Page 57 of Horror and Chill
Agatha
I wake up too fast.My chest is already tight, my ears straining like they’re trying to catch a sound I might’ve dreamed. The room’s still dark, heavy shadows curling in the corners. I lie there, holding my breath, staring at the ceiling as if I move too fast I’ll invite the monster under the bed to play.
It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust. I blink them open slowly, taking in everything I can see. The ceiling fan first, followed by the curtain rod, the thin slice of night sneaking through the blinds. Everything looks the same, but it doesn’t feel the same. The air’s heavy, wrong. I reach for the lamp but stop with my hand over the switch. I hate this part—the moment I admit to whatever’s already here that I know it’s watching. The feeling crawls down my spine, sharp and cold. My body’s known the weight of a stare since I was a kid, the way some people can smell a storm before it breaks.
I flip the lamp on.
The light lands on the nightstand, and the first wrong thing hits me like a slap. My charger cord lies empty. I always plug my phone in. Always. The habit is so deep it lives in my bones.
The second wrong thing hits even harder. The ring is gone.
The ring I lifted on purpose, the trophy that sat on the nightstand where I could glance at it and remember that the game wasn't one-sided, the small bright circle that said I took something too. It should be next to the lamp, but it’s not. My stomach flips so hard I have to swallow twice to keep it where it belongs.
My throat goes dry as I scan the room. That’s when I see the box. Small. Sitting on the floor like it’s been waiting for me to notice.
I push the sheets back, slide my feet to the floor, sink to my knees, and crawl to sit beside it. My fingers are clumsy. The tape gives with a soft rip, and the smell that lifts out is old paper and dust.
Inside lies my childhood Bible. The one I used to keep under my pillow as a kid. My name’s inside, scratched in the shaky scrawl of my childhood handwriting.
There’s a note too. Black post-it. Silver marker.
You were never unclean. They were.
I remain silent despite the wail lodged in my throat. The first place my mind goes is that house, the place where mirrors were sins and being quiet was law. Did they find me? I never ran far, but far enough that I’ve slept for years without issue. Far enough that a grocery line could be simply that and not a parade of judgment. Far enough that I thought time was distance. The note tells me distance is pretend. The box tells me someone went there.
I close the cover and run my fingers over the title like I’m wiping dust from a grave marker. Rage rises deep in my belly and feels like an inferno making its way through me. If anyone thinks they can drag me back there, they’ll learn I’d murder before that happened. I put the Bible back in the box as gently as if it were an animal with a wound, then reach for the nightstand drawer where I keep what makes me feel like I can breathe on nights like this.
My dagger.
But before I pull the drawer open, the closet door swings wide and the hinges groan. My body reacts like someone fired a gun. I spin on my knees, and the shape that steps out turns the room colder. It’s the same skull that tied me up in the tattoo shop, the same hollow eyes and high cheeks and cruel teeth.
"Did you bring this here?" I ask.
He does not speak, only nods.
"Why?"
He doesn’t answer. The floor creaks again, and the woods mask enters, that custom thing that looks like a bad dream stitched to a face. The door itself shuts, and the last masked man steps from behind the door.
Three.
Three men in my bedroom. Three men I’ve let touch me, use me, mark me. Three men I thought I was hunting this time, who’ve clearly always been hunting me.
I force myself to stand on bare feet and lift my chin because I refuse to crouch for them. I’m in a sleep shirt and nothing else, and the air kisses my thighs. I hate that they get to see me soft. My mouth moves before my good sense can catch it.
“You here to murder me?” I ask, because I don’t know how to be meek even when I should, “or take me all at once?”
The skull turns first. He lifts his hand, and the ring glints between his fingers. He tucks it into his pocket as deliberately as a priest closing a book. I curse without thinking.
Part of me wants to lunge for the nightstand drawer and come up with my blade, because even if I lose, I want them to bleed for making me feel fourteen. I keep my hands at my sides so they don’t see me tremble.
“Answer the question,” I say. “If I scream, does anyone out there hear me? If you like the odds, say so. I'd rather know the game I’m playing.”
No one moves. They’re good at that. It scares me more than shouting would. The one from the woods reaches up. Fingers curl at the bottom edge of the mask and lift. The others do the same in a single quiet rhythm, three movements that mirror each other so perfectly my skin goes tight with the sense that I have been watching choreography without realizing it. The masks come off and faces slide into place and the room doubles, then triples, and my brain tries to catch up to what I’m seeing.
“What the fuck?” The words tumble out cracked, weak, nothing like the fight I wanted them to sound like. Because for the first time since this game started, I know I was never the one holding the strings.
22
