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“Good evening, I’m Joan Lantz, and thank you for tuning into Channel Seven News. With another Halloween behind us, it appears that our town can’t seem to escape the curse that comes to us with each trick-or-treating season. Though with the tragic news we are about to report, we hope that if nothing else, the good people of Mort can finally put a closure to the tragedies that have plagued us for far too long at the hands of the Samhain Killer, who until this day, has not been named, but is about to be.

A grizzly scene unfolded in the early morning hours today, when local law enforcement received an anonymous tip from a concerned resident driving on Summerland Drive reporting hearing a harrowing mix of terrifying screams and crying off in the distance, in the direction of the gated Rainey property.

Shortly after the tip was called in, law enforcement along with the Mort Fire Department, arrived at 333 Summerland Drive, which as many of you are aware is the address to what once stood as a pinnacle of unity and faith for our small town, Sacred Promises Church, which is located on the six-acre lot owned and lived on by Pastor Harlan Rainey Sr. The property was once split into two, three-acre lots, with a cemetery that divided the two. Pastor Rainey obtained the rest of the property after the neighboring owner, Lucien Suárez, passed away, leaving no will in place. However, after what we have learned about the events of last night, how Pastor Rainey came to own the full six-acres is as eerie as it is damning.

As most of you remember, it was on Halloween night, thirteen years ago that Pastor Harlan Rainey Sr.’s son, Harlan Rainey Jr., was found tied to a cross with unholy symbols covering his body as part of a sacrilegious ritual in the graveyard that sits on the Rainey property, just between the Rainey’s farmhouse, and Sacred Promises Church on Summerland Drive. Upon paramedics finding Harlan Jr. unconscious due to a suspected drug overdose along with his stepsister, Araceli Rainey, both were rushed to the hospital. Sadly, Harlan Jr. was pronounced dead shortly after his arrival at Allan Memorial Hospital. Araceli Rainey, however, did survive, but has been missing after she reportedly fought hospital staff and escaped in nothing but her hospital gown, and hasn’t been seen since. That is until the grizzly and unthinkable scene first responders were met with last night.

In the graveyard that once sat as a divider between the Suárez and Rainey portions of the Summerland property, authorities found an empty hydraulic trailer that appeared to refill the grave plot of Harlan Rainey Jr. After removing the newly poured dirt, Araceli Rainey was found, buried with the exhumed bones of her stepbrother, Harlan Jr. Araceli was found with multiple wounds on her body, so it is unclear if she died before or after attempting to bury herself alive.

Though the horror does not end there. Authorities also discovered Pastor Rainey, who was found dead on arrival. His body bludgeoned, covered in unholy symbols, and hung on a cross similar to how his son was found years ago. Nailed to Pastor Rainey’s hand was a note confessing to the murder of his two wives. His first being Ella Rainey, who is Harlan Jr.’s mom, and his second wife, Frida Suárez Rainey, the biological mother of his stepdaughter, Araceli, and ex-wife to Pagan leader and founder of the once beloved Pagan retreat, Heathen’s Cross that was once located on his portion of Summerland Drive, before Rainey Sr. took over the land.

There was also a list of others that Rainey Sr. admitted to killing. In an effort to protect the rights of the families involved, those names shall remain anonymous. Authorities do now have an open investigation to determine the legitimacy of these claims; however, with the amount of decomposition found in the crawl space that connects the Rainey farmhouse to Sacred Promises Church, I think it’s safe to say that the Samhain Killer won’t be hurting our town any longer.

“Such a tragedy, Joan.”

“Yes it is, Victor. Yes, it is.”

“Now in other less horrific news. We have started our holiday shopping guide early for all you eager shoppers…”

VICTORIA ELIZABETH

I stare at the television as I turn it off. The remote in my hand gets flung onto the couch as I sit in stunned silence, processing what I just heard.

Pastor Rainey. The pastor at Sacred Promises, the church I went to for years—that I used to be the secretary to for a brief time when my mom was sick—is the Samhain killer ?

