Page 9 of Soul to Possess

“Now get the fuck out of my house.”

She blinked up at me, dazed. For a second, I could see the confusion working its way across her face—the kind that always came after. Like maybe she thought the ache between her legs meant something different this time. It didn’t.

“Don’t make me say it again,” I added, voice flat, fingers already reaching for the cigarette tucked behind the whiskey bottle on the side table. She scrambled for her clothes, the silence between us now thick with shame. I didn’t watch her dress. I didn’t need to. I already knew what she looked like leaving. The door slammed behind her, sharp and final.

I exhaled smoke and leaned back into the leather chair, watching the ceiling like it might answer a question I hadn’tasked out loud. I didn’t fuck for comfort. I didn’t bite for connection. I just liked the way people bled when they trusted you not to make them. But tonight, it hadn’t helped. I still felt… off. Unsatisfied. Like my skin was a size too small and my pulse wasn’t syncing right with the silence in this place.

I stood, the floor cool under my bare feet as I crossed to the cabinet in the corner. Dust hadn’t settled on the oak yet—I cleaned it often. Like an altar. The key around my neck slid against my chest as I leaned down and fit it into the old brass lock. A perfect click. Smooth. Familiar. Not for pleasure. For clarity. For purpose.

The drawer groaned as I pulled it open. Manila folders, lined up like soldiers, edges worn, corners stained. Each one was a life. A habit. A string of vulnerabilities cataloged and alphabetized. My system was cleaner than any database. More intimate than fingerprints.

I slid out the one I’d marked in red ink. Natalie. Waitress. Twenty-six. Brown hair—thin at the ends, dyed blonde, like she was always trying to outrun herself. I’d watched her enough to know she used fake tan in the winter. Bit her nails. Stole fries off plates when the cook wasn’t looking. Pretty, in a tired, soft kind of way. A girl no one looked at twice unless she was laughing.

But I watched. I watched the way she walked home with her head down and her keys already laced between her fingers—like she thought that would help. I watched how she never locked her front door until the third try. How she sometimes cried in the breakroom bathroom between shifts and came out pretending her allergies were acting up.

Routine was her religion. And I’d made it mine, too. Thursdays, early shift. Bus home by 3:40. Always the third row, window seat. Always her left earbud in first. I could draw her life in the dark. She wasn’t the first. She wouldn’t be the last. But she’d do. I tapped the edge of the folder, watching the bloodflake off my knuckle where it cracked earlier. From what, I couldn’t remember. Biting down too hard? Gripping something too long? I liked the pain. Liked the reminder that I was still wearing this skin, even if it never quite fit.

This wasn’t obsession. Obsession was messy. This was orchestration. Planning. Watching. Controlling. A symphony of inevitability. The next time the driver passed through South Haven, Natalie would be there. Bags at her feet. Phone in her hand. Maybe she’d text a friend that she was heading to her sister’s for the weekend. That she’d be back Monday. That she just needed a break. She wouldn’t make it past Friday night. And the driver? He wouldn’t ask questions. Not anymore. Not since last winter—when I showed him what happened to the last man who talked too much. Sometimes loyalty grows best when it’s rooted in fear.

I slipped Natalie’s folder back into its place and shut the drawer gently, like tucking a child in for sleep. Click. That sound, right there. Final. Absolute. There was work to do. Tools to sharpen. A barn to clean out. Bleach. Plastic wrap. Hooks. No one ever really notices when a girl like Natalie disappears. The world just finds ways to explain it. Maybe she ran. Maybe she overdosed. Maybe she finally cracked. By the time anyone starts asking questions, I’ve already disassembled the story.

Rebuilt her into something new. And when I’m done? She’ll be beautiful.

Chapter Five

The air was beginning to shift, a palpable change that prickled the skin and sent a shiver down the spine. Still warm, still clinging to the last illusions of summer, but beneath the deceptive facade of soft blue skies and the lullaby of chirping crickets, there was an underlying scent of change. A promise of cold winds to come. Of endings.

I fucking loved this time of year. There was something about the impending darkness that spoke to the depths of my soul, a mirror to the void within me. The land turned inward, just like I did, retreating into the shadows as the world prepared for the inevitable descent into winter.

