Page 122 of Horror and Chill

They dump him on the cleared wood with no care, his body hitting hard enough to rattle the table legs. He bucks once, panicked, but Evander already has a syringe out. The needle gleams under the harsh church lights.

I lean closer, catching the way Lundy’s eyes flare wide above the tape. He knows.

Evander doesn’t say a word. He just slides the point into Lundy’s neck, depresses the plunger slowly, and watches the liquid vanish under his skin.

It doesn’t take long. Lundy jerks, shakes, then stills. Not dead—his eyes roll frantically, his chest still heaves. But his arms go slack, and his legs won’t answer him.

“He can feel it all,” Evander says, calm as stone. “He just can’t fight back.”

Corwin smirks down at him. “Perfect.”

I cross my arms and step closer, my stomach coiling with a mix of nausea and thrill. He wanted to play savior. Now he gets to be the sacrifice.

Lundy’s chest rises and falls fast, sharp. His eyes dart between us, frantic, the only part of him left that can still move. Sweat beads at his temple even though the room is cool. He’s trapped, aware, but helpless.

I step close enough that my reflection pools in his wide pupils. “Feels different now, doesn’t it?” I murmur. “When you can’t lay hands on anyone. When you’re the one pinned down.”

Garron digs in the bag, metal clanking until he pulls out a pair of heavy shears, the kind you’d use on barbed wire or stubborn bolts. He clicks them once, slowly, just for Lundy’s benefit.

“You cut down girls with words,” Garron says, pacing the length of the table. “Tonight, we see how you like being cut.”

Corwin grips Lundy’s arm, stretching it flat against the wood, palm up. Evander presses down on his shoulder to keep him still, not that he can move, but it's a habit.

The blades of the shears kiss his pinky first. His eyes bulge, frantic. Garron looks him dead in the eye and closes the handles.

The sound is wet, quick, and final.

A finger clatters to the floor.

Lundy’s body trembles all over, but no fight comes. Just the stink of urine soaking through his slacks.

I lean forward. “That’s just the beginning, Mark.”

Garron wipes the shears on the hem of Lundy’s shirt and grins like a wolf. “Plenty more where that came from.” The shears snap shut again, and another finger drops, this time his ring finger, with a chunk of bone still attached.

The paralytic keeps him from fighting, from pulling away. All he can do is lie there and take it, eyes wet and bulging.

By the time both hands are stripped, there’s nothing left for him to do. No fight, no struggle. Just tears spilling down his temples and the faint tremor that runs through his body, the kind that isn’t choice, but biology. His throat works like he wants to scream, but the drug keeps it silent.

“Feet next,” Garron mutters.

They unbind his ankles just long enough to drag his shoes off. Socks soaked with sweat. Corwin spreads them on the table edge. The shears bite down again and again. Pinkie toe, big toe, middle. It doesn’t matter. Every cut is another piece gone.

I watch, stomach tight, not from guilt but from recognition. He wanted me to crawl when I was a child. On my knees, head bowed. I smile now, obedient at last.

Garron drops the bloody shears back into the bag and pulls out the next piece of his plan. A vile of peppermint oil and a mason jar filled with clear water. He tips in the peppermint oil, stirs it with two fingers, then holds it up to me.

“Your turn, Little Horror.”

I take it without hesitation. The glass is cool in my hand, the scent sharp enough to sting my nose. Leaning over Lundy, I watch as Evander and Corwin strip his slacks and tightie whities down enough to let his pitiful dick flop out.

“Lucky you got to watch from behind a screen. Cause that little thing wouldn’t do shit for me.” I laugh, then pour about half of the mixture slowly, letting it soak his crotch. “You remember this, don’t you?” I whisper. “The sting. The way it stripped me raw.”

Evander appears with Corwin’s knife in gloved hands, and I raise a brow. He grabs the flaccid cock with two fingers and holds it before placing the knife at the tip and slices it down the middle. Blood wells up first in thick beads, then runs in slow, uneven streams, splattering the inside of his thighs before dripping to the floor.

His body is nothing more than a canvas now. Crimson streaks race down his skin, and the table beneath him is already slick, dark puddles spreading outward, soaking into every groove of the floor.

I lean closer, eyes level with his. “You taught me shame. Tonight, I teach you pain.”