Page 17 of Horror and Chill
As I head toward the exit, I already know which holiday I’m choosing.
And it’s not Halloween.
7
Him
We expected her to hide.
To cry.
To unravel, piece by fragile piece, under the weight of what happened in the woods. A lesser woman would have. A smarter one might’ve. But our Little Horror doesn’t seem to know fear the way most people do. She doesn’t retreat. She performs. She doesn’t cry—she dances. Peels her clothes off to music that bleeds anger. Strips herself bare like she’s daring us to watch. And we did. Every second.
The phone buzzes against the table, a quick vibration that draws our attention immediately. Snatching it from the coffee table, thumb already swiping over the notification. Her channel. She’s live. Again.
She’s walking down a sidewalk when the screen loads. Hair up in that infamous black bow she loves. A faded wolf graphic muscle tee with the sides cut low and her sports bra barely visible. Black high-waisted shorts cinched with a thick belt that hugs her waist just right. An oversized flannel hangs off hershoulders like she forgot to care. Heavy black combat boots hit the pavement with every confident step. The kind of look that says she doesn’t need anyone’s approval and isn’t asking for it either.
But we know better. She's dressing for us. She just doesn't realize it yet.
“I’m kinda nervous, guys,” she says, flashing a smile at the camera. “I’ve done small scenes like this before, but I really wanted to push myself. So my friend Kira volunteered to help me out. I’m headed to her now. Fuck, I’m excited. Fair warning, though…if you have a weak tummy or don’t like shots, this isn’t for you.”
The chat explodes. Theories pour in.
RedRightHand:Is she getting a piercing?
PervyPixie:Nipple needles?? Please nipple needles.
GothDaddy69:She’s gonna bleed. I feel it.
CreepCreepCreep:Injecting ink or some shit.
DadIssuesUnresolved:I'm not ready. But also don’t stop.
She enters a shop, the jingle of a bell barely audible as she points the camera to the floor. Clever little thing. She’s hiding where she is. Doesn’t want anyone tracking her in real time.
“Hey, babe,” she says off-camera. “Thank you so much for doing this.”
“No problem, A,” the woman responds. Her voice is warm, familiar with her. “You know I’m a fan. But also, you helped my bestie’s little girl come out of her shell so much. She’s thriving this year. We both know it’s because of you, because of how you treated her.”
The praise tightens our chest. Not for the child. For her. Our woman. She’s soft when she needs to be. Sharp when she wants to be. She deserves a life without cameras and creeps and tip goals flashing in neon on a screen. She deserves to be safe. Safe from everyone but us.
“Shall we start?” the other woman asks.
“Sure,” Agatha says. “I’m so freaking nervous. But excited.”
She climbs onto what looks like a tattoo table, setting the camera to focus on her thigh. The angle is perfect. All we can see is the curve of her skin, soft and pale, slightly trembling.
Then the needles come into view.
Not tattoo needles. Not piercing hoops. These are sterile, capped medical sharps—long and thin, with no syringe attached, just the glint of steel and a stopper to keep them in place once they pass through.
The woman beside her holds the first needle between her gloved fingers and gently pinches the skin of Agatha’s upper thigh. There’s a brief hesitation, a breath held. Then she slides the metal in at a shallow angle, threading it through until the other end pushes free on the other side. Like a barbell. A makeshift ornament made of pain.
What the fuck.
She does it again.
And again.
