Page 9 of Grotesque

S copaesthesia: the fear of being watched .

I scrolled down the search engine’s homepage.

All other definitions said I had paranoia.

Was that why grandma Macky had left the house to me?

Did some sort of twisted paranoia run in the family?

Surely the haunted house and vampire stories couldn’t be real.

Night had settled about an hour ago. The fog that came with it wrapped the house in a cool embrace.

I settled onto the couch downstairs and clicked my phone off. I needed to relax.

By relax I meant put on a movie to distract myself. I silently thanked Macky or whoever had paid the electric and cable bills to ensure I would be taken care of until I fulfilled my end of the bargain.

I settled on a classic horror I’d somehow never seen, my mind wandering as the credits rolled and the film got underway.

I’d always liked scary movies, probably because they helped desensitize me.

If I watched them enough, they stopped being scary.

And if I was ever faced with a situation in real life, then I’d already know what not to do in order to survive. Well, in theory anyway.

My attention floated back to the screen. The lead actress was relaxing in the bathtub, her eyes closed, completely unaware of the stalker in her home.

The shot flashed to the intruder, the camera panning slowly up the length of a hunting knife in his leather-gloved grip. It crawled up his black-clad form to a masked face.

There was something strangely erotic about the way he watched the woman, and how she stretched and slid deeper into the water. She kicked one of her legs over the rim of the tub. He pushed the door open a little wider with two fingers, but still her eyes remained closed.

Heat wound down my throat, slinking into the pit of my stomach. I knew this was supposed to be a horror movie, but the way he was watching her was hot. It was even hotter when he strode into the bathroom, confident and menacing.

I ran my hand over my chest as the camera panned over her breasts, peeking through the soap suds.

The next shot was of her red manicured toes and that dangerously sharp knife grazing the air around them, following the arch of her foot and across her calf.

How could she not feel him looming over her?

“Open your eyes,” I hissed as I let my touch trail further down my body, beneath the top of my shorts.

As if she heard me her eyes slowly opened, then widened, but before she could scream the stalker had grabbed her ankle with one hand and pressed the knife against her throat with the other.

“Not a single sound,” he said; his voice gravelly beneath the mask. Blood trickled into the water that lapped at her throat.

My fingers slid through the wetness leaking from my slit. I knew it was wrong to be so turned on, but fuck. There is something undeniably sexy about a man in control.

I missed whatever he said next but now the woman was standing up in the bathtub. Her stalker was looking her over, appraising her like a lamb ready for slaughter. He traced the knife over the curve of her thigh.

“Maybe we should have a little fun before I kill you,” he purred.

My legs were thrown apart shamelessly, my fingers moving in and out of my pussy while I rubbed my clit.

The stalker held the knife in front of the woman’s face. “Lick it,” he commanded.

I threw my head back and stroked myself faster.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

My eyes fluttered open. I hadn’t remembered closing them, but I snapped my attention back to the screen, my fingers slowing but not stopping, waiting to see who the new character would be.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Ice cold shot through my entire body, burning my nerves and heating my face all at once. I jerked my hands from between my thighs and whirled to face the sound as it echoed down the hallway. Someone wasn’t knocking in the movie, they were knocking on my front door.

My heart slammed painfully against my ribs as I realized how exposed I was next to the window. How I must have looked if the person on the porch had looked in as they walked up.

Had they seen me?

Who was knocking at this hour? I paused, my ears straining. Maybe it was one of Macky’s friends come to check on the house? As far as I knew, no one knew that I was here. The only people that knew I was on my way up to Bristol were hundreds of miles away.

Quint knew.

Is he playing some sick prank on me?

Dread leeched into my stomach. Would he have looked inside first? If he didn’t think I was crazy before, surely, he would now. Embarrassment heated my cheeks, flooded my entire body as I rose from the couch.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

I flicked off the table lamp. The only light spilling into the room was from the film as the girl on the screen mimicked my movements and slowly crept down a hallway.

Clearly, she’d escaped the stalker for the moment, but I didn’t like her chances.

My skin prickled uncomfortably as I darted past the window beside the entrance, hoping whoever it was hadn’t seen me.

