The Psyching: A Short Thriller Read Online Free

crackling voice
that comes from deep in the back of his throat.
    He leans forward.
Before I can think to leap away, his broad hands grasp my shoulders
so I can’t escape. His moist tongue shoots out of his mouth, and
faster than a bullet, that tongue is on my face. It’s everywhere—on
my cheeks, my forehead, my chin. He’s licking me! Lick doesn’t mean kill!
Lick means lick!
    Oh God , lick means
lick! Lick means lick ! Somebody help me!
     
     
    4:30 p.m.:
     
    “ It’s not like you’re the first
person to be licked by Johnny,” Jack tells me, as I scrub furiously
at my face with antibacterial soap. After pulling Johnny off me,
Jack was kind enough to escort me to the staff bathroom. “He’s a
serial licker.”
    “ Why didn’t you warn me?” I groan.
I wonder if there’s a way to take a shower without having to go
into a patient’s room.
    Jack shrugs. “Well, the guy has been going
around saying ‘lick’ all night. Wasn’t that warning
enough?”
    I decide not to tell him how I had believed
Danni’s stupid theory. It’s just too embarrassing. I think I’ve
already experienced enough humiliation for one night. I may have
broken some sort of record.
    “ Anyway, you’re lucky I got there
when I did,” Jack says. “You only ended up with a first-degree
lick. It was just a superficial licking.”
    “ What would count as a
non-superficial licking?”
    Jack just gives me a look. Ugh.
    I turn the water off, then dry my face with a
paper towel. I just want to go home at this point. But I guess I’ll
stick it out for the next few hours.
    God, I’m tired.
    I turn to leave the bathroom, but then I
discover Jack is standing in front of the door, blocking it. That’s
when I notice that he has turned the lock on the bathroom door. It
seems like sort of an odd thing to do. Why would he lock the door
to the bathroom? It doesn’t make any sense to me.
    Then I see the crooked grin on his face and
the glint of a knife in his hand…
     
     
    THE END
     
     

 
     
     
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    In the meantime, please
enjoy an excerpt of my complete novel Suicide Med…
     
     

Suicide Med
     
    “ I wish I had become a
ballet dancer instead.”
    I use the back of my forearm to swipe at
strands of dark hair that have come loose from the tight bun at the
back of my head. The attempt fails and the escaped locks fall back
into my field of vision just as my glasses slide down the bridge of
my nose. This is getting annoying—I wish I could use my hands to
clear my vision. Unfortunately, my hands are clad in two pairs of
latex gloves that are covered in preserved bits of Agatha’s
insides. Agatha is dead.
    “ Or maybe a figure
skater…”
    I try to tune out the ramblings of my lab
partner, Wendy Adams. It seems like Wendy’s irritatingly bubbly
voice has been a soundtrack to every dissection I have ever done.
It might have been more tolerable if Wendy offered to help.
Instead, she sits perched on a stool, intently watching my
handiwork. I’m tempted to rub my dirty gloves in Wendy’s face.
    “ Anything but a doctor,”
Wendy concludes.
    You’re not a doctor
yet, I nearly point out, but I hold my
tongue. I need to focus right now and the last thing I want to do
is to get drawn into an argument.
    It’s close to midnight on a Saturday night,
and Wendy and I are the only two medical students in the first-year
cadaver lab. I specifically chose this time, because I knew the lab
would be quiet and free from any distractions. I was right—all I
can see are rows and rows of dead bodies covered in a layer of
clear, thick plastic to prevent desiccation; all I can hear is the
whir of the fans working above my head. It would have been the
perfect studying atmosphere if Wendy hadn’t insisted on coming
along.
    “ I had a dream