Page 98 of Horror and Chill

“We’ve done even crazier shit, Little Horror,” Garron tells her.

She rolls her eyes. “Also, it’s weird you’re texting each other when you’re in the car. Which means it’s about me. So share with the class or knock it off.”

Garron smirks at the windshield. Evander’s mouth curves faintly. Agatha leans back like she owns the whole damn car.

She thinks she’s making the rules.

One week. One house. One girl who’s about to find out just how fucked up we are. She thought what we did to her was bad; wait ‘til she sees what we’ll do for her.

Garron

The gravel crunches under the tires as I cut the engine. The corn and bean fields around us swallow the noise. The house sits darkagainst the fields, two stories of shadow and promise. Nothing fancy, but private. That’s all that matters.

Corwin’s already twitching, thumb drumming on the door panel as he watches Agatha climb out of the backseat, bag slung on her shoulder, silver hair catching what little light’s left. She doesn’t look nervous. Not even close. She looks like she’s been waiting for this.

“Home sweet home,” I say, keys jingling in my hand as I lead the way up the steps.

The lock clicks and the door groans open. Inside, the air smells like wood and dust, faint lemon from someone cleaning. A big open living room, couches sagging but wide enough to crash on. Kitchen off to the side with a double oven and textured countertops. Bedrooms upstairs, four in total. Perfect.

Agatha steps in behind me, claiming the space like it’s already hers. She drops her bag by the stairs and kicks her shoes off, toes curling against the worn rug. She glances back at us, chin tilted high, daring us to say something. None of us do.

“Rooms?” she asks.

Corwin jerks his head, looking up the stairs. “Take your pick.”

She disappears heading up, the whole time the three of us stare at her ass.

Corwin mutters, “She’s cocky.”

“She’s confident,” I correct, tossing the keys on the counter. “Difference.”

We head up after her and split up. Evander takes the room closest to hers. Corwin stomps to the far one, like putting distance between them will help. I claim the corner room with the big window.

Unpacking doesn’t take long. We didn’t bring much. Clothes, chargers, knives. That’s all we need.

By the time I come downstairs, Agatha’s curled on the couch, flipping through channels like she’s lived here for years. She stops on a horror marathon—backwoods mutants, all bad graphics and fake blood. She smirks when she sees me watching. “What? Too cliché?”

“Perfect,” I say, dropping onto the couch beside her. “It fits.”

Corwin creeps in next, pretending not to stare at her. Evander disappears into the kitchen and comes back with takeout menus he must’ve found in a drawer.

“Options are pizza, Chinese, or Indian,” he says, handing her the stack first.

She scans, then grins. “Indian.” Her eyes scan the menu, then she grins. “I want Chicken Vindaloo with Rice. Extra spicy.”

I arch a brow. “Going straight for the top of the heat scale?”

“Damn right.” She tosses the menu on the table. “Mild’s for cowards.”

Corwin snorts. “You’ll be crying into your rice after two bites.”

She fires back without missing a beat. “And you’ll be crying after one.”

Evander’s lips twitch, just a ghost of a smile. I dial and place the order before they can turn it into a bet.

An hour later, the whole house smells like spice and charred bread. We dump the cartons across the table in a heap, plastic bags half torn, lids already smeared orange. Steam rises, thick with cumin and chili. Corwin rips a naan straight in half, grease slicking his fingers. Agatha follows, but slower, pulling hers apart piece by piece, dipping it into the vindaloo until sauce dribbles down her wrist. She doesn’t wipe it, just drags her tongue along her skin and grins.

Rice spills out of a carton, scattering across the wood. Evander scoops it up with steady fingers, drops it on his platewithout a word. Corwin doesn’t bother—he’s already digging in, fork scraping the bottom like the food’s gonna run away.