Page 13 of Carnival Shadows

I grunt, stroking faster. Knowing she came here and touched herself while looking at my photos pushes me closer to the edge.

“You like that? You like thinking about me fucking you hard?” I growl. One of my favorite fantasies is imagining her listening to my voice and touching herself while thinking about me.

I grip my cock tighter, giving it a few more hard strokes. I can almost feel those soft lips around me, sucking and teasing. Her hands wouldn’t be able to reach me because she’d be restrained.

“Such a naughty girl, coming into my trailer. Going through my things. But I can’t blame you. You couldn’t help yourself, could you? Got all worked up, needed some relief.”

I imagine her tied to my bed, those gorgeous tits exposed, ripe for my mouth. I’d roll her sensitive nipples between my fingers, watching her squirm and teasing her until she begs.

“Would you beg, Eden? Would you plead for me to make you come?” I picture her face, those green eyes locked on mine. “Probably not. You’d try to act tough, but your body would give you away. Those tits would be heaving, and your pussy would be soaking wet.”

My breath quickens. “I bet your pussy tastes so sweet. I’d love to lap up all that arousal, but first, I’d spank that perfect ass until it’s rosy and warm. Teach you a lesson for sneaking into my trailer.”

I groan, thrusting my hips up. My balls tighten as I get closer, the head of my cock swollen and sensitive. “Then I’d bend you over and fuck you so hard, you’d feel me for days. You’d scream my name, wouldn’t you, baby? Scream for more.”

I don’t need to close my eyes to picture her skin flushed while she writhes beneath me. She’d try to hold back, but the pleasure would overwhelm her.

“Come for me, Eden. Let me hear you.” My balls draw up, and I thrust harder into my grip. “That’s it, let go. Imagine it’s my cock inside you, my hands all over that sexy body. I want to hear you scream my fucking name.”

I roar as I explode, my cum hitting my stomach and chest. My hand falls away from my cock as I catch my breath. “Damn, little stalker, next time, I won’t be imagining it.”

I tuck myself away and zip up, moving to my laptop. Time to learn more about her than when I looked the first time. Eden Love’s digital footprint spreads before me as I type her name into search engines.

Her bio photo shows striking green eyes and a perfect smile, concealing what I know are her darker impulses. The episode list reveals her obsession with serial killers, each title more provocative than the last.

I clicked through her social media. Instagram showcases a curated life—coffee shops, book stacks, and recording equipment… There’s something calculated in each frame like she’s building a character rather than sharing part of her true self.

X gives me more insight. She posts late-night about criminal psychology and responds to true crime fans. She engages differently here and lets slip hints of her real nature. References to her “collection” catch my eye—souvenirs from killers she’s interviewed.

LinkedIn details her credentials and confirms what I know, that she has a forensic psychology degree and has written research papers on criminal behavior.

Her personal Facebook is locked down tight, but her podcast page offers behind-the-scenes glimpses. Video clips show herinterviewing subjects, that mask of professionalism firmly in place. Still, I see the hunger in her eyes when they describe their crimes.

Recent posts mention investigating carnival-related disappearances. She’s getting closer, thinking she’s the hunter. My smirk returns as I save her information to a secure folder.

I open another browser and access deeper channels: property records, phone records, and bank statements. The real Eden Love emerges through data points and transactions: regular payments to prison commissary accounts, multiple storage unit rentals, and late-night drives tracked by toll cameras.

My beautiful little stalker has been busy, but she’s not the only one who can hunt.

8

EDEN

The carnival’s history unfolds before me like a twisted tapestry as I pour over newspaper archives and police reports. My laptop screen casts an eerie glow across my desk at two a.m., but I can’t stop—I won’t stop. Each article leads to another breadcrumb, another piece of this dark puzzle.

“Found another one,” I mutter, adding a red pin to my digital map. A nineteen-year-old girl vanished from Springfield last summer. The carnival had been there that week.

My fingers fly across the keyboard, cross-referencing dates and locations. My heart races with each new connection. Two are missing in Cedar Rapids, 2021, and another in Oakwood, 2020. The pattern emerges like a terrible constellation.

“This can’t be a coincidence.” I pull up my recording software, speaking into my microphone. “Pattern analysis shows eight disappearances in the past three years, all within a five-mile radius of the carnival locations.”

I reach for my coffee cup. The liquid inside has long gone cold, but I barely notice. The thrill of discovery burns hotter than any caffeine rush.

“Correlation doesn’t equal causation,” I remind myself, but my gut tells me differently. These aren’t random acts. Someone’s using the carnival’s movement as cover, and they’re good at it.

I again pull up Remy’s employee file, studying his arrival dates at each location. My breath catches. He was there. Every single time.

“Oh, you beautiful monster,” I whisper, tracing my finger across his photo on the screen. “What secrets are you hiding?”

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