After only thirty seconds of sweet oblivion, I wake up to the feeling of a knife popping out of my chest. It’s not altogether uncomfortable, exactly. At least, it isn't as far as being stabbed in the chest could be called uncomfortable. Don’t get me wrong; it hurt like a bitch going in, but it’s far from being the first or last time it'll happen to me. Not to mention that getting rounded up by some sociopathic dorks in their shittiest “baby’s first evil sorcerer” costumes, just so they can sacrifice me on the altar of some random Elder God with an unpronounceable string of consonants in its name, is about the most normal thing that’s happened to me in the last four years.

Trust me, you don’t even wanna know.

But at least it’s me and not some other unlucky sap. I’ve seen a lot of poor souls get wrapped up in circumstances far beyond their comprehension, and it never ends well for anyone involved. Especially when it’s just some losers who are probably trying to use magic to get laid. I’m fine with crazy shit happening to me now, mostly. But not everyone has a bad working relationship with the Grim Reaper, or a small but well-optimized collection of single-use keystones tucked away on the underside of their belt.

Besides, there’s something more important to consider: a dead girl doesn’t need a car, and I’m pretty sure one of those idiots over there left the keys in their truck. Blindfolded as I was when they dragged me out, the jangle is still unmistakable. For all this effort I’m going through, I better at least get something out of this.

The only issue right now is that they aren’t fucking moving, so of course neither can I. A few peripheral glances and all they’ve been doing is standing a few feet away from their makeshift altar—honestly, it’s probably just some big flat rock they found out here—wondering why the fire and brimstone hasn’t already erupted from my corpse.

You’d think they’d at least check said corpse, especially since their ritual dagger—and it’s really more of a dull kitchen knife than a dagger—is now laying flat against my side, firmly in my grasp instead of sticking out of me like a fork in a fattened turkey. But I guess they’re either just stupid or new at this. Probably both.

Now if they could just hurry up and go be distracted somewhere slightly farther away, I’d really appreciate it.

“I don’t get it, did we miss something?” one of them says, a shorter, pudgy boy with a confused look on his pasty face.

“No way! We did it perfectly!” A taller, shaggy-haired kid standing under torchlight flips quickly through the pages of some book—a grimoire by the look of it. From where I’m sitting it looks less like something you’d find in your estranged grandpa’s old attic, AKA the bad kind. More like a cheap knockoff from a witch selling party tricks to know-nothing Normals just to make a quick buck.

Unfortunate. The first kind could’ve gotten me three square meals for a month.

“Maybe we skipped a step or two?” says another one, this time with an absolutely horrendous crew cut adorning a face that’s more cheekbones than anything else.

Shaggy scowls. “Todd, go grab the moon phase chart from the truck,” he says, not even bothering to look up. “I need to check something.”

Cheekbones boy—presumably named Todd—cocks his head in confusion. “What? Why?”

This time Shaggy takes his nose out of his book, eyes narrowed. “What do you mean ‘why’?” he barks. “I need it, now go get it.”

“But if you just need to know the moon phase, couldn’t you, like, look up?”

Dead silence. Literally pin drop quiet.

“Oh really? Look up?” Shaggy says, voice low and mocking. “At what, exactly? Cuz when I look up, all I see are trees!”

That last part is punctuated by the flailing of arms and the gnashing of teeth. Oh, and shouting, too—so loud it bounces off the trees for several moments before finally fading out. He slams the book shut and smacks it against Todd’s shoulder. “We’re in the deepest, darkest part of the woods with trees as tall as skyscrapers, you fucking idiot. Do you expect me to climb my ass up one of ‘em just to do what five seconds of looking at the fucking chart could’ve done?”

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

At this point, the other two are visibly recoiling. The One Called Todd is the first to break the silence. “B-But the truck is, like, a mile away, man! I don’t wanna go back all by myself!”

“Yeah,” Shortie chimes in. “A-and maybe the moon shit is just like, I dunno, optional or something. You can’t see it anyway, r-right?”

Shaggy sighs—well, more like screams quietly—running a hand down his face. “Both of you, just please stop talking.” It takes him a few to reorient himself before he straightens up and glares at his two stooges.

