My first year of college was supposed to be much different.
It's supposed to be about having fun and partying with my friends, about meeting new people that I create unforgettable memories with for a fleeting period of time. It should be about late nights in the libraries and acing all of my classes (if I can get out of bed in time to attend them). It should be about finding myself, about my journey of self-discovery as I stumble awkwardly into pre-adulthood.
And it should be about boys, too.
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My first year of college was supposed to be much different.
It's supposed to be about having fun and partying with my friends, about meeting new people that I create unforgettable memories with for a fleeting period of time. It should be about late nights in the libraries and acing all of my classes (if I can get out of bed in time to attend them). It should be about finding myself, about my journey of self-discovery as I stumble awkwardly into pre-adulthood.
And it should be about boys, too.
Lots of them.
But that's not what my first semester at Somerset University proves to be with the introduction of a potential serial killer on campus just weeks before Halloween. It starts with one body, then another, and soon it becomes obvious that someone is walking these halls pretending to be just like us while they scout for their next victim.
And then they strike again.
As if I don't have enough to already worry about.
I've got my head in my studies, my friends up my ass, a roommate I love to hate and hate to love, an ex-boyfriend that keeps coming back like the plague and screwing with my heart, and a new potential lover that makes my love life even more complicated than it already is.
Now throw in a serial killer on top of all of that and life couldn't get any worse.
But what I'm about to discover is that it does. It gets much worse.
College should be hard, but it shouldn't be life-or-death hard.
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