A fake name, no doubt.

Ilse coughed, groaning as she strained, trying to sit forward. She was on the couch, in the middle seat, pressed against the cushions, as if swallowed by comfort. She tried to stand up, to push off, her instincts taking over, but the moment she did, her shoulders ached, and she realized her arms were bound behind her, useless and wedged against the couch.

“Help…” she managed to gasp out, the word coming strangled from her lips. But the sound came muffled, and she realized a gag was wrapped over her mouth. “Help,” she tried again, louder, but the word was caught by the fabric.

Now, panic was returning, settling as a prickle from her head to her toes. At least her legs weren’t bound. Her wrists chafed, and she tried to twist them behind her back to loosen them, but this only elicited a groan from her gagged mouth. She exhaled through her nose slowly.

As her eyes adjusted once more, and the chemical persuasion wore off, Ilse’s gaze adjusted and she found herself focusing on the single silhouette stalking back and forth, outlined against the glass facing the lake. It was night; far too dark to see much beyond the first row of trees. The porch itself didn’t have much in the way of illumination, save a single light in the center of the ceiling, which could be turned on with the chain, though it was dim currently. The only illumination came from the moon above, allowed, on the rare occasion, to peek through the usually overcast skies.

“Well, isn’t this a predicament,” came Samantha’s cheerful voice.

The stalking silhouette came to a halt, illuminated by the glimmer and glow of the moon behind her, past the trees and over the lake.

Ilse tried to respond, but what was the use? The sounds wouldn’t come past the makeshift gag.

“Little Hilda Mueller,” said Samantha in a singsong voice. Gone was the trembling in her tone. Gone were the frightened glances from side to side; gone was the terror in every furtive gesture. Now, there was something cocky, amused about the way she was watching Ilse. Her head was tilted.

Samantha’s hair was no longer blonde. Now, she had dark hair the exact same color as Ilse’s. A blonde wig lay discarded on the ground by Samantha’s foot. On top of the wig, a small, blue plastic can of pepper spray. The same can from Ilse’s key chain. Samantha must have nabbed it when Ilse wasn’t looking. But why?

The answer, though, seemed horribly obvious.

To disarm her. To remove all forms of self-defense before… Before what?

“I don’t understand,” Ilse tried, her voice shaking. Already she was piecing things together, and the puzzles forming in her mind didn’t end in a pretty picture. She could feel shivers speeding along her spine. Could feel her heart quickening, her mouth dry as if she had been sucking on cotton swabs.

“There we go,” said Samantha in that singsong way. “There we go, I can see it in your eyes, little sister. Don’t you remember me? I thought for sure when I first saw you it might click. I knew you the moment my eyes met yours. But I don’t think you recognized me. How about now?”