Creepy Teacher: A Psychological Thriller by Mackie Malone

run, and make it to the barn.
    She lit forward again, clawing and digging the ground.
    The button of her jeans was holding, keeping her jeans on, keeping them from sliding clean off her hips.
    And then Mr. Renly crawled forward onto her legs again, got her arrested by both shoulders, and flattened her body with the heavy weight of his own.
    “Don’t do that,” he said. Then he crawled forward more, put his mouth near her ear, and added, “I don’t like how you’re acting, Bailey.”
    Bailey inhaled desperately, trying to fill her lungs with air.
    His breath was a used filter of stagnant, moldy coffee grounds.
    She turned her face the opposite way.
    It took restraint, but she held in check the words that came to mind. Get off me, puke! she wanted to shout. And it would blast him off her back with the raw force of her hatred.
    He wouldn’t like that, though, she knew.
    Had she successfully broken loose, she wouldn’t have cared what he liked, or disliked. She would have shouted at the top of her lungs that he was a puke, or worse, while running for her life. She knew she could outrun him. He was old.
    She had to!
    She had to gain her feet somehow, then break away, then bolt.
    Except he was unexpectedly heavy.
    She was being smashed to the ground.
    Mr. Renly was stronger, too, than she would have guessed, which proved that rapists were stronger than they looked, she decided. They needed to be stronger than they looked in order to overpower weaker, unsuspecting females.
    I’m wasting time , she thought. I’m paralyzed. I need to think. Be productive. If I can’t overpower him, I shouldn’t try. Just think.
    What did he want?
    What did he want to hear?
    What could she say that would work?
    What could she say to gain an advantage?
    Saying was all that she had.
    Or saying nothing.
    Until she knew what to say, she should say nothing. That was the intelligent decision.
    He sat upright again now, sliding backward to position himself on top of her rump. Bailey watched his silhouette from the corner of her eye. He had lost the belt apparently, because he shifted suddenly, twisting backward to find it, and then he held onto her waistband while he leaned to retrieve it.
    He dragged it through the grass.
    Bailey listened to the clank and clatter of the buckle.
    She had started with the right strategy, she decided, telling him that Carla and Jackson’s deaths were surely accidental. It was the “You’re-Not-Guilty” strategy, and the main idea was to convince him—a murdering psycho—that that was true. An accident was an accident, which people would believe.
    Until his “my love” comment had ignited her fear.
    What did he want?
    He looped the belt before grabbing her right hand. He worked the looped end of the belt over her wrist. He pulled that tight. He grabbed her left hand, wrapped the belt around. He picked up her belted hands, weaved the belt’s tail through, and frapped it around again.
    The blood swelled in her fingertips, which began to throb immediately.
    “You don’t need to tie me, Mr. Renly,” she said. “I believe you. I’m on your side.”
    That sounded good, she decided.
    He got to his feet. “Stand up, Bailey,” he said. “We can talk while walking. Don’t try to run. I’m holding the belt.”
    “I won’t run, Mr. Renly. I trust you,” she lied. “You’re my favorite teacher.”
    She felt a nudge, stepped forward, and moved according to the guidance of his left hand on her shoulder. With her arms belted behind her back, she listened attentively for him to speak. The first dozen steps were in silence. As he steered her toward the rear of the farm, Bailey could see the open barn door lighting up and flickering with blue flashes from the movie playing within. She could hear the movie’s soundtrack permeating in eerie, low tones.
    And at that moment, she saw the shape of Eric Cady emerge in the open doorway. He peered in the direction of the portable toilet. He was looking for her, she