Scary Out There by Jonathan Maberry

pressed the call button, holding the phone to her ear as she watched him. Waiting for the flash of light from his phone to illuminate his face. She thought she saw him shake his head, and a profound sense of disappointment weighed on her muscles.
    Not for him. But for herself. Because she felt she’d somehow let him down.
    She was about to hang up when she saw him lift his hand. The ringing ended with a click . And then she heard breathing. That’s all there was. Him breathing, her watching him. Neither saying anything.
    â€œTell me I’ll be okay,” she finally whispered. “That you won’t hurt me.”
    â€œYou already know I can’t promise you that, Cynthia.” His voice was more sense than sound, as though the words somehow bypassed her ear and lodged directly in her thoughts. Each time she heard the roll and timbre of him it was a surprise, like discovering the sound of him over and over again.
    She wanted more of it. “Then, tell me something about yourself. Something true.”
    There was his breathing again, an even rhythm that she unconsciously matched. “You already know it all.”
    â€œTell me anyway,” she whispered.
    â€œI’m no good for you.”
    And he was right. She did know this.
    â€œBut it won’t stop you,” he added.
    She pretended to think about those words, because she felt that somehow they should be important to her. But they weren’t. Because she already knew the answer. “You’re right. It won’t stop me.”
    â€œIt never does.” He sounded tired.
    She heard something in the background, a change in the tenor of the engine as though he’d shifted out of park. Outside she watched as his car began to ease from its place by the curb.
    He was leaving. Without her. “Wait!” she called, starting for the stairs. When she pushed through the screen door and started across her lawn, he was already pulling down the road. Almost to her house. She sprinted, not caring about her nightgown or bare feet, to the middle of the street and stood with one hand raised.
    For the barest hint of a moment she wondered if he’d just keep going. Plow through and over her. She thought she heard the cycle of his engine rev. But still she stood her ground.
    He braked, his bumper coming to a stop inches away from her thighs. She was afraid to move, thinking that if she stepped aside, he would drive away. So she stayed in the wash of his headlights, their brightness throwing everything behind into darkness.
    Something buzzed in her hand, and she realized she nolonger pressed the phone to her ear. She looked down to find a text. YOU SHOULD GO BACK TO BED.
    She squinted, trying to see him past the glare of his headlights. But, as before, he was nothing but a vague outline filled by shadow. She shook her head.
    YOU KNOW THIS STORY.
    Her heart pounded harder, as though her chest had tightened around it. She nodded.
    YOU KNOW HOW IT ENDS.
    She hammered out her response. Why will it have to end?
    EVERYTHING ENDS EVENTUALLY.
    Cynthia stepped forward, placing her fingertips against the hood of the car. The metal scorched her skin, but she didn’t care. She remembered, now, that his window was rolled down, so she let her phone fall to her side. “You have to know you can’t tell someone they matter to you and expect them to walk away,” she said aloud.
    She thought she heard him sigh. And she knew then that he wouldn’t leave her. Slowly, she eased her way around to the passenger side and leaned through the open window.
    The interior was lit only by the shadows of night and the soft glow of his phone, but it was enough for her to realize she recognized him in a vague way she couldn’t place. He wasn’t from school, of that she was sure. The angles of his face were sharper than the boys she knew, his hair shaggier. He looked to be out of his teens, but how far out she couldn’t quite figure.
    His jeans