It's officially winter break. You stumble toward your dorm room, brain turned to mush from taking five exams in three days.


All you have to do is grab your suitcase, and then you'll be on your way to NYC to stay with your boyfriend, Keith, and his parents for Christmas. You've never met them, but he's told you that they have a large, luxurious apartment with a pool--which sounds awesome, but intimidating. 


Anyway.


Keith, the lucky son of a gun, has already flown out. (He's a creative writing major. His exams consist of writing poems about his childhood and writing essays about the meaning of life.)


You pause in the hallway (which is empty--almost everyone else has finished exams and gotten the heck out of here.) Like every college dorm room in every movie ever, there's a whiteboard on your door.


Now there's an "I Heart NY" magnet on there. The magnet holds a postcard with a photo of the Statue of Liberty. You're pretty sure it wasn't there when you left this morning.

You probably for your roommate. Go in your room without looking at it.

You go in, shut the door, and finish packing.


 

As you roll your suitcase down the deserted hallway, you see something disappearing around a corner: a figure about three feet tall, with green skin.

You follow it.

You peek around the corner. Just a maintenance guy. He seems surprised there are still students here.

You speaking of which, CRIMINY, let's get going.

The airport is hella crowded, and of course every single face you see is pinched with anxiety, like flying home for Christmas is the most horrific event of their lives. You aren't usually one to use the word vibe, but the whole atmosphere gives you a slightly sick feeling, as if your body is absorbing their stress. 


 

You board the plane for the six-hour flight to your connection, Atlanta. Halfway through, you use the lav.


 

When you return, there's a postcard on your seat. This one shows a picture of the Empire State Building. You turn it over.


 

Black, scrawling letters read:


 

Dear Clara,


When you get off, that's when I'll find you. 


When I find you, that's when I'll kill you.


When you run, better run fast.


When you hide, better hide good.


When you tell, it makes things worse.


 

Panic clenches your throat. Is this real? Does someone actually want to kill you? 


 

What should you do? Tell the stewardess? Or follow the advice on the postcard?

You tell

You make your way to the galley and show the head flight attendant the postcard, explaining how you came to receive it.


She smiles, turns it over. "The Empire State Building. I've been there."


You snatch it back and flip it to show her the message again. "Yeah, but someone's threatening to kill me."


"I love New York." Her eyes are glazed. "It's my favorite layover." She turns to smile at you. Her white teeth glitter.


You show another flight attendant with similar results.


Okay, this isn't going so well. What should you do? Start screaming for help, or just sit there, like, well, a sitting duck?

You scream.

Immediately, the co-captain comes out and helps the flight attendants handcuff you. You try to show them the postcard, but it slips out of your hand.


 

They lecture you about causing a panic to the other passengers. The escort you to an empty seat and check your vital signs to rule out medical issues, as they are trained to do, and then bring you a glass of wine to help you stop panicking (as they are also trained to do). You don't drink it, of course--you need your wits about you. Because something is seriously screwed up.


 

When the flight attendant returns to collect the still-full wine glass, you ask her if you're on some kind of list now, or if you'll be allowed to board your next flight.


 

She smiles. " Don't cause another disturbance, or there will be consequences.You must continue with the itinerary on your ticket."


 

Her tone is different--still creepily calm, but less robotic. There's more of a sense that she might actually have a soul. This leads you, of course, to ask more questions, but she cuts you off saying she must clear the cabin for arrival.


 

The plane lands. What should you do--go to the TSA and tell them what's going on, or just run and hope the killer doesn't find you?

You inform TSA.

You go to your airline's main desk and ask to speak to a TSA agent.


The uniformed attendant, who isn't much older than you but looks like she has a ton more responsibility, smiles briskly and pulls something up on her computer. "Yes, Miss Conner--we were wondering if you'd stop by. Follow me."


She leads you into what looks like a small conference room. Four leather chairs are arranged around a shiny wooden table. At one end of the room is a Keurig machine, a small fridge, and a bowl of apples. "Would you like something to drink while you wait?" she asks. "The agent should be in here shortly, and he'll explain everything."


You meant to ask her some questions, but the kindness in her voice--as well as the promise that everything is finally going to start making sense--almost brings you to tears. You accept a bottle of water and sit quietly.


