Page 4 of Horror and Chill
Someone must have called. A teacher, a parent, maybe just someone who thought they were doing a good Christian deed.My parents showed up at school without warning, faces tight with fury and righteousness, like they were there to perform an exorcism, not pick up their daughter. My mother: Debra, dragged me to the bathroom and made me strip while she quoted scripture under her breath. My father; Michael, waited outside the stall, praying loud enough that the other girls stopped talking.
In my parents' eyes, they were immodest. Temptation in nylon form. Proof I was slipping, straying, letting the Devil in through my skin. They made me put on long black pants they brought from the car. The kind that clung to the sweat on my legs like shame. My tights went in the trash. I never wore anything bright again.
My lungs forget how to work for a few long, tight seconds. I grip the wine glass hard enough that the stem creaks in warning.
He remembers. Whoeverheis. I don’t move. I just stare out the window, watching the light shift across the glass.
I slam the laptop shut and finish my wine in one long swallow.
There’s no logical reason for my heart to be pounding like this. I’m safe. I’m home. It’s just a message. Nothing to panic over.
But still, I glance at the door. I check the lock. I check the windows, too.
If this were one of my cam scenes, this would be the moment the masked man stepped into frame. The music would spike. The candles would flicker like they knew something was coming. There’d be a hand around my throat, and I’d pretend not to like it until I did.
But this is real life. And I’m still alone. For now.
2
Him
We shouldn’t be here.But we are. We always are.
Every night the same routine, the same screen, hell the same girl. We wait for the notification like an addict waits for a needle, and the second it pings, we’re there; logged in. Hungry.
She’s on tonight in black lace, the teddy sheer enough that it may as well not exist at all. No panties of course cause she loves to piss us off. Just skin and the faint sheen of sweat glistening across her thighs. Her hair is wild, pushed back in a bun like someone grabbed her and tried to pull her off screen. Around her throat is a choker—-thick and black—-with blinged out rhinestones placed in letters that spell one perfect word: GHORROR.
Of course she’s watching a movie, it’s one of her favorite things to do while giving a show. Tonight it’sHellbent; the one where Dylan Fergus and his pretty friends get hunted through Hollywood by a masked killer with a scythe and no motive. Our little horror slut rides the handle of a silicone axe, planted sharp end down in her mattress with the handle pointed skyward. Shebounces in tight little motions, riding with practiced rhythm while blood and screams flash on the screen before her.
Her moans sync with the kills. Every scream from the movie gets a little sigh from her lips. Every slash, every spray of gore.
She grips her tits, squeezing them until her fingertips go white.
The chat is losing its mind as usual.
TonyFromAccounting:With the axe you should be watchingTucker and Dale vs. Evil
JennyBean69:Holy fuck this is cinema
Sk8rSlut97:I’d let her murder me and say thank you
QuietInTheBack:She’s not even faking, fucked up little bitch.
BloodAndBoudoir:Why is this the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life?
We watch it all. We see the tips flood in, the GIFs, the emojis. The way they beg her for more, call her a goddess, act like they deserve her attention because they can afford a few extra credits and have one working hand.
We don’t laugh. We don’t speak. We just burn.
Every username is a mark on a list we've been collecting since we started watching. Every message is another reason to track them down one by one, and find out if their insides match their desperation. None of them deserve to watch her. Not like this. Not like we do.
She doesn’t know it, not yet, but we’re the ones watching right. We see her. Not the camera girl. Not the little act. We see the core of her. The part that moans while people die. The part that gets wetter when someone screams.
She’s ours.
And like the killer in her little slasher flick, we don’t have a tragic reason. No childhood trauma. No grand manifesto about justice. We just like it. The blood and fear. The sound of someone begging for one more breath and not getting it.
We’ve killed before. We’ll kill again. And if anyone tries to touch what’s ours, they’ll get our wrath too.
