Page 22

TWENTY-TWO

AMETHYST

I spend the rest of the day in my old bedroom, puzzling through a slew of unanswered questions:

One: What’s real and what am I hallucinating?

Answer: The letters are real, as confirmed by Officer Vayne. Both Myra and Mom saw photos of the naked picture. I called Gavin’s number, which went to voicemail, and he isn’t answering my texts. The red envelope containing the fingers is still in my overnight bag, which means they have to be real.

Jake was dead before I buried his corpse. I even checked his pulse. If someone had found him in that grave, then there would be an investigation, so he’s a hallucination. Can I say the same about the Grim Reaper in black robes? He’s everywhere. In my periphery, in my room at night, and in my dreams. I’m certain he’s Xero’s ghost.

Two: If Xero is a ghost, how did he amputate Gavin’s fingers and choke Kayla to death with that dildo?

Answer: He’s working with an accomplice. Whoever helped him mail gifts to Kayla’s address is probably helping him with his revenge. Maybe the answer is simpler, and it’s a copycat working alone, pretending to be his ghost?

Three: Who sent that naked photo? If it’s a fake as everyone keeps saying, how does anyone know the exact locations of my scars?

Answer: All clues point to Uncle Clive. He’s fresh out of prison, mysterious, and is still being persecuted for the type of crime that attracts vigilantes. Mom admitted he was locked up during the time I forgot. What if he did this to me and took the photo as a trophy?

Four: How do I free myself from being tormented?

Answer: I need to find out who’s behind the photos and Xero’s ghost, lure them into a private spot, and make sure they never leave. Instead of burying the evidence, I’ll set it on fire.

The photo albums Mom and Dad used to make me review when I was younger still don’t jog any memories from the past. Everything is so carefully curated, as though there are missing friends and family they don’t want me to discover. The most prominent of them is Uncle Clive.

I went to Mom and Dad’s room to search for more albums, only to find Dad’s half of the closet filled with Mom’s clothes. It looks like they’re having marital problems. On her bookshelf, I found another album containing scanned images dating back from his childhood in the seventies and eighties, where he clearly has a younger brother who looks like Uncle Clive.

After searching through pictures of grandparents I thought were long dead and friends he never invited to the house, I return to my room where there’s a missed call and a voicemail. It’s Dr. Saint’s assistant, confirming the time of my emergency appointment: tomorrow at 7:30 AM.

Mom eventually gains a conscience and calls me down for dinner, but Uncle Clive is conveniently absent. According to her, he needed an early night. When I pluck up the courage to ask again what he went to prison for, she replies with a rehearsed answer that he embezzled money from a school.

I keep checking my phone for messages from Xero, but he’s suspiciously quiet. Is he satisfied with his revenge, or has he moved onto another victim? I’m tempted to write a heartfelt apology, along with the reason why I was late for the wedding, but think better of it. It’s stupid to provoke a vengeful spirit.

Apologizing for wrongs that can never be put right is more about relieving the wrongdoer’s guilt. All that does is re-traumatize the victim.

When I told Mr. Lawson we were finished, he kept wailing about being sorry. Sometimes in horrific detail. Each word was a hot poker to my heart that added a new dimension to the pain. He kept repeating his crime over and over until it sounded like gloating.

How did he expect me to move on with those constant reminders of the agony and blood? He never once bothered to explain why he got me pregnant just to kill the baby.

Sometimes, the only apology needed is the wrongdoer’s death.

Later that night, a strange sensation jolts me awake. My fingers throb and tingle, enclosed in something warm and wet. My heart pounds hard enough to burst. With a panicked gasp, I pull back my arm and stare at my glistening digits.

Why did that feel like someone was sucking my fingers?

I bring them to my nose and inhale, instantly recognizing the scent of spearmint, and I freeze.

Panic grabs my throat in a grip that cuts off my air. Someone was in my room. Under my fucking bed.

Realization hits like a cold shower, and shivers run down my spine. Some filthy bastard pulled my arm down the side of the mattress to molest my fingers.

Goosebumps break out across my skin, and adrenaline courses through my veins, making every nerve ending vibrate with terror. My body seizes, too scared to move or breathe or make the smallest sound.

Oh shit. He’s still here.

My pulse accelerates to a drumroll. Who the hell is lurking under my bed? My mind races with possibilities, all of them equally terrifying. It could be a ghost, a creepy uncle, an unknown human stalker, or a creature beyond imagination.

Even more sinister is the supposition that the sights and smells and sensations could be symptoms of a splintering psyche .

Should I scream for help? No. They’d either run away or attack. Should I ignore it and pretend I’ve fallen asleep again? Hell no. The finger sucking could be the prelude to something even more nefarious.