How can that be?

My head shakes back and forth in disbelief. The need to clutch onto my cross necklace becomes immense.

As if all of this news isn’t shocking enough, hearing Harlan’s name again feels just as painful as it did the day I learned of his passing. From drugs, of all things.

So tragic.

So.

Fucking.

Tragic.

Though somehow the tragedy of Harlan’s death and the horrors that happened on 333 Summerland Drive pale in comparison to what I discovered last night. That Harlan’s stepsister and my literary client, Araceli Rainey, just couldn’t help herself, and had to go home to see him.

To see my Harlan.

She already had her night with him that Halloween night thirteen years ago and look where it got both of them? He died, no thanks to her influences, and she has been a shell of herself for years. Depressed. Writing the most grotesque, morally questionable stories that people freaking eat up.

At least working with her was lucrative, while it lasted. Which is the only reason I offered to be her agent. That’s the beauty of the internet. I was able to pull from my full name, Victoria Elizebeth, and use the screen name Beth’s Writing Palace for my business, and she had no fucking clue I was the Tori that Harlan used to hook up with before she corrupted him.

We never had to meet face-to-face. All correspondence was done through social media and emails, so the dumb bitch had no idea. Lucky for me, Harlan’s passing weighed on her so heavily that whatever witchy garbage she used to read people failed her.

I may hate what she writes, but I suppose even I can admit that she is—or was —objectively talented. I mean she is—ah, fuck, was —delusional and most delusional creatives make the best stories. There is, or was, promise in her work and I knew if I supported her enough, she would make the delusional decision to leave her fortune she amassed in her career to me upon her passing. It’d be the perfect payback for all the destruction she unknowingly caused me. Of course, I didn’t think it’d happen so soon. Especially not with the final installment of her Ferryman series set to come out.

Though lucky for me, I found the junky notebook she insisted on writing in. She loved it so much she tried burying herself with it. Well, she tried to. It never quite made it in the grave plot since I saw it in the graveyard and snatched it up. With the control I have over her estate—that she so foolishly gave to me—I own the rights to her notebook and its contents. Now that I have it, I can have an editor piece it together and once published, I’ll be rolling in the fucking money.

My hand lifts to my mouth as I stifle a yawn. Fuck, I’m so tired. It took forever getting back home from the Rainey property after I not only called in the tip, but I got what I needed before law enforcements swarmed the fucking place.

Walking from my living room, I take the filthy book and the other souvenir I got from my excursion last night, and head to the bathroom to run myself a bath before crashing.

I lay both the book and the necklace on the vanity before running the water, setting it to warm. I undress and as my clothes fall to the floor. I hear the doorbell ring, and my heart skips a beat. I live on a secluded lot, so it’s a rare occurrence that I get any visitors, let alone so early in the morning. I decide to ignore it, but the bell keeps ringing.

“Hold on a second,” I call out, reaching for my robe, and slipping it on so I can see who is so insistent at the door.

The doorbell continues to ring, this time with less time in between rings, causing me to hurry my steps.

“Jesus Christ, I’m coming,” I mutter beneath my breath, though as my hand curls around the knob, I’m rendered motionless. My wrist goes to turn, but the frigid sensation on the brass knob feels paralyzing. Still, the doorbell persists, so I fight through the odd sensation and twist the knob, opening the door.

No more ringing of the doorbell.

There’s no one there.

Anger invades me as I step out onto the porch, scanning it without a sign of anyone there.

“Halloween is over!” I shout. “Have to wait until next year for your pranks!”

Shaking my head, I head back into the house, though as I break the threshold of the doorway, a collection of muddy footprints trails a scattered line on my flooring.

“What the—” I interrupt myself, slamming and locking the door behind me.

This is my karma.

No, Beth.

Or Tori.

Whoever you want to be called.

You don’t believe in Karma.

You’re a good Christian woman.

Well… you were a good Christian woman until that fucking succubus of a woman tempted your moral compass.

I frantically look around the living room to see any sign of the intruder. But everything is still in place.

