Page 78 of Horror and Chill
The cemetery looms quiet when we reach it. We step through the gap in the fence, weeds dragging against our legs, headstones jutting up at crooked angles. The deeper we go, the quieter it feels, like the woods themselves are holding their breath. My flashlight beam skates over names carved shallow into crumbling slabs, dates long worn away. Garron keeps his pace steady at the front, Corwin lags behind, and Evander walks close to me.
The crypt rises at the back corner of the cemetery, stone door cracked open, ivy twisting across its roof like veins. The arch above the entrance is chipped, the lettering half-gone.
I step closer and the air changes at the threshold; cooler, carrying the scent of damp stone and earth that hasn’t been touched in decades. Corwin pushes the door wider with a careless shove, hinges groaning, and the sound echoes like a warning.
Inside, the dark swallows us whole. The walls are slick stone, streaked where water has leaked through. Moss spreads in the cracks, pale against the gray. The ceiling curves low, cobwebs sagging thick in the corners. Alcoves line the walls, some empty, some holding shards of pottery or rusted plaques too worn to read.
At the center waits the marble slab. Wide. Flat. Dust thick enough to write in. My fingers brush the surface, and they come away black.
It’s ruined enough to feel real, intact enough to stage the story. My story.
We unload. Tripod feet dug into the dirt, weighed down with the sandbags. Lanterns lined up along the crypt’s entrance, flames flickering against the cracked stone once they’re lit. I move through it all like I’m in charge of a film crew instead of three men who could end me in one breath. They followmy instructions without complaint, which is scarier than their threats.
“Time to change,” I say finally, turning to Evander. He’s been holding a garment bag the whole walk here.
He steps forward, lifts it up, silently. The zipper hums when I tug it down. The dress inside makes my breath catch.
It isn’t anything I expected. Long sleeves shimmer with sequins that catch every scrap of light, shifting from black to green to blue like oil on water. The neckline plunges deep, unapologetic, and the fabric hugs tight all the way down, cut to cling to my every line. It’s decadent. Dark. Dangerous. A dress that doesn’t just belong in a crypt—it dares the crypt to look away first.
My mouth parts. “Holy shit.”
Evander’s voice is calm, but there’s something satisfied in it. “I saw it and knew it was perfect for you.”
My fingers brush the sequins, the glittering edges sharp against my skin. It’s not the cheap goth dress I pictured. This one gleams like armor made for sin. I should hate that he picked it. That it’s exactly my style. Instead, my chest aches with something I can’t name.
When I look back up, all three of them are grinning like wolves.
My hands tremble a little as I grab the dress and slip behind the crypt door to change. The joggers puddle at my feet; my t-shirt tossed carelessly to the floor. The dress slides over me like water. When I step back into the dim light, all three of them are watching with grins that make my stomach flip.
Corwin steps forward first. There’s a bag in his hand I didn’t notice before. He opens it and pulls out a mask. Not one of the ones I know. A gas mask, rubber straps dangling, round glass eyes catching the flame.
“I thought we could play hide and fuck,” he says, smirk wide.
My brows slam together. “That wasn’t on my list. And I’m in charge.”
“No,” he agrees, grin sharpening. “But I know you like to be chased. I saw you in the woods with Evander. The barn with Garron. You loved it.”
“Asshole,” I bark, but there’s no bite in it.
“You know I’m right.” He tilts his head. “So why don’t you go hide. And when one of us finds you, we get to fuck you. Right here. In front of all your viewers.”
My pulse spikes. “How will I record?”
He shrugs, casual as sin. “Easy. Hit record. Tell them they have to wait. When they see you in frame, they’ll know you’ve been caught. Like edging them. Only we get the prize.”
My heart beats as though I just ran a mile. I should say no. I should call them what they are—kidnappers, psychopaths, criminals with a rap sheet against me that would make anyone else cry. Instead, heat pools between my thighs, sharp and traitorous. My breath comes quick.
I inhale. “Yes.”
31
Evander
She percheson the cracked marble slab like it belongs to her. Legs crossed, chin high, phone sitting in the tripod in front of a large ring light. The live counter ticks up, hearts and comments already flooding the screen. She smiles at them, not at us.
“Welcome to the show, my little demons,” she purrs. “You wanted a horror set. You wanted a scare. Well, now…you get one.”
Her voice hums through the crypt, steady even though I can see the tremor in her wrist. She’s scared. She just refuses to show them, refuses to show us. That’s what makes her fire.
