Page 7 of Horror and Chill
Six months ago, Genny found out about my work with BTL. She sent a mass email to the staff, the parents, and the school board. There was a meeting. There was outrage. I almost lost my job. But Lorna is a force to be reckoned with. She showed up to my formal meeting, flanked by her lawyer, delivering phrases like "discrimination" and "privacy violation" and "wrongful termination." My contract doesn’t prohibit outside adult work, and the board’s attempt to punish me for it didn’t hold up.
I kept my job. I gained a ton of new subscribers. And I earned a scarlet letter in the staff lounge.
Fine by me. I didn’t have friends growing up. I don’t need them now.
I drop the papers in their bin and grab my things. On my way out, I check my phone. Still no response from Jay. I unlock it again at my car and finally see a message.
Jay: Tomorrow 10pm. Got it. Going full black: hoodie, joggers, Kagekao mask. You’re welcome.
The mask. I sent him that link weeks ago, didn’t think he’d actually buy it. Over a hundred bucks. Guess he’s committed. I send a thumbs up and a reminder:
Me: Don’t break character. My fans like it real. No acting.
He replies with a kiss-face emoji and a cocky,"I know what I’m doing, babe."I roll my eyes and slide into the driver’s seat. That’s when I see it. A piece of paper tucked under my wiper blade. I get out, heart already picking up speed, and unfold it.
Not much longer, little horror.
Beautiful handwriting. No signature. My pulse stutters. I glance around the lot…nothing. No movement. No one watching.
I throw the note onto the passenger-side floor, slam the door, lock it, and peel out of the parking lot like I’m being chased. I’m not new to obsessed fans. It happens. Occupational hazard. Most of the time, it’s harmless. Sometimes it’s not.
This one? Feels different.
It’s not just the note. It’s that message from earlier this week. The one about the purple tights.
Nobody from back then should know who I am now. Nobody from that town should know what I do. They’d rather burn in Hell than admit they watched a cam girl do what I do.
Still, I can’t shake it. Something's wrong.
Tonight, I need a long bath, a heavy glass of wine, and the smuttiest romance on my Kindle.
I’ve got a scene to film tomorrow.
The next morning,I wake up early and head straight for the kitchen. I make myself a breakfast sandwich, pop the top on a bottle of cranberry juice, pour a glass, and eat while standing at the counter. When I finish, I grab the empty glass to bring to the sink, but it slips from my fingers and crashes to the floor, shattering into glittering shards across the tile.
The sound punches something loose in me.
I blink, and I’m not in my kitchen anymore. I’m fourteen, on the floor of my childhood bathroom, sobbing into a towel while Debra yells about vanity and demons and how mirrors are windows for the devil. Michael stands in the hallway, quoting scripture like he's conjuring lightning. They found me fixing my hair before church. That was all it took.
“You think you’re pretty?” Debra hissed, ripping the curling iron from my hand. “You think you’re meant to be looked at?”
She didn’t even ask where it came from, didn’t give me the chance to lie. The contraband iron Janessa from youth group had slipped me the night before clattered to the floor as she snatched it, eyes wild with something holier than rage.
She pressed the burning barrel to my collarbone, scorching my skin like she was branding me for her God. The pain was so sharp I bit through my bottom lip trying not to scream.
I snap back to the present with a full-body jolt, breath rattling in my chest.
"Fuck you," I whisper, then louder, shouting, “Fuck you, you fucking religious fucks!”
Debra and Michael. Holier-than-thou monsters wrapped in righteous smiles. They put me through hell in the name of their God, and I’m not talking about your average strict Christian upbringing. I’m talking purple tights are a sin. You can’t look at your reflection for more than a second. And don’t even think about disobeying one of the church’s commandments. It wasn’t a church. It was a cult, and I will not be convinced otherwise.
I clean up the glass, fingers shaking slightly, and take a piping hot shower to wash the memories away. I sit under the stream until my skin is pink and raw, until the air is thick with steam. Afterward, I barely manage to wrap a towel around myself before collapsing onto the bed and drifting into a dreamless nap.
When I wake up, it’s time to get ready.
I pull my now dry hair into a half-up, half-down style and curl the loose strands. My eyeliner is thick, the kind that bleeds when I cry, and I pick the non-waterproof mascara on purpose. Maroon lipstick goes on next, deep and easily smudged. I spritz my perfume twice across my neck. Just because it’s fake doesn’t mean I shouldn’t smell good while having sex.
The outfit is simple, strategic. A wine-red velvet dress, low-cut to show off my cleavage and so Jay can pop a tit out when he wants. The hem barely covers my ass, easy for Jay to hike up and take me without any pretense. I wear a black thong underneath. That’s it.
