Page 49 of Horror and Chill
It’s close. Not identical—the skull’s mouth is open a fraction wider—but the wire detail is right. Same number of twists. Same uneven spacing. The caption under the photo reads:Commission by Dead Man’s Forge, 2018.
I click. The website is barebones. No contact form, just a phone number, an email, and a grainy shot of a bearded man in a leather apron hammering metal. Beneath that, a line that makes my skin prickle: Every piece has a story.
The number stares back at me from the Dead Man’s Forge website. A few clicks on my phone’s dial pad and it’s ringing.
It only takes two rings before a deep baritone fills my ear. “Yeah?”
I slip into a lighter tone, layering on fake sweetness. “Hi, I’m hoping I’ve got the right place. I, um… I saw this ring on a guy I was dating, and I just loved it. Thought maybe I could get one for myself, but… you know… more girly?” I even add a soft laugh, all shy and flirty.
There’s a pause. A heavy one. Then, “Sorry, sunshine. I’m out of the business. Used to run it with my sons, but they moved away. Too much for one man.”
I let my voice dip into a little pout. “Oh, that’s too bad. Could I maybe send you a picture? Just to see if it’s one of yours? Because if it is, I’d know my scumbag ex wasn’t lying. He’s already lied about me being his only girl,” another small, fake giggle, “so I wouldn’t be surprised if he lied about this too.”
A long sigh drags through the line. “Fine. Send it. This is the house phone. Let me get my cell.”
He rattles off a number. I fire off the photos, thumbs moving fast before I can overthink it. The silence stretches. I picture him scrolling, zooming in, weighing whether to tell me anything.
Finally, he speaks. “Yeah. That’s one of ours. But I can’t tell you to whom I sold it to. We never kept records like that. Most orders were word of mouth. Maybe a dozen through the internet before we closed shop.”
“Oh. Well, thanks anyway.”
“Sorry, girlie.”
I hang up and slam my phone face-down on the desk. “Fuck.”
A dead end.
I lean back in my chair, staring at the ring like I can force it to spill secrets. My brain’s running every angle. What else could I do? Who else could I ask? But nothing feels solid until a thought slides in like a knife between my ribs.
Lure them to me.
The idea settles in slow, warm, and wrong, and I can’t decide if it’s brilliant or insane. Probably both.
I want to know who they are. What they want. Is this some weird superfan shit? Or is there something bigger? Something I can’t see yet?
And then the worse truth creeps in, the one I don’t want to look at too closely.I want more.
Shit. I can’t believe I just admitted that, to myself, no less. But they’ve hooked me. I can’t stop replaying the masks, the adrenaline, the way they pushed me higher than anyone else has. The way they each moved around me, like they’d been studying me for years.
They know my past, at least pieces of it. They still came. They know what I do and didn’t damn me for it. If that woman on the video really was VelvetNoose, they didn’t just ignore the insult… they answered it.
And me? I’m sitting here low-key obsessed with men who stalked me, who took my consent dubiously and rewrote the rules while I was still in the room. I didn’t tell them no. I didn’t tell them to stop. And I liked it. Every second of it.
I’m so fucked up.
Thanks, sperm and egg donor.
18
Evander
Corwin is tearingthrough the house like a storm. Cabinet doors slam. Something metal hits the floor and rolls. He’s roaring the whole time, voice carrying down the hall.
“Where is it?”
I lean in the doorway, arms crossed, watching him toss couch cushions like they insulted him. I can read the sharp set of his jaw, the flush creeping up his neck. He’s not just pissed—he’s panicked. “What are you looking for?”
“My ring!”