Out in the barn, my tools were laid out with meticulous care, each one sharp and clean, glinting menacingly in the dim light. They were my instruments, my extensions, and I treated them with the same reverence a musician might afford their prized possessions. The plastic sheets on the floor had been changed last week, a precautionary measure to ensure that when the moment came, I would be ready. Chaos was for amateurs, for the messy ones who got caught. I was neither messy nor an amateur. I was a maestro of mayhem, an artist of annihilation, and my canvas was the very fabric of human existence.

But tonight, I craved something different. I didn’t want clean. I didn’t want planned. The folder drawer had been closed for days, the profiles within untouched. Meredith’s wide, naive grin stared up at me from the top layer, a silent promise of an easy mark, a predictable end. I could memorize any life I wanted and end it just as easily, but where was the fucking fun in that? Predictability was becoming a chore, a crutch, and I yearned for the spark of unpredictability, the thrill of the unknown.

I lit a cigarette and stepped onto the porch, letting the wind cut across my bare chest like a thousand tiny knives. The horses were quiet tonight, their usual restless energy replaced by an eerie stillness. Even they could feel it—the slow ripple of tension building beneath the ground, the promise of something different, something coming.

I knew who to put this on. Harold "Harry" Thompson, the bus driver. A reliable man, gruff and weathered by life, but with a spark of fear in his eyes whenever he looked at me. He knew what I was capable of, and that knowledge was a powerful tool. I needed to see him, to feel his fear up close, to ensure he understood the gravity of my request.

I made my way to Harry's house, the engine of my truck purring softly as I navigated the familiar roads. The night was alive with the hum of unseen creatures, the rustle of leaves, and the distant hoot of an owl. The world was a symphony of life, and I was the conductor, orchestrating the dance of death and despair.

Harry's house was a small, rundown affair, tucked away on a quiet street on the outskirts of town. The paint was peeling, and the roof sagged slightly, but there was a warmth about the place, a sense of home that I couldn't help but envy. I parked the car and made my way to the door, my steps purposeful, my heart pounding in my chest with a mix of anticipation and dread.

I knocked sharply, the sound echoing through the house like a gunshot. Harry answered the door, his eyes widening slightly as he took in my appearance. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, with a beard that was more salt than pepper. His hands were calloused from years of hard work, and there was a weariness in his eyes that spoke of a life lived on the edge.

"Atticus," he acknowledged, his voice a low rumble. "What brings you here?" His eyes were wide with fear, perfect.I didn't waste time on pleasantries. "I need a favor, Harry. Something a bit... different from our usual arrangements."

He nodded, stepping aside to let me in. "Come inside. Let's talk." I followed him into the living room, the smell of old wood and stale cigarette smoke filling my nostrils. The room was dimly lit, the only light coming from a single lamp in the corner, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Harry gestured for me to sit, but I declined, preferring to stand, to loom over him, to assert my dominance.

"I want you to bring me someone, Harry," I said, my voice steady, my eyes locked onto his. "Someone unexpected. Someone who won't be missed for a while. You know the type—loners, drifters, the forgotten ones. Someone you can spot on your route. Someone alone. Beautiful maybe, young, pretty. Groomable."

Harry's brow furrowed, and he leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving mine. "That's a risky game, Atticus. You know that."

I took a step closer, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. "I want the challenge, Harry. I want to figure her out, to peel back the layers and expose her to the darkness within me. I want the hunt. The thrill of the unknown. And I want you to make it happen."

He exhaled slowly, a rasped sound that spoke volumes. "And what's in it for me?"

I smiled, a slow, predatory curve of my lips that held no warmth. "Your life, Harry. The lives of your family. I won't hesitate to cut out the tongue of every single person who lives in this house if you fail me. Starting with yours. I want you to imagine that, Harry. Imagine the blood, the screams, the sheer terror in their eyes as I take what I want, as I leave them to bleed out, to drown in their own blood. That's what awaits them if you fail me."

His eyes widened in horror, and I could see the moment he truly understood the depths of my depravity, the lengths I would go to ensure my desires were met. "Y-yes, Atticus. I understand."

---