Page 50 of Little Stranger

Me: Maybe my imagination is crazier?

My gaze is fixed on the screen, the one on my desk, as I watch her chest rise and fall, her knees falling open. Is she… turned on? That easily?

Olivia: Prove it.

Again, I’m annoyed, even though my dick is hard. She’s trying to invoke sex from someone she doesn’t know. She’s parting herself with her small fingers and rubbing her clit on her sofa, and I’m tossing aside my towel to fist my cock, watching her find pleasure.

Pleasure she wants from a stranger.

I let go of my dick and type, refusing to cum unless it’s on or in her.

Me: See you at 7.

The gas mask sits comfortably on my face as I stare at myself in the mirror. With my black combats and black hoodie, the hood pulled up, she’ll never know it’s me.

I flip a screwdriver in my hand as I watch her through my screens—she’s curling her hair as she sits in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror at her friend’s house. Is it normal to walk around naked in front of your friend? Abigail, disgustingly, only has panties on, and I try to block her from my vision as Olivia finishes her hair and rubs cream all over her naked body.

I imagine her friend chopped up as she rubs the cream onto Olivia’s back. When she disappears into the bathroom, my sister fixes her makeup, so her lashes are too long, and paints on black lipstick to go with her goth-bride costume.

Her heels are too high—she still won’t be anywhere near as tall as me, but how will she run in them? The game will be over before it properly starts.

The stockings cover her legs to her thighs, and the corset pushes her tits up, the train of the veil streaming down to her ass.

She’s not smiling at herself in the mirror as she inspects her art—because that’s what Olivia Vize is, a piece of fucking art I want to own. I do own. She just doesn’t know it yet.

She looks sad. It could be the hour she spent crying to her friend about me, or while she watched videos of us, or the research she did online that—once again—gave her nothing.

She takes pictures in the mirror, faking smiles from different angles, then she tosses her phone on the bed and sits at the foot of it. There’s music playing in the background, another Taylor Swift song, and she’s miming the words while she waits on her friend.

I grin when I see the necklace she’s wearing—the locket with our pictures in it. It fits with her costume, looking old and rustic. I watched her clip it on earlier, and she stared at the photo of us inside for longer than necessary.

You see how good we are together, Olivia? We could’ve had the world, and you had to ruin it. I was going to give you everything you ever wanted. Now I need totake. I nearly have all of you.

I have your mind.

I have your body.

I have your soul. The fear I instill in you. The pain I inflict when you defy me.

You have a black heart, little sister, but I’ll own that soon too.

Olivia and her friend leave the house, heading to the festival. It’s not too far—I’ve been reading articles about it online. There will be dancing, fairground rides, food, and alcohol, and there’s a corn field that stretches all the way to the woods. I fully intend to make use of that space.

I flip the screwdriver in my hand a few times then tuck it into my back pocket, checking to see if my motorbike helmet fits over my mask, but it doesn’t, so I chuck it aside and settle on using the gas mask instead.

It’s eight by the time I get there. I intentionally made myself late, made her blow my phone up while I watched her through the crowds. She’s sexy—far sexier than watching her through the screens. She’s dancing, drinking spirits, her and her friend laughing and throwing their heads back to the music. She keeps checking her phone for a reply from me, but she won’t get one.

Abigail’s mouth is latched to a stranger’s, and Olivia goes to get another drink, checking her phone on the way. I stay behind her, my hands fisting at my sides when I see the way people are looking at her. At how fucking hot she is.

If I had a gun, I would’ve put a bullet in at least ten people’s heads by now.

With the gas mask on, she won’t recognize me. Not as the biker, and not as her brother. I stay close behind, watching as she pays for another drink, sipping it as she walks off to the side. Her heels click on the concrete, the sound softening as she carefully leaves the dancing side of the festival and heads towards the fairground.

Some of the costumes are impressive, and some are downright ridiculous. Before I was in prison and shut off from the world, I never saw the big deal about Halloween, but my sister has always loved it. She likes to be scared, and I guess the entire theme of this holiday is to be scary.

Fine, I’ll be scary.

She rounds the corner, and I see my opportunity to pounce. I pull the screwdriver out from my back pocket, closing the distance between us and grabbing the hair at the back of her head, then I press the screwdriver into her back and shove her between two broken tractors.

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