“Hello,” I call out, feeling like a fool.

The house is still. So silent that you can hear a pin drop.

I inch forward and the floorboards creek beneath my feet. I peer down and more of the muddy footsteps are in my view. The longer I stare down at the floorboards, the more appear.

Suddenly, all the gusto I had dissipates, as I run towards my bible I keep on the end table by my couch.

With each frantic move I make, I try not to look at the floor, but it’s impossible, as more seem to appear each time I blink my eyes.

Finally, standing in front of the end table, I extend my hand for my bible, but it slides on the wood surface. I inch forward, curling my hand this time for it, but it slides again. It continues to slide back and forth, and side to side until it is suspended midair.

A rush of faintness trickles into my head as the bible floats in front of me. Still, I try to fight through it even as a familiar voice emerges, breaking the silence.

“Looking for this,” Harlan’s voice coos in my ear.

“Har—Harlan,” I say, relieved, though I shouldn’t be.

He’s not here.

It’s impossible.

“ Har—Harlan .” Another voice mocks in singsong.

Feminine.

Angry .

I turn my head to face the other voice. I make it about a half turn before the bible is no longer floating.

“Looking for this?” Araceli cackles as the bible slaps me in the face. “Yeah, me too.” She hits me again just as something is injected into my spine and the room becomes as dark as my dwindling consciousness.

HARLAN

“Turn the water off,” Araceli demands. Her naked body looks as delectable as ever, even as she holds Tori's bible in her possession. A book that she and I detest. “And for the love of—”

“Lucifer.” Araceli cuts me off. The seductive grin on her face makes what we have to do feel impossible. But like the old saying goes, “ thy shall be done .”

“Put the bible down.” I demand.

With a dramatic shiver and ample relief, she obeys, about to leave it on the floor and walk away. I click my tongue and Araceli’s eyes flicker over to mine.

“Yes?” she asks, sounding intrigued.

“Open it,” I instruct her.

“Ooh,” she hums. In excited obedience and the eagerness in her voice, the way it hangs in the air before plummeting to my cock is intoxicating. I must say, death is very becoming of her. The level of obedience that took over the brattiness I grew used to in her living days is refreshing… and hot as hell.

“Good—” I begin, but I’m cut off by Araceli’s red nails, flashing in my periphery as her hand lifts.

“Don’t say it.” She clicks her tongue. There’s that feistiness coming out to play. So it’s only half gone away. “Don’t call me a good girl, it feels so,” she drags her tone, searching for the right word.

“So deceiving?” I finish her sentence for her.

“Why, yes. Yes. It. Does.” She agrees, opening the bible to a random page as she kneels on the floor. “It feels like how she — ” Araceli pauses, to look at Tori—or ‘Beth’ as she knew her—who sits trembling in the cold bath water. Araceli clears her throat. “It feels like something that would suit her more. Since we all know that good is subjective and most good girls are bad girls who don’t have the courage to accept their demons. Isn’t that right?” Araceli juts her chin in Tori’s direction. Waiting for her to speak. To say anything to defend herself. Though the temperature of the water, mixed with the injection I gave her which still has her limbs partially numb, is too strong for her to mutter more than a breathy and broken “sorry.”

“Shh,” Araceli whispers. “There will be a time for your apologies, but for right now, I need to know what a good Christian woman like you is doing with this.” Now on her feet, Araceli moves to the necklace with my rib bone on it. The rib bone that Araceli dug up from beneath the dirt of my grave. Snatching it in her grip, she lifts it up for emphasis before taking hold of her notebook.

“I thought you didn’t believe in this kind of stuff. Were you having a moment of weakness and thinking for yourself for a change?” She asks without giving Tori a second to respond. “You are familiar with what a moment of weakness is, correct? Or are you so lost in the Jesus sauce that you aren’t?”

