Page 124 of Horror and Chill
The driveback to the Airbnb is quiet. The good kind of quiet, the kind that settles in your bones after a job is finished. Tires roll over the blacktop, and no one says much until Corwin clears his throat.
“I’ll shower and then sort the box when we get back,” he mutters, leaning against the window. “Get everything divided up, figure out where it’s going. Deliver it and be gone. We blew in and blew out. No need to linger.”
Evander grunts. “Fine by me. The sooner it’s out of our hands, the better.”
I nod once. “Tomorrow we burn daylight on delivery. Tonight we wash the stink off.”
Agatha shifts beside me, her voice softer but steady. “I don’t want to see anything in that box again after tomorrow.”
No one argues.
The headlights sweep over the Airbnb’s drive as we turn in, gravel crunching under the tires. Relief slips into my chest the moment the house comes into view.
Corwin exhales while Evander is already reaching for the bag at his feet. Agatha opens her door, and the dome light spills over her face, washing her in a glow that makes her look less like a survivor and more like someone who has chosen the fire herself.
We pile out together, boots hitting the driveway in an uneven rhythm. The night air is cool. I take the first step toward the door, the weight of the night still on my back, but lighter now that the quiet walls of the house wait for us.
I unlock the door and push it open. Corwin shoulders past with the box hugged to his chest, muttering, “Get this over with,” like he’s trying to convince himself more than us. He sets it on the dining table and doesn’t even look back, just heads down the hall toward the first bathroom, already tugging at his shirt.
Evander lingers at the threshold, scanning the living room like he’s checking for ghosts before we settle. Then he tips his head toward the hallway. “We should all clean up. Blood doesn’t need to dry any longer than it already has.”
Agatha brushes past me, her leather creaking, and I catch a faint whiff of smoke clinging to her hair. She doesn’t flinch or rush. She moves steadily, climbing the stairs like she owns each step. I watch her for a moment longer than I should, the dark towel she pulls from the closet hanging loose in her hand.
Evander follows after her, slow but sure, his gaze fixed on her back. I can tell without asking that he plans to stay close, to be the shadow she can’t shake when the water starts running.
I shut the front door, lock it, and lean my forehead against the wood for half a second before pushing off. The silence inside feels heavier than the quiet of the car, but comfortable. My boots scrape across the floor as I head toward the second bathroom, already itching to strip off the clothes that stick to me, stiff with dried blood and sweat.
The bathroom light flickers once before it steadies. I nudge the door closed with a foot as I peel the shirt off my back, thefabric stiff with blood that’s not mine. The smell hits sharply when it lands in a heap on the tile. I strip down the rest of the way, kick my boots into the corner, and step into the tub.
The water takes a second to heat. Cold at first, biting down on my skin, then it warms, running pink as it rolls off me and swirls into the drain. I brace my palms on the wall and bow my head into the stream.
What happens now?
Agatha got what she wanted. Michael. Debra. Williams. Lundy. All of them are ash and rot now. She cut them down with our hands. Used us like blades she didn’t have to sharpen herself. Does she walk away now? Slip back into her world with her horror sets and her bloody costumes, leaving us behind to choke on what we’ve done?
I wouldn’t blame her. If I were her, maybe I’d do the same. Feed us to the law, wash her hands clean, and call it penance.
But I saw the way she smiled. The way she looked at the fire like it set her free. The way her lips curled when Michael stopped breathing. That wasn’t a woman who’s walking away. That was someone who tasted the dark and swallowed it whole.
Still, I wonder. Did we make her darker, or did she drag us down deeper? Maybe she was always like this. Maybe she’s just as addicted as we are now. Addicted to the blood, to the power, to us.
The water runs hotter, almost scalding, and I tilt my head back so it hits my face, stings my eyes. I let it burn because it feels honest. I’ve always been good with fire.
When I close my eyes, I can see her leather skirt, the way it cut across her thighs, the smirk she threw like she knew she was ours already. And maybe she is. Or maybe we’re hers. Either way, I don’t think any of us knows how to stop.
Once the water running down the drain is clear, I twist the knob, turning the shower off. My skin is scrubbed raw, but itdoesn’t make me feel cleaner. Nothing does. Not after what we found in that church—all the women hurt, the children with their childhoods ripped from them, our little horror among them.
Steam clings to the mirror as I drag a towel across my chest and scrub my head to dry what little hair I have. For a minute I stand there with the towel hanging from my fist, staring at the fogged glass like it might give me an answer. It doesn’t.
Then I hear it. Water running down the hall. Her bathroom.
The sound punches through my ribs harder than the silence did. She’s in there, washing herself, rinsing away her parents, rinsing away Williams. Maybe rinsing away us. The thought makes my stomach knot.
I pull on gray sweats, nothing else, skin still damp. My pulse won’t calm. Each step through the hall feels louder than it should, but I don’t care if the floor creaks. I don’t care if anyone notices.
Her door is cracked. I slip in and sit on the edge of her bed. The sheets smell faintly of her shampoo. I lean back against the headboard, spread my legs, and press my hands to my thighs to keep them still.
The water keeps running, steady and hot, but then I catch something under it. A soft sound, muffled at first, but once I hold my breath it’s clear. Her voice. Low, broken, rising and falling in little waves that make my skin prickle. She’s not alone, and my brother is making sure she’s enjoying herself. I grip my thighs harder, my knuckles pale, because she’s only a few steps across the room, losing herself, and I can’t be without her after today. Not after the way she smiled at fire, not after the way she looked when she told us she felt free.
