Page 1 of The Trick

PROLOGUE

I’ve done a lot of questionable things in my life, most of which I feel no remorse for. My conscience abandoned me long ago when I realized the erratic hand of destruction would be the only thing I could ever rely on. And by default, chaos, as irrational and fickle as it can be, has become the only sense of normalcy my warped mind knows.

However, the demons that I’ve learned to embrace, the ones that allow me to kill without guilt or fear of consequence, are the same demons that led me to her. An inescapable curse that has proven to be as intoxicating as it is diabolical.

What started as lusty fascination quickly morphed into something more sinister. Something that continued to fester until the only way to escape the overwhelming need I had to be near her was to infiltrate her shadows and watch her every move.

In any other case, with any other person who possesses a heart that beats with good intent, that’s all it would’ve been…watching and staying far away.

Except it wasn’t that simple. I quickly realized observing only made the hunger I had for her grow. Every moment that I spent in the backdrop of her life, as wrong as it was and as tragic as the aftermath would inevitably be, became the only time I felt my heart…beat. But now, as I stare at the bloodied corpse before me, I realize the monster I was is nothing compared to the monster I have become.

The wreckage I stand amongst now is merely a consequence of two storm clouds colliding. Two souls so fucked up, so innately rotten, that surviving each other’s wrath could never be a viable option.

Little did she know that when she provoked my demons with her own, all she was really doing was sealing her fate asmine.

I need her to see that, if she wants to survive, I am her only option.

I need her to know that if I can’t have her, no one will.

CHAPTERONE

October 30th, 2008

Nothing screams Halloween quite like a knife wielding, masked killer on the loose. One who chases after their unlucky victims with the kind of deranged precision that makes surviving their madness impossible. Even thinking about that kind of primal evil makes my heart race. I swear, I’d do anything to experience that sort of sadistic rush at least once in my life, even if it has the very real potential to cost me my own life, it’d be worth it just to feel like a true final girl.

A disappointed sigh falls from my lips as I stare back at the TV. Sadly, the closest I’ve ever come to experiencing the sort of evil that I crave first-hand is with my ass planted on a couch watching horror movies.

Tonight, it was either John Carpenter’sHalloweenor Wes Craven’sScream, both of which I’ve seen so many times I practically have every line memorized, but there’s something about Michael Myers that gets me every time. The fact that he works alone and is so confident in his ability to kill that he never needs to run after his victims always elevates him to daddy status in my mind.

I remember the first time I witnessed his stoic saunter glide across the screen with his fist clenched around his knife, I didn't feel fear in the way that most experience it. Even with the slaughter and bloodshed before my eyes I felt excited…alive. With each slash of his knife and every screech from his countless victims, the fear it dredged up inside of me, awakened something that made me feel seen.

I knew at that very moment fear would be my drug of choice. I justnever realized how impossible maintaining that high would be. It doesn’t seem to matter how much I immerse myself in things others find terrifying, nothing seems to fill the void.

Fixing my eyeson the TV, I talk along with Dr. Samuel Loomis.

“You haven’t anything to worry about, he hasn’t spoken a word in fifteen years...”

Ha, fifteen years is a long time, especially for someone like Michael, to not act on his deadly urges. That’s the thing with time though, the longer it passes, it creates an inevitable crossroad. It can either heal wounds or it can set the stage for well thought out revenge, and revenge is that much sweeter when it has time to age like a fine wine.

I sink deeper into the worn leather sofa, continuing to lip sync the dialogue that feels as comforting to me as a security blanket, when the sweet smell of cookies suddenly invades my nostrils. My attention shifts from the plasma screen in the living room to the kitchen behind me. There on the center island, beside a freshly lit Autumn Lodge Yankee Candle, sits a fresh plate of my favorite Pillsbury Halloween cookies beckoning me.

Well, if I can’t be ravished by a masked madman this Halloween, I guess the next best thing is to gorge myself on sweets.

I leave the movie running as I make my way into the kitchen. The synthesizer that accompanies the classic theme song begins to play, followed by a mix of other shrill sound effects that I hum along to as I approach the granite countertop of the island.

Hovering my hand just above the cookie platter, I move my palm back and forth, debating if I should reach for a ghost or pumpkin cookie. Gliding my hand over the plate once more, I finally decide on one of each because why not? I barely lower my ready fingers an inch when a subtle breeze filters its way in front of me. Angling my head upward, my gaze is met with a harsh scowl smeared on my mom’s brow as she proceeds to swat the dish towel in her clenched palm towards my hand. With her smooth jet-black hair, bangs, and dark brown eyes, we look like we can be sisters, twenty years apart. Though, our physical features and feisty attitudes are where our similarities begin and end.

“Don’t even think about it,” she reprimands, grabbing hold of the cookies and bringing them out of my reach.

“So, Blair, to what do I owe the pleasure of your presence? I thought you were working at the diner tonight.” I can’t help but notice the not so subtle disappointment that lingers in her voice. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it’s almost like she was counting on me not being home. Which is odd because she should know that I’m a homebody.

“I never work on Halloween Eve or Halloween,” I remind her, moving the stool out from under the counter so I can sit.

A screech sounds from the TV, filtering its way into the kitchen replacing the awkward silence between my mom and me.

She turns her head, disgust on her face. “This movie again?” she asks, shaking her head. “I don’t know why you choose to fill your head with such violence. It’s going to make you–” she pauses, as if she is trying to choose her words carefully.

“Yes?” I ask, motioning my hand for her to finish her sentence.

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