Page 27 of Grave Possession (Grave #2)

Chapter Twenty-one

Mallory

“ W ake up.” A feminine voice tries to pull me from sleep’s embrace but I resist. I want to stay in this dream world where Nox is the man in the mask outside my window, and serial killers don’t exist. “Wake up, he’s coming,” she rasps.

Something cold slams into my shoulder, and the following pain rips me from slumber.

“What the fuck,” I gasp, cradling my arm against my chest. The throb shooting down from my shoulder making my fingers tingle.

I look around but there’s nothing out of place.

No one to be seen. The space is more oppressive than usual and dread pools in my stomach.

Something isn’t right. The air is charged, making me uncomfortable, setting me on edge.

Cold sweat breaks out across my skin and my heart rate picks up tenfold.

Something bad is about to happen, I can feel it.

Then I hear it. I have to hold my breath and strain my ears, but with each passing second, the whimpering and wailing of a woman can be heard more clearly.

The chain rattles as my captor removes it from the cellar door handles, heaving open one of the heavy doors.

His figure looms darkly at the top of the stairs, blocking out the light, and he’s not alone.

“Rise and shine, darlin’!” he yells, the sound echoing around me. Fear mixes with adrenaline and shoots through my veins. A full-body chill overcomes me as I war with myself on whether to answer him or not. But before I get the chance to decide, he starts his descent towards me.

Long shadows are cast down onto the dirt floor below.

I inch back toward the cold stone wall, eager to escape the elongated fingers seeming to reach out for me, beckoning me to come closer.

“Come here, Mallory. I’ve brought us something to play with.

” His grating voice snaps me back to the here and now.

My captor is ruthlessly dragging a woman beside him, her small frame thumping against each stair on the way down.

What the fuck? Releasing her, her limp body rolls down the remaining steps, collapsing into a whimpering heap at the bottom.

Her blonde hair is matted with bloody debris, and she’s wearing little more than scraps of what used to resemble clothes.

His boots clomp down the stairs as he closes in on us, pulling the light string along the way and casting a yellow glow around the room.

I take in the fucked up scene unfolding before me, and my brain refuses to even think about what plan he has in store for us. He bends, grabbing ahold of the woman’s wrists, dragging the new victim over to me. Laying her mere inches away from my mattress, he rolls her over.

My stomach heaves when I take in the state of her leg.

It’s broken in one place, maybe two or three.

I can’t discern very much between the tattered pants and blood staining her visible skin.

However, the bone protruding out through her shin is unmistakable.

He’s going to kill her and I’m going to have to watch, or worse… help.

My shocked expression meets his beaming sinister one. “What did you do to her?” I croak.

“That doesn’t really matter now, does it darlin'?” He’s right.

She’s in bad shape, bruising already becoming apparent on the parts of skin I can see.

There’s grit and small gravel embedded into the scrapes on her right cheek, and along her arm on the same side.

“Did you hit her with your car?” I ask. He nods.

Fuck. On top of the broken leg, she could have internal bleeding, she’s not going to last much longer if that’s the case.

My mind is racing, thinking of all the ways I could aid this poor woman.

It’s ultimately useless, as much as I want to help, I’m powerless.

There’s nothing I can do but sit here and witness his cruelty.

My psyche continues to erode like the fragile shale stones on a cliff face as the tumultuous sea relentlessly thrashes against it. Taking a deep, steadying breath, I prepare myself to play along with whatever fantasy he’s cooked up. This woman won’t survive, but I will.

He pulls a large buck knife from the sheath on his side, and begins to slice off what remains of the woman’s clothes. He’s never pulled this knife on me, and for a moment, I find myself grateful for that.

“Come here, darlin’.” He gestures for me to come closer, and like a whipped bitch, I obey .

I can’t help that my interest is piqued. I know it shouldn’t be. I should be terrified. I am, but there’s something ominous lurking beneath the fear.

