Page 31 of Horror and Chill
I click the remote.
The camera light goes red.
I sit on the crate, legs spread. I hold the saw in one hand and rest it on my lap like a lover.
“Welcome back,” I say. “Thought I forgot you?” I tilt my head and smile into the lens. “No. I remember everything.”
The mask sits propped beside the camera.
“This is your invitation,” I whisper. “Come see what I made for you.”
I drag the saw across my thigh. The fake blood smears deeper. Somewhere outside the barn, a breeze stirs. The wind moans against the boards. And then something creaks. A soft, dragging step.
My breath catches. I don’t turn. I don’t move. I only smile wider.
Let him come.
Him
We shouldn’t feel this way.
She’s testing us. We see it in the way she moves on camera. In the way she breathes. In the way shewantsus to see her want it.
Garron says she’s fucking with us. Corwin calls her a tease. But we don’t say anything. Not yet.
We’re watching the GPS data.
Every pin. Every hidden folder. Every auto-saved address.
She’s been to the barn three times in the last week. We zoom in. Satellite view. No cross-streets. No security cameras. No neighbors. It’s perfect.
We pull up the image of her house next. We’ve looked at it a hundred times, but tonight it feels different. We study it like it’s prey. Four windows in the front. Two of them upstairs. One light always stays on. Kitchen. Probably a habit.
We click to the next tab and pull up her high school yearbook photo, freshman year, back when her hair was brown and her smile barely touched her mouth. Same eyes though.
We remember that day in middle school. When we dropped our notebook in the hallway and she kneeled to help us pick up the pages. She didn’t say anything. Just smiled and handed them back.
None of us ever forgot.
The GPS pings suddenly. She's live, on the move again, and when we zoom in, the location settles over familiar coordinates. The barn. She's already there.
“She’s already started,” Garron mutters.
“Then we’re late,” Corwin snaps.
We move.
The drive is fast and silent. We don’t talk. We don’t need to.
The barn appears up ahead, dark, framed by trees like it’s rising out of the grave. Her car’s parked in the gravel just outside, trunk open. There’s a flicker of soft light pulsing behind one of the broken slats.
We kill the headlights and park across the field, slipping out. The wind is sharp, biting at our coats, but we barely feel it. Our eyes are locked on the glow. We creep up slowly, sticking to the shadows. Grass crunches underfoot. A chain clinks somewhere inside. And then, we see her.
Through the narrow gap in the wood, there she is. In her element. Blood dripping down her skin in thick, syrupy ribbons. Lingerie the color of dried roses. Hair twisted into a bun at the crown of her head. Her thigh glistens with a streak of red, and her voice carries just enough to reach us; low, sultry, laced with a smile.
She’s talking to the camera.
To them.
