone dry. This can’t be from me because I just got here. Did somebody come behind the desk while I was upstairs? 

I pull the chair back, about to sit down, when I notice the guest check-in clipboard flipped over beneath the desk. Odd. I could have sworn I returned it to its drawer after checking Molly and Ezra in. I definitely didn’t throw it under the desk. 

I flip the clipboard over. The top sheet is soaked and empty. Where’s the sheet I filled out earlier? 

Goose flesh blooms across my forearms. Ezra. Who else would have taken it? The check-in sheet was one of the only records of him entering the building.

I drop the clipboard and head into the mailroom. A security monitor blinks in the darkness. The screen splits into twelve squares; there’s a camera on each wing of West’s five floors plus a camera that films the front desk and flobby. Although we’re not supposed to touch the security footage, I want to know who stole the check-in sheet.

I rewind the footage, but it goes back farther than I intended. I’m about to fast forward, but I stop when I see Molly approach the desk at 1:06am. Alone. How is this possible? I know I checked her and Ezra in. I watch myself grab a driver’s license that slides itself across the front desk’s counter. When I’m done writing, the license disappears into thin air, and Molly walks to the elevators by herself.

What. The. Fuck. There’s no way Ezra could just disappear on film. The cameras are old, but functional. Were the tapes tampered with? If so, it doesn’t make sense. Why not delete the footage instead of wiping someone out of it? I’m not sure it’s even possible to make someone disappear on this type of footage.

Someone knocks on the front door. My heart slams against my chest as I peer around the mailroom’s doorway. Relief washes over me when I see two EMTs and a police officer waiting in the vestibule. I leave the mailroom to let them in, but stop when I notice Dracula propped open with the computer mouse. I know I left it cover down next to the keyboard. I grab the book and notice a passage has been highlighted: “My revenge is just begun! I spread it over centuries, and time is on my side. Your girls that you all love are mine already; and through them you and others shall yet be mine – my creatures, to do my bidding and to be my jackals when I want to feed.”

A sharp pain jolts up my leg. The bat from the bathroom clutches my ankle and sinks its teeth deeper into my flesh. I scream and kick my leg in the air, but it holds on. I slam my leg against the side of the desk, and it finally falls off. Blood smears the floor and trails behind the bat as it vanishes beneath the desk. Its departing shriek sounds like laughter, like a door hinge howling open after an uninvited guest comes inside. 

---

Adrianna Gordey (she/her) is a writer based in Kansas. When she isn’t writing, Adrianna can be found daydreaming about the Atlantic ocean and assembling overly ambitious Halloween costumes. Her work has appeared in the Hunger Mountain Review, One Art, Neologism Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. Follow her on Instagram @by_adrianna_gordey!