Tori’s mouth trembles as she begins muttering a response, but Araceli speaks over her. “Shut up. See, I know firsthand that you are not the ideal Christian woman in the making that my stepfather claimed you were. Don’t worry, he was no prize either, I mean you heard the news reports. Which, might I add, was only a fraction of the atrocities he committed. Let’s not forget how he used to use me and Harlan at differing points of our lives as ashtrays. And let’s not forget what he tried to do to exorcise the ‘demons’, as he called them, out of me.” Araceli pauses. “With his dick, Tori Beth. With his fucking disgusting dick.”

It’s nothing I didn’t already know, but the anger that arises in me hearing that my father did that to Araceli. That he punished her by violating her. That he took something that didn’t belong to him infuriates me.

“But I digress,” Araceli continues. “My point is that you’ve had many moments of weakness. Like when you used to suck Harlan’s dick in the church basement. Or when you snuck onto our property and watched Harlan and I in the bathroom, and stood there seething while you watched me ride his leg from the window as I begged him—and got my way—for him to break the rules and spend Halloween with me.”

“Fuck,” I groan, interrupting Araceli.

“What is it, big brother?” she pouts her lips as a devious grin curls her lips.

“You can’t talk like that,” I groan again, this time louder. Needier.

Her pout deepens. “Like what?”

“You know what you’re doing to me. It makes me want to—”

“Sin?” Araceli lifts her eyebrows.

“No, fuck.”

“Hmm,” Araceli hums. “Soon, brother. Very soon.”

She redirects her attention to Tori. “Anyway, let’s not forget when you inserted yourself into my life as my fucking literary agent. Hmm. That covers it. But wait.” Araceli lifts her finger in the air as if a light bulb just went off. “Oh, and then there is the pièce de résistance.”

I move from behind Tori, kneeling on the floor to the side of the tub, my attention on Araceli, dying to hear what she has to say next. I already know, but I want to hear it. I need to. We all do. Especially Tori.

“Don’t leave us in suspense.” I motion for Araceli to continue, but she’s too busy straddling herself on top of the open bible. Her arms stretch forward as her palm flattens, anchoring herself to the ground. Though her shoulders remain slightly hunched with her neck cranked down to read.

“Here it is.” Araceli breaks the silence. “Proverbs 6:34. Jealousy makes a man,” she interrupts herself, shooting her gaze over to Tori, “or woman,” she adds before looking back down to finish reading the rest of the verse, “rage; he’ll show no mercy on his day of revenge.” Araceli’s neck cranks up, settling her stare on me first, then Tori, who even with the drugs slowing her breathing, is still aware enough to grasp every word Araceli is about to say.

“Your bible speaks about jealousy. Quite a bit, actually. I got tired of skimming through all the bullshit in it, so I gave up counting after fifty. But either way, there are plenty of verses that you should know that speak about how jealousy is bad. How it can lead a person—even a godly person—to do bad things.”

Bringing one hand to her clit, Araceli begins to rub herself as she arches her back in a circular motion, grinding her bare pussy on the open bible. Her arousal clings to the thin pages and a crinkling sound echoes the gyration of her hips.

A pant leaks from Araceli’s mouth, then another as she picks up the speed she’s fucking the spread pages.

“What she’s trying to say is… fuck your bible. Isn’t that right?” I ask Araceli, who nods a yes before she huffs out a sultry gust of air. Twirling her fingers at her clit, she stops only to dip them into her warmth. Her fingers become crushed from her gliding her sex up and down the pages.

Fuck. Speaking of jealousy, I’ve never been more jealous of a bible of all fucking things.

I can’t believe how wet she’s getting. The pages are visibly soaked from her arousal.

“Yes,” Araceli pants. “Fuck. Your. Bible.” An explosive orgasm is followed by her mewls, , one that I wish I could lick up from her dripping wet pussy, but I’m still waiting for how she will deliver the news to Tori. Plus, I have eternity to worship, consume, tear apart, and repent at her pussy. As torturous as not diving in now is, I can be a good boy and wait just a little longer.

Riding the waves of her release, Araceli skims her fingers onto the torn pages, clawing at them, she shreds them into her palm as she rises. The remnants of her orgasm, fresh on the paper, locked in her grip. She approaches the tub, with nothing but revenge oozing from her pores.

