Page 35 of Horror and Chill

He pulls out without a word, one hand still pinning me in place as the other moves with calm efficiency, adjusting his pants, zipping up like this is nothing. Then he grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks me upright until my back is flush against him, his breath hot against my neck.

“He was right,” he murmurs, voice unfamiliar. “Even better in person.”

I go still.

That’s not the same voice from the woods.

"See you soon, Little Horror." And then he lets go.

I stumble, catch myself on the edge of the table, but when I spin around?—

He’s gone.

I run out of the barn, into the trees, into the night air thick with the scent of grass, mold, and dirt.

“YOU FUCKER!” I scream, spinning in circles. “What do you mean he was right?”

My voice cracks.

The silence answers.

“There’s more than one of you?” I scream again, louder this time. I stomp my foot like a child and glare into the empty night.

“Fucking fucks!” I don’t even know what I’m yelling anymore.

Then it hits me: the stream. I sprint back into the barn, grab my phone, and stare into the screen. My reflection blinks back at me, unrecognizable with wild hair, mascara smeared like a drowned raccoon, and blood and sweat streaked across my skin like war paint.

I look insane.

I give a crooked smile and a small laugh.

“Well,” I say, voice rough. “Thanks for joining me tonight, you degenerates.”

I end the stream and sink down, heart still racing as I try to make sense of what just happened. There are two of them. At least. Do they take turns? Vote on who gets to rail me next? Is there a fucking sign-up sheet taped to some murder wall I haven’t seen yet? He was good…really good, but I didn’t ask forthisone. I only agreed to one masked psycho, not a fucking rotation.

I breathe in deep, exhale slowly, and start cleaning up, one fake organ at a time, while turning everything over in my head.

What the hell have I dragged myself into, and how much deeper am I willing to go? The answer, apparently, is still deeper.

Because I’m not running. Not yet.

13

Garron

I pullthe mask off slowly. My fingers move like I’ve done this a thousand times; like I’m not just peeling back rubber but stripping away skin. I don't speak. I don't have to. That smug tilt to my mouth says it all. I liked what I did to her. Liked what she let me do.

We’re back in the house now. The curtains are drawn. The laptop is open, paused on the last frame of the livestream. Her thighs are sticky with fake blood. Her breath ragged, but steady. Her eyes glazed, not from fear, but from something far more dangerous. Something almost like consent.

Corwin won’t sit down. He paces the floor, mouth tight, jaw working like he’s grinding something between his teeth. Jealousy clings to him like sweat. He didn’t get to touch her. He didn’t get to hear her like that. Not the way Evander or I have.

“She didn’t run,” Evander says after a while.

“She didn’t scream either,” Corwin snaps. “Not like she should have.”

Evander sinks to the floor beside the coffee table. He pulls the blanket off the back of the couch and stares at the TV like he’s watching a different scene. One we didn’t get to see. One we might never understand.

“I think she likes it,” he says.