“Look, fine. I’ll get the fucking chart myself. Just stay here and keep watch.” He tosses the grimore over to Shortie, then storms off towards what I assume is the direction of the truck. “Can’t believe you two pussies are scared of the dark. Swear to God, it’s like I’m the only one that actually wants to get laid—”

It’s hard not to roll my eyes. Called it a mile away.

With their backs finally turned, I pull out one of the keystones—a small, dusty blue marble-looking thing that I snagged off a goblin in Palo Alto—and crush it in my hands. It never ceases to amaze me how easy it is to do, but I guess that’s kind of the point, right? No use if it’s not brain-dead simple.

My feet touch the ground, but you can’t even hear a twig snap. Even the sound of my own breathing vanishes into thin air. Well, not quite thin air. More like all the sounds around me are coming from behind a thick closed door without a single gap in its frame. But it’s perfect for a goblin trying to sneak up on a hapless victim, or for a girl playing dead to ditch her kidnappers with no one the wiser.

Which makes keeping pace with Shaggy and leaving his two bozos behind a cinch. It doesn’t take long for him to stomp his way back to the truck—maybe ten minutes tops—but it’s enough that I’m already starting to tiptoe around just to make the last precious seconds count before the veil of silence disappears completely.

The forest gives way to a small patch of dirt in a clearing not too far from the main road, a beat-up old Ford sitting alone in an empty parking lot: perks of having your would-be murderers getting lazy and setting up shop close to a trailhead.

Shaggy stalks up to it, pats his pockets, and then grits his teeth. He leans up against the driver-side door, grumbling as he pulls it open and flicks on the cabin lights. “Fucking idiots. Left the keys in the goddamn truck. Am I really the only one that thinks around here?”

He buries himself partway inside, the sound of rustling papers and moving boxes overpowering the faint crunch of dirt beneath my feet. I’ve got the knife ready and waiting, but it’s only a just-in-case. Don’t get me wrong, giving him a taste of what it’s like to have six inches of steel shoved into your heart would be immensely satisfying. But even if I could put the shoe on the other foot like that, I would rather pick literally any other option first. It’s not like he can come back from that. I’m the only one who’s cursed with the privilege.

So I opt to do the nice thing instead: warn him first. “Heads up, asshole!”

I take off, and before he can even get out a confused “Huh?” in my direction, I slam into him shoulder-first. He careens down the side of the truck, papers flying out of his hands alongside the tell-tale glint of a keyring. While he tries picking himself back up—a look of absolute bewildered fury on his pimply-ass face—I swipe the keys and gun for the driver’s seat.

“You bitch! How the fuck are you still alive!” he screams, scrambling to his feet just in time for me to slam the door shut and hit the lock. Unfortunately, the three stooges also forgot to roll up the window; a fact which I only notice the moment Shaggy reaches in to try and grab at me. “Guys, quick! Get over here!”

Before he can solidify his grip on my arm, I jam the knife straight into his shoulder. He yelps, falling backwards and away from the window, giving me a good, clear chance to jam the keys into the ignition and get the engine going. It comes to life with a satisfying roar that never ceases to put a smile on my face.

I turn back to see him struggling to stand. He’s already got the knife pulled out and is doing his level best to put pressure on the wound. Smart guy. If he wraps it up tight he’s probably gonna be just fine. In the distance, I can just barely make out the flickering of torchlight getting brighter and brighter. Frankly, I’m impressed: he’s smart and he’s got lungs. Maybe if he didn’t try to sacrifice me, I’d have a little more respect for him.

With the wide-eyed rage plastered on his face, I can only assume the look on mine is nothing short of the biggest shit-eating grin this side of the Sierra Nevada. “Guess the cat’s outta the bag, huh?,” I say, switching on the headlamps and turning up the volume on the radio just in time to catch the tail-end of the announcer, before the opening riff of American Girl starts playing. “Have fun dying alone, nerd.”

Pedal to the floor. The wheels spin a little before catching, and I rocket out of the lot as fast as the thing can take me. I glance in the rearview mirror at the three stooges hooping and hollering, and I can’t stop myself from laughing.

Not bad for a send-off. Could’ve been much worse.