Page 112 of Horror and Chill
I freeze. Every muscle goes tight as she shimmies closer, snuggling like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Her breath evens out against my arm. She’s asleep. On me.
Garron laughs, pointing like I’m the joke of the night. “Look at you, lover boy.”
“Fuck off,” I mutter, heat climbing up my neck.
Evander smirks, stretching out with his hands laced behind his head. “Nah, he’s right. You look good being soft for once.”
I shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut and hiss curses under my breath. He just grins wider.
“She’s good for you, bro,” Evander says, voice serious. “You needed to calm the crazy a bit.”
I roll my eyes, but I don’t move. I can feel the weight of her head, warm and trusting, and for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like weakness. It feels like something I might actually kill to keep.
47
Agatha
The boys wearblack like shadows. T-shirts, plain pants, boots. I chose leather. A skirt that barely covers anything with fishnet tights underneath, and a halter top with metal rings that catch the light. A heart-buckle belt sits low, and the whole thing squeaks slightly when I walk. I know exactly what this looks like to them. They preached for years that only whores wear black. That tattoos are the devil’s handwriting. That a woman who bares her stomach bares her soul to damnation.
I want them to choke on the sight of me.
Nobody talks in the car. Corwin drives. Garron rides shotgun. Evander sits beside me with a bag on his lap. I keep my eyes on my hands. My nails tap against my thighs. My heart beats loud enough I’m sure they can hear it.
“Still sure?” Evander asks without looking at me.
“Yes,” I whisper.
We pull up two houses down. The porch light is off at my parents’ place. The curtains are drawn. It looks smaller than I remember. Smaller and meaner.
Garron checks his watch. “Perfect. Let’s go.”
We get out quietly, cut through the side yard and slip in through the back door. Corwin silently twists the handle and swings it open for me. I had been betting they would still leave the back door unlocked. What if the pastor came calling? What if the church needed them in the night? They always preached that the Almighty would never let harm touch His flock. There was a chance, after what happened to Devon and Darron, that they would finally think to lock the door. Either they had not heard yet, or they were too sure of their own holiness to believe they would ever be next.
The kitchen smells like bleach and stale bread. I hate that it smells familiar. The linoleum floor is yellowed with age, squares worn thin where feet always passed. Cabinets the color of honey oak line the walls, their finish dulled from years of scrubbing. A floral curtain hangs limp above the sink, the pattern faded to pastel ghosts of what it once was. The table is small and round with matching chairs, a bowl of wax fruit at the center.
We move like ghosts through the kitchen and into the living room. It looks staged, like something straight out ofMan of the House. A plaid sofa sits stiff against one wall, no sagging cushions, no personal clutter. The carpet has vacuum lines so precise they look combed. Family photos hang in perfect order on the wall, every frame dust-free, every smile stiff. And none that include me. It is too clean, too curated, like it’s tended daily not for comfort but for inspection.
Debra is nowhere to be seen, but from the reflection in the mirror on the far wall of the living room we see Michael sitting in his recliner like it’s a throne, his Bible open on his lap and a rosary twined around his fist. He’s reading like the words can save him. He doesn’t even hear us at first. He’s wearing a thin white tank and soft grey boxer–like shorts he wears as hisnightwear.The image would almost be domestic if not forthe way his knuckles whiten around the beads. He doesn’t even notice us.
Corwin and Garron move. They close in from behind the recliner. Garron jerks Michael’s head back, clamping a hand over his mouth in the same motion. Michael bucks, the chair rocking under his weight, but Corwin leans in over the backrest, snaring both wrists and wrenching them behind him. His Bible tumbles, forgotten, to the carpet.
“Kitchen chair,” Corwin hisses.
Evander doesn’t waste time. He slips back through the doorway and returns with a chair gripped in both hands. Corwin and Garron drag Michael over and slam him into it. Evander digs in his bag, pulling out rope. He works quickly, looping the cord around Michael’s wrists until his hands turn red. Another length circles his chest, pinning him tight to the backrest. His legs kick once, but Corwin stomps down on his foot, and the fight leaves him with a grunt of pain. Ankles bound, knees lashed to the chair, his body is locked down in seconds.
Garron swiftly releases his hold on his mouth and duct tapes it shut. Michael breathes heavily through his nose, a ragged sound that fills the space between each tick of a clock. His eyes flash between them, but there’s no authority left in them. Only the shock of a man who has been pulled out of the sermon and into the fire.
I stand there and watch, my heart pounding so hard I feel it in my teeth. This is it. Face to face with the man who taught me what hell looks like before I even knew what heaven was supposed to be. His eyes find me and narrow. I step closer so he sees every inch of me.
Corwin leans in until his face is an inch from Michael’s. His voice turns into a low, cutting tone. “Remember what you did to her, old man? Remember holding her under water and callingit baptism? Remember abusing her in your chapel while your friends ‘prayed’ over her like she was something to be broken?”
Garron’s fist flashes out and drives into Michael’s ribs, just enough to pull a grunt out of him. Michael’s eyes fill with rage and disbelief.
The stairs creak.
Debra appears at the bottom, her hair in a bun, her dress buttoned to her neck. Her eyes go wide.
“Daughter?” she whispers.