“And fuck you, too. Tori or Beth. Fuck you, for thinking I’m that much of a fucking pendeja that I wouldn’t figure out it was you that gave us those drugs at the Halloween Shop, or that you laced them yourself. Well, only the snake portion of the sheet that you explicitly told me to take.” Araceli now stands by the tub and snatches Tori’s chin with one hand, slapping it before prying her mouth open with the other, stuffing the wet bible pages in it.

Tears stream down Tori’s face and she chokes and gags on the pages.

Araceli looks over at me and holds her hand out for me to give her something. I pat my pockets, but I don’t have anything to give her that would inflict the kind of pain she’s hoping to place on her.

Her eyes scan the bathroom.

“Give me that,” she tilts her head to the floor.

The bone.

My bone.

Covered in enough dirt that the glistening sheen from Araceli’s arousal shouldn’t be visible as it is. But it’s still there and I can’t wait to see what she does with it.

ARACELI

My palm remains outstretched and ready for Harlan to place the bone in as I bore my stare into Tori Beth’s. She’s trying so damn hard to spit out the pages stuffed into her mouth.

I pout my lips. “Aww, does my dead cunt not taste yummy to you? Here, let me help you with that.” I take my other hand, guiding my fingers into the space between her parted lips, and push the paper in further.

A gagging sounds while she adjusts to the drenched paper grazing the back of her throat just as Harlan slips the bone in my hand. I can feel his excitement. It’s practically bubbling over in his cold, lifeless veins.

“This,” I mutter in anticipation as I straighten my spine. Holding onto the bone on either of its curved ends, I lift my hands, bracing myself and with all my might, I crash it down onto one knee, splitting it in half. Giving me two uneven and sharp weapons to use.

The symphony of gagging noises now replaced with an arguably more aggravating sound. Whimpering pleas. A last effort to be forgiven. But I’m not here to forgive. I’m here for revenge.

Blood for blood. An eye for an eye.

“You look scared,” I state the obvious as I make my way close to her.

Her eyes move like a pendulum just staring at me as I approach her.

“Are you scared?” I ask.

Her gaze continues its frantic assessing of the broken bones I have clutched in both palms. The rib, a sacred bone to her in her convoluted faith. A bone symbolizing creation—while it spits in the face of logic and science, or believing in any other system besides the one she was taught is superior—is now a makeshift weapon.

“You are just as guilty for his death as I am. Just like I’m about to be guilty for yours,” I threaten.

I look back and see Harlan staring. Waiting to be involved.

“This is a really nice tub. It’s so big. Big enough for three people.” The inflection in my voice, an obvious suggestion for Harlan to get his ass into the water that I’m now dipping both legs into.

“How—i—i—is—thi—?” Tori’s teeth are chattering too much for her to form a coherent sentence.

I submerge my entire body into the tub. Water splashing, but barely so. Benefits of being a ghost. She likely can barely feel me straddling her lap. However, she’ll feel when I locate two of her carotid arteries on either side of her neck and pierce through them.

“How is this happening?” I finish her question for her. “Well, you see, I’ve been naughty.”

Harlan, now behind me, settles his chin on my shoulder. “Yeah, she has.” He spanks my ass and again the water barely even ripples. Scaring Tori Beth more.

“Since I believe in fatum enim eligimus. Choosing my own fate. I’ve decided that death isn’t it for me. I’m not ready to be completely lost in the abyss. There’s still so much I can do in this form. But I think the real question is. How can you see me?”

“Us” Harlan corrects.

I scoff. “Yes, us.” I turn my head to look at him. “Which, by the way, we aren’t a thing.” I remind him.

Finding Harlan was about healing, not about love. Not feeding the Ferryman was always about using the freedom death has granted us and putting it to good use. Some, of course, would argue that existing in a perpetual purgatory isn’t good use or wise, but those who say such things haven’t had the privilege of experiencing it. I have. I am, and I don’t want to let this go. Not yet.

