Page 19 of Strangled
I started the night out so goddamn pessimistic, my own best friend couldn’t begin to convince me of haunted houses and ghosts alike, and now, I’m looking for a man who hides in the walls of an abandoned murder house.
Yeah, I think Ihavelost my fucking mind.
NINE
It’s one of the rare times I can feel my heart inside of my chest, the almost painful thump of it battering against my ribcage.
I didn’t realize he was so close.
I’m venturing outside of my walls more now than I ever have before—and I’ve been alone for quite a few years.
But before, I never wanted to. It’s another thing he’s brought out of me—the desire tochange, to evolve, to become more.
As I watch him look for me, growing more frustrated by the second, I feel my lips twitch, the sensation unbelievably foreign. I tilt my head to the side, away from the man hanging from my shoulder as I press closer to the wall. The angle strains my neck. I can’t take my eye off him.
The heat I feel when I look at him—smeared black and white paint, see-through shirt with glistening skin underneath, drives me wild with need. My cock fills rapidly, pressing painfully against my waistband, and I growl in frustration.
I want him with me, in my room, with my friends.
But it’s not ready yet.
The trip to my attic takes longer than usual with the deadweight slung over my shoulder and the overwhelming urge to stay near my stranger. I’m sweating by the time I toss him on the floor, the corner of my lip twitching when the sound of his body hitting the floor ricochets off the walls.
I know my little Lyken heard it. I only wish I could see his confused frustration.
He seems to understand I’m here now. I thought I would feel angry—or even disturbed—but I quite like him knowing. I can’t wait for him to see what I’m doing for him.
As I wrap the plastic around the man who tried to threaten my Lyken, I pull it as tight as I can to increase his suffering. Blood smears across the floor as I roll and push him any way I need. It’s pulsing out of the wound on his head, staining the plastic crimson as I wrap the final pieces around his skull.
My chest is heaving from exertion when I finally step back, my eyes flickering over his wrapped body. The plastic is smooth, almost silky in appearance. It’s the closest I could get to my friends’ silk, and I’m quite pleased with its effects.
The plastic crinkles, and I take a step back as he lurches to the side. He must be waking now.
I lower into a crouch, my hands tucked under my chin as I watch him writhe and scream. It’s muffled substantially by the material pressed tightly against his mouth, but the forceful push and pull of the oxygen is enough to cause the plastic to mold around his lips.
It’s… fascinating, how truly slow and agonizing it is. This is the fourth time I’ve seen this tonight, and I’m no less captivated by their fruitless struggle.
I’ve watched my friends do this hundreds—thousands—of times throughout my life. An insect, or even the occasional mouse, would get trapped in their web, buzzing frantically—or in some cases, squeaking.
The arachnid would sense the disturbance and come crawling out of its hiding spot and begin the process of wrapping its prey in its beautiful silk.
That was always my favorite part—to watch it wrap around their soon-to-be remains, caressing them so delicately until, eventually, they were paralyzed.
When I was a mere child, I hadn’t a clue how deprived I was. I vaguely remember my father teaching me basic, educational tools, but it didn’t last for more than a couple of years before my mother put a stop to it.
What I know now, I taught myself through stolen books I hid in my walls and eavesdropping on conversations. It’s painfully dull, but it’s gotten me by, and I don’t need much—only this house, my friends, and now, my stranger.
I run my fingers over the body, feeling the subliminal twitches slow until they’re few and far between. My eyes flutter closed as the last vibration tickles my fingertips, signaling the end.
Another has become one within.
* * *
I have never felt more absurd in my fucking life.
I’m almost pressed flat against the wall as I slide my hands over every inch of space I can reach, stretching on my toes and crouching low to the floor. What is probably years of dust, grime, and dirt coat my palms. It mixes with my sweat, creating quite the disgusting concoction.
WhatexactlyI’m looking for, I can’t be sure. But what I am convinced of, is once I find it, I’ll know. He’s in the walls—which means there’s a way in and a way out. And I’m determined to find it.
