Page 86 of Horror and Chill
Me: I could go to the police. Tell them what you did.
Evander: You won’t.
The words stop me cold.
Me: You don’t know that.
Evander: Yes I do. You’re obsessed with us as much as we’re obsessed with you. Don’t start lying now, Little Horror.
My chest is a furnace. My mouth tastes like ash. I want to scream at him, want to delete the thread, want to dial 911 right now.
But I don’t.
Because he’s right.
Goddamn it. He’s right.
The files blinkawake on my laptop, thumbnails lined in neat little rows like coffins waiting to be opened. I click one. The crypt floods the screen. Lantern light floods the stone. My body on the slab. Their shadows crowding me.
My stomach twists, but I don’t look away. This is what I promised. This is nothing like what my viewers expect.
I scrub through the footage, cutting seconds here, slowing frames there. The blood mix I painted onto the pickaxe gleams dark and perfect, dripping down the handle in slow motion. I almost admire it.
The props looked good on camera, better than I had hoped.
“Christ,” I mutter under my breath, dragging the timeline. “They’re going to eat this alive.”
But then the frame catches Evander stepping in, mask gone, face bare. I freeze. My throat locks. I should cut it. Blur it. Protect him? Protect me? My finger twitches on the blur tool. I should. God, I should. But I don’t.
I drag the cursor forward, forcing myself to watch. My lips wrapped around the axe handle, eyes wide, dress hiked up my thighs. Their hands. Their voices. Me saying yes when everything sane in me should have screamed no.
I hit pause. The screen goes still. My reflection glows faint in the glass, eyes hollow, mouth trembling.
The progress bar starts to crawl again, every percent another reminder that this isn’t just content anymore. It’s a record. Proof of exactly how far I’ve already let them in. By the time it hits one hundred, I’m contemplating my whole life.
Export. Save. Attach. My fingers move on autopilot, clicking through the motions I’ve done a hundred times before. Only this time, my chest pounds harder with each step. The file slips into an email draft with Lorna’s name at the top. My thumb hovers, just a beat, before I hit send.
Gone. Out of my hands.
I set the laptop aside and reach for my phone. My fingers type before my brain catches up.
Me: Tomorrow night good for the photo shoot?
The reply buzzes in almost instantly.
Chad: Yes.
I bite my lip.
Me: Thinking of bringing friends. It’s Scream themed so like a group of friends slasher vibe. Thoughts?
Another buzz.
Chad: Don’t. I’ve got a better plan. Trust me.
Me: Good. Cause I was gonna have to hire friends anyway.
Chad: Don’t pay someone. I will handle it. Have some faith.
