Page 77 of Horror and Chill

Garron drops more bacon on my plate. Evander doesn’t move, still propped against the counter like he’s carved there. Agatha finishes her coffee slowly, eyes on all of us like she’s tallying sins.

“When do we head out?” she asks finally.

“Eleven thirty,” Garron says, steady. “Gives us time to get there and set up.”

Her eyes narrow. “And where’s the dress I asked for?”

Evander’s mouth tips, infuriating. “I ordered one I liked. It’ll be here later. Don’t worry.”

Her head snaps toward him. “Excuse me? I told you what I wanted.”

“You gave an idea,” he says. “I just picked something that I think would look better. Still black, still short. Don’t worry, Little Horror. ”

She mutters something into her mug that I don’t catch, but her cheeks go pink.

Garron wipes his hands on a towel, sets a bag on the table, and pulls out props like some demented show-and-tell.Lanterns. Tall black candles. A fake pickaxe that looks too real. A plastic heart still in its packaging.

Her whole face changes. Hungry. Focused. She pushes her empty plate aside, jumps off the counter, and drags the supplies closer. “About time.”

I lean back in my chair, watching her light up. “Look at you, Little Horror. Like Christmas morning.”

“Shut up,” she says, but her voice is distracted.

She rummages through the bag, pulling out corn syrup, cocoa powder, and food coloring. She tips them into a glass bowl, measures by eye, mixing, stirring, humming low in her throat like she’s in a lab. The smell hits quick, sweet and sharp.

She dips her fingers in the red mess and smears it across the fake pickaxe head. It drips slow, thick, clinging to the grooves. She grins, sharp, satisfied. “Better. Murdered, not manufactured.”

Evander moves closer, watching every flick of her wrist. “Show us the heart.”

She pulls the hollow, cheap plastic item from the package. She paints it with slow, careful swipes, layering red, a touch of blue. The shine turns slick, ugly realistic. My cock stirs just looking at it.

Lanterns next. She flicks her fingers, spattering red across the glass so it looks like they’ve seen shit they shouldn’t. The droplets dry in streaks. Perfectly wrong.

“Beautiful,” I murmur.

She looks up at me, eyes blazing. “It’s grotesque.”

“Same thing,” I shoot back.

Garron clears his throat. “Props are done.”

She drags her tongue along her syrup-covered thumb, just to watch me twitch. “Shot list is already written. You’ll get your assignments later.”

Evander’s eyes never leave her. “Then tonight, we see if you follow through.”

Her smirk cuts sharp. “I always do.”

The room hums with anticipation. Her in charge. Us circling. Tonight already feels too far away.

30

Agatha

It’seleven thirty when we finally load up. Canvas bags we found under the sink, now bulging with all the shit I scribbled onto that list last night. Garron hauls the tripod and lighting without breaking a sweat. Corwin slings one bag over his shoulder and whistles some tuneless sound like he’s marching to war.

I drag my boots across the dirt path, tugging Corwin’s joggers higher on my hips. They’re rolled three times at the waist and still baggy. He about combusted when he saw me in them earlier, muttering something about theft and indecency while his eyes burned like he wanted to eat me whole. Too bad. They were closest to my size, and I wasn’t about to tromp through weeds and briars in panties and a shirt.

The night air is cold enough to nip, but not so bad I can’t stand it. The trees crowd close. Every crunch of boots against gravel sounds louder than it should. I keep glancing at the bags, making sure nothing spills, because if I came this far and lost the blood or the candles, I’d actually scream.