I sit alone in the back seat. A black silk blindfold covers my sight. Pledge Mistress Dierdra -- 'DeeDee,' a stunning brunette Senior -- is driving me to some destination I know not where.
I'm tense. Nervous. Yet also eager. This is my final test. If I pass, I become a Phi-Delta sister.
The Phi-Delts aren't the snootiest or most stuck up sorority on campus -- that honor goes to the Delta Deltas -- trust-fund princesses and private school snobs each and every one.
But the P-Ds are sharp and impressive. They stand out on campus -- immediately identifiable, good-looking every one of them. And they always dress classy, in clean-cut office-suburban-evening skirts, slacks & heels styles. Never anything slutty or tawdry. And never ever, jeans, t-shirts, cut-offs, or flip-flops. No shorts, either, except when engaged in exercise or athletics.
By some standards, they're a small sorority, just 18 sisters, and they're local rather than national. Nor is their house a mansion on a big lawn, rather it's a five story townhouse in an upscale neighborhood not far from campus.
The house is gorgeous and elegant though, well-furnished, with a real chef -- not a 'cook.' They even have an inhouse infirmary with a part-time RN. And best of all, every sister has a private room, no roommates, with a big luxurious bed, and a shared bath.
I could hardly believe my luck when they invited me to pledge at the start of my Sophomore year. Me, a townie from a public high school in the low-rent district.
Don't get me wrong, my folks aren't poor, Dad's a county maintenance mechanic and Mom works in an office, but we're not affluent either -- and when it comes to
gown versus town
that matters. It matters a lot.
Yes, sure, I had good grades, good enough for a fullboat scholarship to the U, but almost all of the Phi-Delts are dean-listed
cum laudes
, accepted into the top grad schools, hired by the best firms. The Delta-Deltas might know the country club set, but the Phi-Delt's
old girls
network is second to none. For a nobody like me with eyes on a business or legal career that's crucial.
I'm pretty sure I have the looks to fit in with the P-Ds -- or at least I tell myself so. I'm 19 about to be 20, almost petite, five-foot seven (in three inch heels), with a slender but curvy figure. An adult who knew his cinema once told me I looked like a natural blonde Paulette Goddard. When I was a cheerleader at Nowhereville High, guys assured me that I was, 'smoking hot.'
But between my scholarship and the little my parents can provide, I can barely afford the dorm fees that allowed me to live on campus Freshman year. So I was floored when DeeDee told me, "We seek the girl, not the money."
Each sister, she explained, signs a contract to kickback to the sorority a lifelong 1% tithe on all earnings after entering the workforce. With all the grads they have in good jobs, that pays for everything, mansion, meals, trimmings -- even a wardrobe allowance. For me a dream not deferred.
I have to make it. I've got to get in.
Now, this is my final test. Coiffed and groomed as directed -- liner highlighting my blue eyes, my long natural-blonde hair cascading down to the small of my back, three-inch heels, black lace lingerie, and a sexy, pale-blue, sun dress even though the sun had set hours ago.
I sense the car pulling over. It's coming to a stop.
"Remove your blindfold," DeeDee tells me.
Expecting I know not what, I do so and quickly glance out the window. Though it's almost midnight, to my surprise I immediately recognize where we've stopped. We're at a familiar corner a few blocks from the Phi-Delt house. "What...?"
DeeDee smiles as she takes the blindfold from me. "Don't worry, it's all good. Just walk back to the house. You know the way."
I wanted to ask why. This is supposed to be my big test, my big initiation. But her expression tells me to do as I am told without questions.
I open the door and step out of the car which quickly speeds away leaving me standing on the sidewalk next to the old church graveyard.
It's one of those mid-September New England nights, still warm and humid. As usual for close to midnight -- even on a Saturday -- the street is empty of both cars and pedestrians. The cheapskate town fathers only install street lamps at the corner, so the pools of light are like distant islands in the dark.
I'm puzzled. It all seems so -- lame. So I have to walk past a graveyard that I pass several times a week. Big whoop! In the dark, yes, but come on, really? Sure, all my life I'd heard the whispered stories, but they're just that, local legends that no one takes serious.
My heels click loud on the sidewalk in the muggy dark as I stroll back towards campus. Some ground fog, gray and thick, is beginning to form and swirl around my ankles -- unusual, but not unheard of for late summer this close to the river.
The cool fog continues to thicken and rise, swirling up around my knees. Within minutes it surrounds me, encasing me in its mysterious mist. I can't see more than a few feet in front of me.
The streetlight at the distant corner is just a small, hazy glow shining through the gloaming. There isn't a breeze to rustle the leaves. All I can hear is the sound of my heels on the sidewalk.
As I pass by the arched gateway over the graveyard entrance -- if there had ever been an actual gate it's long gone -- a movement catches the corner of my eye, but the fog is now swirling too thick to see much anything.
I hear what sounds like steady foot falls behind me in the fog. I glance back but can't see anything in dense mist. I begin walking a bit faster towards the light at the corner.
I'm relieved when I reach the corner where the cemetery ends. The street lamp provides little more than a dim, blurry glow as I cross the street, now just a few blocks from my dorm.
Of course, none of the stores or cafes are open this late, their windows are not lit. Not much crime in this slow, sleepy,
tres-tres
boring college town.
With a sudden clutch of fear, I realize that whomever it is, is still behind me. And from the sound, drawing nearer. My breath catches and I stumble on a portion of the sidewalk tilted up by a tree root. I stop for a moment and lean against the brick wall of a storefront to steady myself.
He emerges suddenly out of the swirling mist. At first glance I dismiss him -- just a guy, not a ghost or ghoul or some other horror-film nightmare.
Quickly, though, I revise my take. He's good-looking, yes. No, he's gorgeous in a powerful masculine way. Tall, trim, and athletic. Raven-black hair, dressed in black from head to toe, his tight T clinging to his muscular frame.
