Page 3 of Horror and Chill

The moment I shut the camera off, it all crumbles. The silence that follows a stream is never quiet.

I wipe the makeup off my face, watching as the illusion melts in streaks. The lipstick smears across my chin like dried blood. The eyeliner smudges until I look like something that crawled out of a well. I stare at myself in the mirror. Without the glamour, I look younger. Smaller. Not weak, but almost human.

“Enjoy the show, freaks,” I mutter to the dark.

I click open my inbox. A few new private messages sit unread. Most are the usual: tips, requests, long paragraphs about love and lust and the color of my hair. But one stands out.

A single line.

You look best when you think no one’s watching.

I sit still for a full thirty seconds. I don't respond. I never respond to the ones that make me feel... noticed. I tell myself it's just a fan. A little too observant. Maybe one of them recognized a crack in the background of the wall. Maybe they noticed the shape of my bookshelf. Maybe it means nothing.

I shut the laptop and let the silence eat me.

The next morningsmells like apple juice, washable markers, and stale coffee. It is a scent I have grown to love.

My classroom is a carefully curated nightmare for any overbearing PTA mom. The bulletin board has cartoon ghosts on it year-round. Our reading nook is shaped like a coffin. The kids think it is hilarious. I tell them monsters are just misunderstood. They believe me.

“Miss Aggie, look! I drew you,” says Caleb, holding up a picture of me with vampire fangs and a black dress that goes all the way to the floor.

“That’s terrifying,” I tell him, placing a hand to my heart. “I love it.”

He grins, missing his two front teeth. He’s sticky with glue and pride.

“I made you a grave, too,” he adds.

“You are my favorite tiny psychopath,” I say, loud enough to earn a giggle from the table. “But don't tell the others, and definitely don’t tell your parents.”

They don’t know who I really am. Not the real me. Not the one on camera. Not the girl in the bloodstained corset. They think I’m fun. A little weird. They ask if I live in a haunted house and if I have pet spiders.

I lie, of course, and tell them yes.

By the time the last marker is capped and the final backpack zipped, my face hurts from smiling. I wave them off one by one, wishing their parents good luck, like I’m sending them into battle. The second the classroom empties, the silence is deafening.

The mask slips just a little again.

After school, I return to my apartment, which feels colder than usual. Golem greets me at the door, flicking his tail like I’ve offended him personally. I feed him, pour a glass of cheap wine, and light my favorite black currant candle.

The quiet here is different from the quiet in my classroom. That one is temporary, filled with leftover laughter, smeared fingerprints and the hum of routine.

I sink into the couch, still in my light blue dress with glitter weather emojis all over it, and stare at the laptop on the coffee table. The screen is dark, but it feels like it’s watching me.

Of course I open it. Curiosity always wins.

My inbox loads slowly, as if the machine knows what’s coming and wants to spare me a few extra seconds. One message sits at the top. No subject. Just a name I don’t recognize. I click anyway.

Do you still remember me, Agatha?

You should.

You wore purple tights that day.

I never forgot.

My blood goes cold, as if someone cracked open a window I didn’t know was there.

Purple tights. I know exactly which ones. I wore them once in tenth grade, on a dress-down day when I thought maybe I could try being bold. I thought maybe I could stand out and not regret it. They were ridiculous; cheap, bright, loud, but I loved them. For exactly four hours.