Page 65 of Stream & Scream
After a few more seconds there’s a single gunshot, echoing through the forest in a deafening boom.
A thud follows immediately after. Heavy, meaty.
Blood begins seeping under the door, spreading across rotted floorboards in a crimson stain.
My jaw drops and I let out a silent scream while I shake my head, scrambling away from the blood.
No, no, no, no, no.
Fuck, this can’t be happening.
Heavy footsteps move across the ground outside, slow and deliberately loud.
Then they stop directly in front of the main window.
He stands perfectly still in the frame of the cracked window, face visible with his mask lowered beneath his chin.
"Open the door, Olivia."
His voice carries easily through the broken window, low and rough and absolutely commanding. Not a request, not a suggestion or up for negotiation.
Acommand. Direct and unambiguous, like he’s confident I won’t defy his order.
But I don't move. Don't respond. Don't do anything except stare at him through glass that's already broken, that provides no real barrier between us.
He tilts his head slightly, like he’s studying me, and I realize he's reading my body language. He’s trying to read me.
He already knows I'm both terrified and aroused. And that part of me wants to obey his command while another part insists that opening doors for a killer violates every survival instinct that has kept me breathing for twenty-four years.
Most importantly, he knows that terror and arousal aren't mutually exclusive, that fear can coexist with desire.
"I'm not going to ask again," he says, and there's a darkness in his tone now, like he finds my resistance frustrating. "We both know how this ends. Don’t drag it out longer than you have to."
He's right, of course. We both know exactly how this ends, have known since our first encounter against the moss-covered rocks where he dominated me.
But knowing doesn't make surrender easy. It doesn't eliminate the fact that submission feels a lot like weakness, or that normal people don't open doors for people who kill for entertainment.
I don't open the door.
But I don't run deeper into the cabin either. I probably should try to find a hiding place or something…
But I just stand there, frozen between competing impulses, while he watches me process the inevitable.
The waiting stretches until it becomes unbearable, until the silence between us fills with unspoken communication that has nothing to do with words and everything to do with the sexual tension building between us.
Then he moves.
Not toward the door—that would be too simple, too expected, too much like conventional breaking and entering. Instead, he steps to the side, disappearing from the window frame and leaving me staring at empty darkness while sounds of movement circle the building.
Glass explodes inward as his boot connects with the window beside the door, sending shards cascading across rotted floorboards. The sound is deafening in the small space. I scream in response, covering my face to protect it from the glass..
He doesn't climb through immediately. Instead, he takes his time, clearing glass from the frame with movements that are careful and calm, drawing out the anticipation. He’s doing it on purpose.
When he finally steps through, he moves with the same power that has defined every encounter since this began.
But this time is different. This time, there's no chase scene, no opportunity for me to run screaming through the forest while he follows at a pace designed to maintain excitement without concluding the game too quickly.
This time, there's nowhere to run. I’m trapped.