Darkness unfurls within me as I watch him drag the blade across her skin, carving a fine line of crimson across her chest. He does it again, deeper this time.

More blood rises, running across her paling skin.

I’m drawn to it. Pulled toward the red roadmaps like a vampire fuelled by its bloodlust. With outstretched hands, I run my fingers through the warm stream, spreading it across her flesh.

“Bringing back good memories for ya?”

“Huh?” Get it together, Mallory. He thinks you killed your parents…remember? “Oh, yeah.” Nice save, moron.

“Want to make some new ones?” he asks, quirking a brow at me. My mouth hangs agape as I battle between what’s morally right, and what’s going to keep me alive.

“Hell yeah,” I say.

I’m weak-willed and disgusted with myself. I should have said ‘no’. ‘Fuck no, you sadistic piece of human trash’, to be more precise. But I want to live, and I can’t deny that a part of me wants to let the malicious thing festering inside myself free.

He turns the knife around, placing the blade in his hand and extending the handle towards me.

He’s giving me the weapon? He can’t be. Is he stupid?

Like I wouldn’t try to jam this into his neck the first chance I get.

Fire alights in his eyes when I take the blade.

He scoots back out of my reach. “Go on,” he says, waiting with bated breath to see what I’ll do.

Should I take this opportunity to act out every sinister thing that’s ever crossed my mind?

Every morbid curiosity that has plagued me in the dead of night?

This mystery woman’s going to die anyway.

However, I shouldn’t prolong her pain and suffering.

I should act quickly, slit her throat before he can stop me, and put an end to her torture.

But I don’t.

Instead, I revel in the weight of the knife in my hand, and the feeling of control that washes over me.

I’m not the victim in this moment. I’m the aggressor.

I can do whatever I want. I’m losing myself to the feeling of freedom.

Despite being a captive chained to the wall, I’m high off the minuscule amount of power given to me.

My eyes scan the woman in front of me. Her breathing is ragged, and her pulse is thumping hard from how I can see the vein in her neck jumping. “Back to blondes now?” I query.

“Well now that I have you, I no longer need a substitute,” he responds.

“I suppose.” Little does he know I’m about to have him so tangled up in my web, there will be no escape. I trace the sharp blade up her arm but she doesn’t so much as stir. Come on, lady, wake up.

When I reach her shoulder, I place the tip of the blade in the same spot my injury is. Slowly pressing it into her flesh, I watch how easily the skin splits apart because of the lethally sharp steel.

Adrenaline shoots through my body again, and I feel like I’ve come alight from within. I slam all my weight down on the handle, forcing the knife through her skin until the blade meets the dirt beneath her. The woman’s eyes shoot open, and she screams loud enough to wake the dead.

I guess the shock wore off.

She’s flailing, trying to grapple with enough coherence to pull the knife out of her shoulder. In the process, she hits me in the face and I can’t help but laugh. Such a pathetic attempt to fight for your life.

My captor pounces on her as I watch, flipping her over and cuffing her hands behind her back.

He wrenches her back over, holds her up by the neck, and punches her square in the face.

The crunching sound of her breaking nose is loud in the silent space.

I release the breath I didn’t know I was holding when he releases the woman.

She flops back to the ground, groaning in pain as he gestures for me to continue.

I rip the knife out of her shoulder, and start a shallow cut. Starting at her wound and moving across her chest, stopping at the top of her sternum. I move to the other shoulder, and begin slicing diagonally down below the clavicle to the top of the sternum, meeting the end of my previous cut.

She’s pleading and crying, sobs wracking her body and making my cuts shaky.

If she would just hold still this ‘Y’ incision would look as neat as any autopsy tech could make, I’m sure of it.

Leaning over her, I splay my left hand across her breast bone, firmly holding her in place, while I continue the cut down between her breasts to the bottom of her sternum.

I can’t go any further because of my tether to the wall, and I’m extremely fucking annoyed by it.