Harlan juts his chin to the bone in my hand. “You keep telling yourself that, but your dead cunt sure likes my ‘stale cock’, as you like to put it. It was weeping all over it just this morning.”

“Oh, please. You’re a good fuck, but that’s where it starts and ends.”

He clicks his split tongue. “I’m also a good partner…”

“In crime,” I finish for him. “Only.”

A grin expands on his chiseled face. “You keep telling yourself that.”

Ah, yawn. Clingy ex-virgin.

Turning my focus back on a very cold, very frightened Tori, I continue. “Don’t mind him. I let him fuck me once. While he was sleeping no less, and here we are. He’s still clingy as ever for what he never wanted from you. Now, don’t feel too special. You are just a check off the list of people who have wronged us and will pay. But I did, however, want you to be my first.” I grin, playful and seductive.

I lean forward, pressing my lips against hers. Even hanging in the balance of fear, and the sedatives working, her lips still manage to purse to kiss mine back.

My mouth remains near hers, but I move far enough back. “No, not that kind of first. I’ve been with girls before. But I wanted you to be my first kill in my new form. My free, lifeless, happy form.” I press one last kiss to her trembling mouth as I lift both hands up at either side of her neck.

My hands hang in the balance, making her sweat it out.

“Oh, by the way, I made that deadline you were so worried about. Had it hand delivered to the publisher myself, since I knew you’d be busy . Oh, and I decided to change the title and publish under my real name.”

Her gaze skates from side to side, terrified of both my clenched fists.

“What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue? Too scared to recite the Lord’s prayer? Afraid he won’t be the one you see when I do this.” I don’t give her an opportunity to answer—not like she could—or fight it. With precise force I plunge the sharp bones down, crashing into either side of her neck. Her skin breaks on impact, and blood pools around the bone, staining it as I stare into her eyes, watching the life fade from them. I wonder what she’ll see when her soul escapes her body. The construct she hopes for or the reality of what she fears. Either way, that’s her problem, not mine.

Red fills the tub, diluting as it hits the water’s edge. I skim my fingers in the mixture, trying to gather as much as I can.

A familiar song fills my head as I rub the crimson between my thumb and index finger.

Blood for blood. Eye for an eye.

The more the melody repeats, the more I want to do what it says. I hum it over again as I turn to face Harlan. His arms are slumped over the tub and he stares at me with a wide grin on his face.

“You gonna share or what?” His gaze falls to the blood on my fingers.

“Come and get it.” I entice him with my dripping fingers, curling for him to move closer.

Water splashes as he lunges forward, capturing my hand in his. He sucks my fingers into his mouth, feasting on the fresh blood.

“Revenge tastes good, doesn’t it?”

Harlan nods as the suction of his mouth loosens on around my fingers. His split tongue sloppily licking it up. He’s so eager to please me, now that I am in the same lifeless boat as him.

“Tell me, brother. When you took my book, what did you see?”

Harlan peers up at me, confusion ripe on his brow. “Huh?”

“What did you see?” I repeat, pulling my finger from his mouth, so he can answer me.

“Death.” He deadpans.

I shake my head. “That’s not all you saw. Tell me. What else did you see?”

Unease warps his expression, though he fights it. “I saw,” he stutters, clearing his throat. “Death’s anger.”

“That’s right, and how did it make you feel?” I ask, already knowing how frightened it made him.

“I felt nothing.”

My tongue clicks. “You’re lying.” I turn my head to the hooded figure waiting for us. “It frightened you. I know it did. Don’t lie to me.” I glide my body over top of his, lifting one hand out to the side for the hooded figure watching us to hand me my journal already open to the illustration.

I show the page to Harlan. “Tell me, what do you see now?”

He smiles and pulls me closer, locking me in his grip. My bare pussy brushing on his bare cock.

“Our end,” he groans, biting on his lip, distracted by my gliding up and down his length, teasing him .

“Our ending?” I begin in an exaggerated coo, “or yours?”

