Page 30 of Horror and Chill

She thinks she’s hunting.

But we’ve always been the predators.

11

Agatha

The backseat rattleswith every turn. Plastic buckets knock against each other. The bone saw slides along the floor and bumps against the cooler full of fake intestines and blood mix. I don’t glance back. I already packed everything twice, maybe three times, so I know it’s there. The mask is in the passenger seat, seatbelt fastened. Its stitched mouth is curled in a crooked grin, like it’s laughing at me. I keep my eyes on the road.

The barn isn’t far. Maybe twenty minutes out past the edge of town. I’ve driven this way before. It felt easier, then. Today the road stretches long. Each tree I pass leans in like it’s whispering something I don’t want to hear. The speakers thump as Halestorm’sI Get Offblasts through the car, loud enough to shake the rearview mirror. I sing along under my breath, mouthing every lyric like a prayer I half-believe.

I drum my fingers against the wheel, not caring if anyone sees me singing like a lunatic with blood in her trunk and a mask in the passenger seat. This is how I survive—volume up, windows cracked, pretending I’m just another girl on a joyride.

But I’m not.

I’m heading to the place I might die.

And I’m singing, anyway.

What if he shows up?

My knuckles tighten on the steering wheel. My palms are damp and cold, and I rub one against my thigh to dry it.

What if he doesn’t?

I lick my lips.

What does it say about me that I want him to?

I could die tonight. He could show up, fuck me, kill me, and vanish again. He could peel me open like a fruit and leave my body for someone else to find. He did it to Jay. There’s no reason he wouldn’t do it to me.

But I’m still driving.

My foot stays steady on the gas. My hands don’t shake. Not yet. I tell myself this is for the subscribers, my fans. It’s about control. That I’m choosing this. But deep down, I know that’s only half true. The other half? It’s obsession. It’s need. It’s something feral and stupid that I can’t talk myself out of.

I think about the way his hand felt wrapped around my throat. The sound of his breathing behind the mask. The heat of him. The way he whispered in the woods, “You’re even better in person.” I can still hear it. Still feel the scrape of his hand on my thigh. My mouth goes dry at the memory.

Maybe he’s not the monster. Maybe I am. I killed the old version of myself a long time ago. The quiet girl. The girl who apologized too much and lowered her eyes and let people take what they wanted. I buried her in latex and blood and a thousand recorded orgasms. What’s a little more destruction?

The sign for Townline Butcher comes into view. It’s rotted halfway through and slumped sideways. The letters are barely legible through the moss and grime. I slow down. The barn rises just past it, sagging like an old man holding his breath.

I pull up close and kill the engine. For a second, I just sit there, hands still gripping the wheel. My heart’s pounding, but it doesn’t feel like fear. It feels like anticipation.

“If I die here,” I say out loud, “at least it’ll be on my terms.”

I unload the gear piece by piece. Camera bags. Prop buckets. Tripods. The cooler. The blood. I carry everything inside, and the barn swallows me whole. I set up the lights first. Ring light in the perfect position. Diffused fill light behind the crate I’m using as a seat. I hang the cheesecloth strips from the rafters. They’re stiff with dried fake blood. I loop the meat hooks with stained rope and let them sway.

The latex organs go on the wall. I nail them up like trophies. I scatter the chains across the dirt floor. My bone saw rests on a table covered in butcher paper along with a few other organs and fake bloody bones.

Once everything’s in place, I undress.

I peel off my sweater. My leggings. My bra. My skin prickles in the barn’s cold air. I don’t shiver.

The lingerie I picked is dark brown, the color of old blood. The lace is thin and soft and cuts low across my hips. My boots are heavy and black and make a satisfying thud as I lace them up and stomp once to test the grip.

I grab the blood.

I pour it over myself, slow and steady. Across my chest. Down my arms. A splash across the tops of my thighs. I don’t stop until it’s dripping down my legs and soaking the edges of my boots. I smear it with my fingers. Across my ribs. Between my breasts. My VCH piercing peeks against the lace, still new and tender.