Legend of Witchtrot Road - By E.J. Stevens Page 0,17

was some kind of weird fourth year hazing ritual? Please let this be some kind of senior prank. Please, please, please.

I tried to scream. I didn’t care if this was some hazing blitz that would end up on YouTube where everyone could laugh at me shrieking in fear, but the guy with the big hand kept it securely over my mouth. Okay, I wasn’t real y the violent type, but I was about to go al ninja on this guy. I swung my legs forward then stabbed them backward, aiming my heavy boots into the body of Mr. Meaty Hands. I chose that moment to bite down on the hand covering my mouth.

Meaty Hands let go as my teeth sunk into his hand and my booted feet connected with what I guessed was his leg, but my little woot moment was short-lived. I may have been free of Mr. Meaty Hands, but I was now the victim of gravity.

I dropped to the ground where I hit my head against something hard. My vision swam, not that I could see much from inside the makeshift hood, and the pounding in my head nearly made me throw up. The footbal jersey already stank of sweaty jock funk, so I tried to keep my head as stil as possible. I didn’t need to add rice pudding vomit to the interior.

“The Witch bit me!” Meaty Hands wailed.

Suddenly he wasn’t such a tough guy. Meaty Hands sounded like he was going to cry. I guess my dark goth mojo was good for putting fear into the hearts of giganto jocks. Unfortunately it was probably how I got here in the first place.

“Xenophobic toad,” I muttered, surprising myself.

I hadn’t realized until then that I could speak out loud. I guess I hit my head harder than I thought.

Someone stuffed a gag in my mouth before I could try to cal for help. Please don’t be a gym sock. A nasty, old gym sock would real y be a gag—like, gag me with a spoon.

“See, she’s going to turn me into a toad!” Meaty Hands shrieked.

Wow, that kid was real y losing it. He must total y believe I have scary witchy powers. Good to know. I tried to think of a plan where I could scare them al into letting me go, but someone grabbed me and pul ed me to my feet. I staggered and moaned at the throbbing pain in my head and was lifted and tossed over some guy’s shoulder.

I stifled a whimper and tried to think. There was no way to know how many guys were involved or where we were going. I listened intently, hoping to get my bearings.

Occasional y I would hear the murmur of voices, but they always stayed in the distance and I wondered if the comforting sounds of other people were just figments of my imagination.

It felt like we were walking in circles, but that may have been from the spinning in my head. Probably have a concussion. I was pretty sure that people with concussions were not supposed to be hung upside down and bounced repeatedly against a lumpy jock back. Too bad I had bigger things to worry about.

The guy carrying me ducked low, making my stomach do rol er coaster style somersaults, and a door slammed shut behind us as he straightened. A moment later he set me down against what may have been boxes and grabbed my hands, holding them behind my back. Were we in some supply closet, storage room, Box-R-Us?

I heard a snarky laugh and the sound gave me chil s. I knew that laugh. One of the guys was Jay Freeman, which meant the J-Team was involved with this, whatever this was.

The smel of motor oil was overwhelming, but it wasn’t coming from my attacker. Apparently the ghost of Dylan Jacobs was here too. We must still be on school grounds.

The thought gave me hope.

Cal will come. He’ll realize that I’m not in class and he will come for me. I know he will. I believed in Cal. I had faith in my friends. If they knew that I was in danger, they would be here in a second. The problem was that they may not realize I’m missing in time…and time wasn’t something I had a lot of. I was sure of it.

As if to punctuate that point, Jay ripped the footbal jersey from my head, nearly taking my nose with it, and started his maniacal laughter again. Now

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