Page 1 of Horror and Chill

1

Agatha

The camera loves me.Or maybe it fears me. Either way, I take its attention like a gift and use it like a knife.

I press record and become someone else entirely. Not Agatha, the kindergarten teacher who sings about the weather and helps six-year-olds find their shoes. Not the girl who still checks over her shoulder, even though no one from that life—starched collars, curfews, and scripture—knows where I am now.

I become the witch, the creature, the nightmare dressed in velvet and sin. My hair spills in platinum ribbons down my back, each strand intentionally smooth, every angle crafted to provoke. The black velvet bow perched high on my head gleams in the light. It’s not sweet. It’s the kind of bow you wear while carving your name into someone’s ribs.

The black sheer robe drapes over my skin and underneath, a leather harness crisscrosses between my breasts, like it was made for restraining something holy. My pasties—black vinyl skulls with tiny grins and hollow eyes—peek through the meshevery time I move. They aren’t there to cover anything. They’re there to dare someone to ask what else I’m hiding. Men call it goddess energy or daddy issues, as if they understand the difference. They don’t.

The set tonight is one of my favorites. I built it in my apartment’s second bedroom, and it smells like candle wax, dust, and secrets. Candles flicker along the wall, each one dripping like it’s crying. Fog from a small machine curls around my ankles. There is an altar behind me, just off-center, covered in black lace and bones. Plastic ones, but the lighting makes them look convincing.

My fingers trail along the curve of my thigh, stopping where the blade glints in the strap of my garter. It’s a ceremonial piece, engraved with fake runes that look ancient but mean nothing. The blade isn't sharp enough to break skin, but it still carries weight when I hold it. Marilyn Manson groans through the speaker behind me, his voice pulsing through the room.

“Did you miss me?” I ask the void. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

The chat flares.

Sk8rSlut97:YESSS BITE ME MOMMY

QuietInTheBack:You’re the only girl who could slit my throat and I’d say thank you

TonyFromAccounting:I want to be buried in your lingerie drawer

ChurchOfAgatha:This is holy. This is religion.

I fucking love my fans. They're all degenerate creeps with an eye for theatrics and a healthy obsession with me. It's flattering in a blood-smeared, slightly stalkerish way.

I crawl toward the camera, letting the sheer black fabric of my robe fall open just enough to tease without giving it all away. My silver-white hair hangs low, the massive black velvet bow perched on top of my head still perfectly symmetrical. My lashes are thick, fluttering, dramatic as hell. The liner cuts sharply across my lids like a scalpel. My lips are a deep wine red, glossy and intentional, and I lick them slowly while tilting my head, watching the screen like I’m hunting prey.

“What are my little playthings willing to give me tonight to get what they want?” I purr. And then come the offerings.

BloodAndBoudoir:My soul.

GothDaddy69:My bank account.

QuietInTheBack:My spine, but only if you bend it.

I smile, slow and deliberately, the kind of smile that would have gotten me dragged to the gallows in Salem if I’d been unlucky enough to be born in sixteen ninety-two. There’s too much red on my lips, too much power in the way I tilt my head, too much pleasure taken from knowing exactly how far they’d go if I told them to. It isn’t innocence they want from me; it’s permission to worship something that shouldn’t be lusted after.

“I take cash, bone marrow, and willing hearts,” I whisper, letting the robe slip off my shoulder. “But only if they come with strings attached.”

JasonWasHere:FUCK.

GutterPrince:I’d chain myself up if you said the word.

JennyBean69:Skull pasties?? You’re sick for this and I’m obsessed.

DadIssuesUnresolved:This is better than therapy.

I run my hands slowly over the leather harness, fingertips dragging along the straps like I’m deciding which piece to unbuckle first. I shift onto my knees, straddling the black faux-fur rug, and arch my back just enough to let the skull pasties catch the candlelight again.

“You don’t want the reveal,” I continue, my voice thick as honey left out in the sun. “You want the ache. You want the almost.”

A chorus of emojis and begging fills the screen. I pretend to consider it.

I lean toward the camera until my mouth fills the frame, until they can see the little imperfections in the gloss, the slight smear in the corner of my lip. I lick it slowly and blow a kiss to the lens.