The double doors were solid oak save for a patch of glasswork at the top, too tall for me to peek over. I was thankful I had turned off all the lights and that whoever stood outside couldn’t see my shadow hovering on the other side of the door. I pressed my ear against the cool wood.

Knock.

I stumbled back, my heart lurching out of my chest.

Knock.

This one was harder, more forceful.

Knock.

My hand hovered over the doorknob. “Who is it?”

Rule #2: Do not invite guests into the manor.

I didn’t plan on letting whoever it was in, let’s get that straight. Rules or no rules, I had a feeling that whoever was banging on my door wasn’t here for idle chit chat. My gut twisted in agreement.

Something shifted on the other side. “Is Maxine in?” The voice was deep and male.

It wasn’t Quint. He had a nice voice, but this…

this one sounded smoother. Like honey melting into tea.

I should have felt relief but somehow it only made me more anxious.

Who the hell just strolls up to someone’s house at night?

And this house of all of them?

Then it hit me, whoever it was maybe didn’t know Grandma Macky had passed. My stomach flipped as I wondered again if they had seen me pleasuring myself to a woman about to be murdered.

“She’s not,” I said.

A shadow slipped past me as the man stepped in front of the window. I tensed, pressing closer to the door. Was he looking in? Looking for me?

“I have something for her. Could I leave it with you?”

“You can just set it down out front.” No way in hell was I going to open the front door.

“I’d prefer to leave it with you. I’d hate for someone to steal it.”

Typical for a man to refuse when you told them no. It didn’t matter which way you formed the words, they never listened.

“I think it’ll be safe out there.”

There was a slight pause and though it made no sense I swear I could hear an intake of breath, like a hiss, before he said, “But are you?”

I looked at the door blankly. Surely, I had misheard him.

“Are you safe in there?”

It felt like someone had knocked all the air out of my lungs, as if something dark and menacing had reached right through the barrier between us and yanked it out.

This had to be some sort of fucked up joke, a local who knew about Macky’s will and wanted me to fail.

Whoever it was wanted to scare me, and they were doing a hell of a good job.

Maybe it was Quint and one of the buddies he had mentioned.

“Get the fuck off my porch or I’m calling the cops,” I snapped.

My stomach sank as I realized I had left my phone in the other room.

The shadow flitted to the window flanking the other side of the door.

They tapped their finger on the glass. The sound was quiet, barely a whisper of noise, and yet I knew it was the same tapping I’d heard the last couple of nights outside my bedroom window.

All the way on the second floor. “You’re not going to call the cops.

Not when you seem so eager for a stranger to come in and surprise you.

” I didn’t even have time to register the taunt – what it meant – when the doorknob suddenly turned and the door swung inward.

I slammed my shoulder against the wood, forcing it closed, and turned the bolt. I hadn’t noticed it unlock, hadn’t even heard it slide free from its sheath. There must be a key hidden somewhere out front. A key that this obviously dangerous man now had. He could come in whenever he wanted.

“That’s right,” he said, as if in answer. A low, musical chuckle filtered through the cracks around the door. “It would be more polite if you just invited me in.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to give something to Maxine,” he said.

“Maxine’s dead!”

His footsteps paced back and forth and then gradually, they faded. A shadow moved in the corner of my eye. I kept my hands braced against the door as I leaned back, looking down the hallway. A tall silhouette slipped across the floor, making its way toward the living room.

He was heading to the kitchen, to the French doors. I didn’t consider that it could be a trap, that he was possibly leading me away from the front door so he could double back and get in. I bolted to the doors, my blood rushing in my ears.

I skidded to a halt right as he reached them.

Whoever he was, he was tall, lanky even, but broad-shouldered. Dark hair framed his face but that was all that I could see. Even without light casting directly onto him, I should have been able to discern some features. Instead, there was total blackness.

“We can do this all night.” Malice lurked behind the laughter in his voice.

My heart galloped. My arms had gone numb, my mouth dry. All at once it felt like my chest was seizing. I couldn’t breathe.

Why couldn’t I see his face? Not even the glint of his eyes. It was as if a black hole stared back at me instead of a man.