The hooded figure takes a step closer, its skeletal hand outstretched, awaiting payment.

Harlan turns his head to face it—the destiny he escaped to haunt me—but I move my bloody hand down to guide his stiff, dead cock.

“Eyes on me,” I instruct him as I ride him, with death staring at us… waiting.

“Fuck, you feel like —”

“Shh,” I silence Harlan.

The figure lowers their hood to my mouth and I cup my hands to it, whispering, not giving up the tempo I’m fucking Harlan. An item is exchanged between us discreetly before their spine stiffens, and they move towards Harlan.

“Araceli, what did you say to it?”

I ignore Harlan’s question. My lips skim his as our foreheads brush and my mouth falls agape to recite a part of my story I always knew would have to happen in order to be truly free of anything, or anyone, that will hold me back from being myself. After all, this has all been written in the stars, just like Frida said, waiting for me to grasp it. To take the ending destined for me and run wild with it.

“Keeping my eyes on him, I discreetly curl my fingers as his tongue nears mine. And just as the token of my commitment to the sacrifice is transferred from my mouth to his, I use the sadistic communion as my opportunity to secure the knife's handle in my palm, and drive it into his throat.”

“Araceli.” He skids back in the tub, trying to get away from me, but he can’t. He’s about to come. So am I.

“Rivulets of blood stream from the wound, the look of betrayal ripe within his irises as he slumps over me and into the tub.”

“Stop it now. Stop th—” Harlan’s words are halted by the hooded figure reaching for his throat, about to lift him from the tub .

“You stop it!” I snap. Not at Harlan, but the impatient visitor, who is ruining me and Harlan’s farewell fuck.

“Come for me, brother,” I encourage Harlan, and through his fear, he obeys, spewing his dead seed into me. “That’s a good boy. You came for me and someday, when I’m ready, I’ll come for you… again.”

“Araceli, what the fuck are you talking about-–” Harlan is interrupted by the hooded figure lifting him by the throat, out of the tub.

“His payment.” The figure roars as I rise to my feet, handing the figure the coin he gave me in exchange for a few more minutes of quality time with Harlan, for his destiny to be complete, and for mine to begin.

Frida’s warning plays in my mind.

“It’s important that you keep that to yourself. Your story is yours and yours alone. If anyone gains access to your path, consequences will arise.”

Registering what’s happening, or what’s about to happen, Harlan becomes visibly angry. “You fucking bitch!” He spits out.

“Ssh.” My lips pout. “Don’t talk dirty to me. I like it. Don’t worry, I’ll meet up with you soon enough. You had your time in limbo. It’s my time to shine. Alone .” I continue to recite the words as I pry Harlan's tense jaw open. The look of betrayal dances throughout his irises as the coin for passage nears his tongue. “Summoning you was my apology. Saying goodbye is my gift. See you soon, brother.” It’s true, I gathered what was left of him with the intention of experiencing the punishment I deserved for being the catalyst for his downfall. It was my guilt that drove me back to that house, but it’s the freedom and peace that death has given me that has me greedy for more.

I watch his soul leave the room. Just as the voices told me to that night at Heathen’s Cross, when they urged me to let him sail. His passage is now complete, while mine is now beginning. Just how I wrote it to be.

The hooded figure disappears. His debt paid and now the bathroom is full of Heathen’s Cross members, surrounding me in their cloaks. Fellow fallen souls that refuse to give into the idea of submitting one’s will, even in death, to seek refuge in another realm.

“ Now , my initiation is complete.” I say out loud, before reciting the end of the excerpt to myself in silence.

“You’re wrong,” I spit. “Tell el Barquero, there’s no escaping me.”

I meant it when I said that I’d rather be cursed, or haunted, over being saved. Except now, I can do the haunting because I choose my fate.

“True horror is given life through the lies we tell to protect ourselves and it lives on through the tragedies that not only define us… but own us.” — Araceli Suárez. In Flames We Thrive. New York: Charon Press, 2024.

THE END.