The man who comes in is holding a manila file folder. He has no face.


Well, he has eyes, a nose, and a mouth, but they have no distinguishing features. He's like a mannequin, except there's nothing mechanical about his movements. He's clearly real, just blank.


"Hello, Ms. Conner."


Fear is rising through your throat like smoke.  This is a trap--this is just what the killer wanted.


He smiles comfortingly. "Oh, no, Ms. Conner--I'm not here to kill you. That's not my job. Shall I leave the door open? You may leave whenever you like." He props it open and takes the seat opposite you, leaving you closer to the exit. A flat laugh. "Of course, leaving would mean starting the running part, which you may not be ready to do. I'm not sure I blame you there!"


It's the same tone you use with your boyfriend's parents on Skype. Jovial, polite. A voice for small talk.


"Anyway, while you're here, I'm supposed to go over the rules with you." He opens the folder. "Rules are optional…" he reads, almost to himself. "We went over that. Okay, here we are. 'If you are being briefed, you have been exceedingly stubborn in contacting the authorities. Stubbornness has both benefits and drawbacks, which we will discuss at the end.


"The following are the rules: you will run. They will try to catch you. You can run, hide, or fight. If they catch you, if they overpower you, you will die.


"But you will not ask for help from people of higher authority than yourself. If you continue to fail to accept the situation, you will lose, and losing this game will not be pleasant. You are safe when you cross the threshold of 333 Madison Avenue."


He looks at you. "Do you need any part of that repeated?" he asks politely. "Or some coffee?"


"But why is this happening? What's the point?"


He shrugs, eyes flitting over the documents. "I don't see a point."


Right. Let's try another tack. "What do I have that they want?"


He reads from the paper again. "'You can run, hide, or fight.'"


Not helpful. "Can I see what else is in the folder?"


"Of course."


He slides it across the table. On top is the paper he just read, typed in ordinary Times New Roman.


Behind that is another sheet with what appears to be a dossier on you--your full name, birthdate, social security number, height, weight, hair and eye color, GPA, hometown, high school, and a short medical and dental history. The GPA is current as of the exams you just finished taking.


Personal life, it says, like on Wikipedia.


Conner is of Irish, Scottish, and American Indian descent. She enjoys photography, reading, and hiking. She is affiliated with no particular religion. Her flaws include an irregular flossing routine and passivity.


That's it.


"This is crazy." These aren't really the right words, because actually these papers are boring--pointedly boring, like they've been created to mock you.


You ask more questions--why you, why the teeth, how did they get this--but Faceless guy just gives you more polite non-answers.


Suddenly something rather obvious strikes you. You've been dealing with this like it's an airport emergency, but it's bigger than that. You have your phone, and it's got plenty of charge. Why not call the police?

You get Faceless Guy to leave, then call the police.

"Thanks," you manage, trying to imitate the polite, professional tone he's been using on you. "This is all...very strange. Could I just have a cup of coffee and process this for a few minutes?"


 

He smiles, says that's fine, and reminds you your connection is at Gate 4C. Then he shakes your hand and leaves.


 

Finally. You take out your phone and dial 911.


 

Out of area, says the screen.


 

The desk attendant appears at the door.


 

She is no longer friendly. Her face is vacant, like a part of a machine no one is bothering to operate. In her hand is a ball-peen hammer.


 

You stand up automatically. But she keeps coming.


 

You shove the table at her, but it's too heavy to do more than make her back up one step, then keep coming. You throw a chair, and she catches it. You rush to the right, but she always manages to stay between you and the door.


 

She closes in. You try to kick, but she doesn't react. She bends low and, without breaking eye contact, smashes the hammer into the bone of your left ankle.


 

Colors swim against the sides of your skull, pain radiating through you like electricity.


 

"This office closes in ten minutes," she says. She turns and leaves. The folder is still on the table.


 

You decide to stop fighting the rules.


 

You accept that they--the goblins or whatever they are--are after you. So what should you do--run or hide?

You run.

You've decided to run with a broken ankle...so...let's see how that works out.


 

After about thirty feet, the goblins catch up. One hard bite to your abdomen (they're only about three feet tall) and you're down. They slash your throat--quick and painless, but you're still dead.