Page 7 of Sinister Legacy
My smile is saccharine. “If you have a sledgehammer, I’d be happy to help you out.”
“I said sell it, not crush it.”
“Semantics.” I look at Amanda and Hazel. “Are you coming?”
Amanda snuggles closer to Chris, while Hazel scrolls on her phone.
I turn to Sienna on Miles’s lap. “How about you?”
“I’ll stay.”
“Fine. I’m going.” I don’t wait for a reply as I grab my phone from the coffee table and make my way through the hallway. After putting my heels back on, I step out into the cold night. I didn’t bring a coat, and I regret it now. My breaths puff out in front of me as I walk down the drive. I only live around the corner from Marcus, so I left my car at home.
Rubbing my arms with my hands, I shiver. The thin cardigan is not thick enough to ward off the cold for long. By the time I reach my driveway, my teeth are chattering. The house is dark. My parents are away at a business conference for a few days. They do that a lot. Not that I mind. I’m used to being alone.
I take a quick shower before getting dressed and making my way to the kitchen to make a sandwich. All that’s left is ham. I root through the cupboards for a small plate and a glass. Then I proceed to make my sandwich and pour the orange juice.
It’s not like me to be home this early, but I have zero interest in watchingTiffanybounce on a man’s dick, while Marcus drinks his beer with his feet on the coffee table. Besides, I’m tired.
Tired of putting up a facade like everyone else in this forsaken town.
Jessica, the bitch.
Jessica, the girl with the perfect grades.
Jessica, who cares about nothing but makeup and heels.
I collect my plate and glass and leave the kitchen. The living room is dark, so I try to flick the switch with the hand holding the orange juice. Nothing happens. I try to flick it again, then mutter, “Well, isn’t that typical?”
With the plate in one hand and the glass in the other, I walk deeper into the dark room. The coffee table is in front of me. I know it is. Only a few more steps. My thighs meet the hard edge. I carefully place the plate down, then the glass, before straightening back up. There’s a chill in the air as I round the couch, careful not to trip on the rug on my way to the window. The silvery moonlight casts a long strip of light on the floor. I switch on the lamp on the window ledge, and the ambient glow floods the room.
My arms are lined with goosebumps from the chill in the air. I should have worn something warmer than a tank top and sleep shorts, but it’s too late now unless I want to go back upstairs to my room to find my robe. Instead, I take a seat on the couch and pull the soft blanket over my lap to keep warm. I channel-hop for far too long, my thoughts elsewhere. I pause with the sandwich held in front of my lips. The scene on the screen is grotesque: a woman getting her arm chopped off while she’s still alive. It looks nothing like a normal movie. This looks strangely like a… like a home video. I’m reminded of Cloverfield and the Paranormal Activity movies. It’s how they make them these days.
I take a small bite of the sandwich but spit it back out. My stomach churns at the sight in front of me of a woman, flat on her back, staring up at the ceiling with dead eyes and her arms and legs chopped off. My hand shakes as I carefully place the plate down on the table and pick the remote control back up. But before I can switch the TV off, I pause. There, on the screen, staring into the camera, is Jimmy Hill. I’m sure of it. I would know that face anywhere. His cold, dead eyes stare straight at me, his face covered in blood.
I hurry to switch off the TV, dropping the remote with a yelp. What the fuck did I just watch? That was no actor. It was Jimmy.
Jimmy…
The doorbell sounds behind me, and I release a startled scream, torn from my fragmented thoughts. It rings out again, causing my heart to jump to my throat. Slowly rising to my feet, I walk with hesitant steps toward the front door. The air puffs out in front of me. How is that even possible when I’m indoors? Is the heat broken, too?
The marble flooring is cold beneath my bare feet, and ice runs through my veins when I see the tall shadow of a man on the other side of the door. I call out, “Hello?”
Ding dong.
I jump, my heart ricocheting in my chest.
“Who’s there?” I ask shakily.
No answer.
Hesitating, I hold my breath. The shadowed man is still there, looming like something out of a horror flick. My heart hammers hard in my chest, and my trembling hands have grown clammy with fear. The doorbell sounds again. This time, I press a sweaty palm over my mouth to stop myself from screaming.
Just when I think the nightmare will never end, the shadow slinks away from the door. Lowering my hand, tears beading on my lashes, I stare unblinkingly straight ahead, expecting him to come back. He doesn’t. My heart slows, thudding inside my chest. Now I feel stupid. It was probably Marcus or Miles.
I turn to head back to the living room when the sound of the screen door to the kitchen being opened cuts through the silence. Icy panic slithers through my veins. I wait for another noise. Maybe I imagined it all? But no, the sound of heavy, dragging footsteps has my heart tripping in my chest. I take off, running down the hallway toward the front door. Tears stream from my eyes while I grapple desperately with the lock. It clicks, and I throw open the door. The cold doesn’t register as I stumble out on the porch and spin around. There’s no one there. The dark, gaping entryway stares back at me.
In my panic, I fail to realize I’m at the edge of the porch, and when I take another step back, I meet air. I fall backward down the front steps with a rippling scream, my back colliding with the hard gravel. The wind gets knocked out of me. Fighting desperately to inhale a full breath, I roll over onto my side. Then I hear it: crunching footsteps. A man in a hooded, black robe, with a metallic, blood-red devil’s mask steps around the corner carrying an axe, his leather-gloved fingers curled around the handle.
