Frat House Hell

As a series of real-life college fraternity scandals rocks the nation, journalist John Luciew returns with a ripped-from-the-headlines thriller so current you won’t be able to put it down until the last twist is revealed.

An out-of-control fraternity. A horribly twisted crime. An innocent victim. And a most unusual plan for revenge…
PARTY AT YOUR OWN RISK

Excerpt from Tessa Knight’s blog:

College, it is often said, is the place where we lose our innocence. This is the glossy, idyllic admissions brochure version of the quintessential coming of age story. It is the fiction universities like to sell to unsuspecting young women looking to make their mark on the world. I’m here to tell you, there’s a darker side. I know. I’ve seen it. Hell, I’ve lived it. We all did. Me and my four friends from my freshman year.

Looking back, the thing I remember most, the one thing that haunts me to this very day, is Chelsea’s eyes. Those wide, innocent eyes that could be so awed by every little thing she saw.

Chelsea hailed from small Pennsylvania town, you see. And sprawling Old State boasted a bigger population than her three nearest counties combined. Our state school with its powerhouse college football program was a teeming city of thousands of late teen and twenty somethings, all raging with hormones, driven by ambition and fueled by alternate heavy doses of caffeine, alcohol and whatever other substances happened to be available at the time.

And sex, of course. Lots of sex.

To be sure, there are plenty of ways for a young girl like Chelsea to lose her innocence at a big, bad place like Old State. But Chelsea, the most innocent among us, didn’t lose hers. It was stolen from her, instead.

For along with Old State’s manifold admissions brochure charms lurk dangers, some hidden, some in plain sight and some as handsome as the devil himself.

I can still see her, the moment we found her, naked and so afraid, pawing for her clothes in in the dark, dank and dirty room.

What happened to Chelsea was a terrible crime. Of this, there was no doubt. But how to prove it?

For her part, Chelsea claimed to have no recollection of these events. She never talked about what had happened, acting, instead, like someone surfacing from a fitful sleep roiled by some horrifically vivid nightmare.

We, her friends, wouldn’t forget. We couldn’t. And in revenge, we vowed a mission of utter retribution. Retribution upon the perpetrators, yes. But also upon the entire system that seems to care only about keeping tuition sky high, alcohol sales obscenely fat and which annually serves up freshman women as if on a sacrificial altar.

Our creative means of delivering comeuppance would capture national headlines.

But would it change anything?

I’m still waiting for this. Until then, all I can do is tell my story. Really, it’s our story. All five of ours.

For from the very beginning, we were more than friends. More than mere dorm mates.

We were sisters sworn to a terrible secret.