My eyes dart around in the dark, each jerky movement in time with my panicked breaths, every muscle coiling with tension. My fingers twitch, ready to snatch anything within reach that could serve as a weapon.

There’s a glass of water on the nightstand. I can smash it and use one of the pieces as a shank, but I’m more likely to slice open my own artery.

My gaze lands on a fountain pen with a sharp nib. I could stab the finger-sucking bastard in the eye. When he’s screaming for mercy, I can knock him unconscious with the lampshade.

Yes. That sounds like a plan.

I inch my arm to the side of the mattress, being careful not to make any noise. My fingers wrap around the pen and remove its cap. All I have to do is pretend to sleep again, and he’ll emerge from his hiding spot, ready for another taste.

Then, I hold my breath and wait.

I wait to attack for what feels like half the night, lying poised with that damned pen. My muscles tremble and beads of sweat roll down my brow. What is he doing? Why hasn’t he returned to fondle my digits with his tongue? What if he’s moved onto my underwear? What if he’s slithered away?

A mad dog of anxiety races through my mind with questions and thoughts and speculations. It snarls and snaps and foams at the mouth, chasing its tail until my consciousness is consumed by froth.

He wants me to make the first move. Or maybe he’s fallen asleep. My patience thins to its last fraying threads. I can’t stay in this position, anticipating an attack that will never materialize.

My adrenaline simmers to the brink of boiling over. I spring from the mattress, flip on the lamp, and check under the bed.

It’s empty.

I pace around the room, ripping open every closet and searching every corner with frantic urgency. I can’t stop, even though each creak of the floorboard feels like another blow to my splintering sanity. I even check the bathroom, but there’s nothing. No sign of an intruder.

My heart continues to race. My mind spins with more of those incessant questions. Was it all in my head? If that was a tactile hallucination, how does that explain the scent of spearmint? An olfactory delusion, maybe?

I walk to the window and scan the garden for any signs of the Grim Reaper. There’s no sight of him lurking among the trees.

My phone buzzes, making me flinch. I check for a message, finding none. The time is 2:43—less than five hours before my appointment with Dr. Saint. Maybe I should talk to her about my prescription. Maybe I should start taking my meds again, even if they make me lethargic and screw with my memory. Anything to ease this overwhelming confusion.

Returning to my bedside, I down my glass of water to wash away any notion of finger-sucking bastards. I can deal with them in the morning. Yawning, I set down the glass, slide back under the covers, and drift into slumber.

Someone is out to get me, and only part of it is in my head. I need to end the hallucinations so I know the difference between what’s real and what’s imagined.

Hours later, I wake up again in a haze. I’m stretched out across the mattress, with the headrest and pillows on my right side and both legs dangling off the edge. The Grim Reaper from last night stands between my spread legs, his eyes glowing in the dark.

Moonlight shines through the window, illuminating the hood of his cloak. From this angle, he appears nearly seven feet tall.

“Who are you?” I whisper.

“You know my name,” he says, his voice so deep I feel it in the marrow of my bones. He sounds so familiar that it hurts.

“Xero?”

He nods.

I try to rise from the bed, but my arms and torso feel bound by ropes. When I raise my head, all the white fabric of my nightgown is gathered around my upper thighs. With a shiver, I slide my gaze up the specter’s black expanse, stopping before I reach his eyes.

He’s a faceless being that fills the room with an inky blackness, his presence so dense that it’s almost tangible. Silence stretches out for suffocating moments, bearing down on my lungs, until the words spill from my lips.

“Are you here to kill me?” I blurt.

He shakes his head.

“Are you here for revenge?”

He nods.

I gulp. “What do you want?”

He points a skeletal finger between my legs.

My heart lurches into my throat, choking off my words with its frantic beat. The pulsing becomes unbearable, throbbing so hard its vibrations reach my clit.

This is just a dream. An advanced sleep disorder brought on by stress. If I can shake myself awake, I can end the nightmare. But when that bony finger jabs the air again, I flinch.

“What does that even mean?” I whisper.

“Show me your pussy,” he replies, his voice guttural.

I squeeze my eyes shut. “What are you going to do?”

“Show me,” he commands.

“But I can’t move my arms.”

“Now!”

A whimper lodges in my throat. I try to twitch my fingers, try to break out of what I hope is sleep paralysis, but they only brush against my thighs. Panic courses through my system as I attempt to jerk my arms apart, but they remain pinned down by unseen bindings.

I squeeze my eyes shut, struggling to force my brain to reset. If this isn’t a dream, then I’m having some sort of episode, triggered by the return of Uncle Clive. My mind is in crisis, and it’s throwing out all kinds of distractions to stop me from accessing the memories I suppressed. Now, I’m imagining Xero’s ghost wanting me to flash him in the dark.

When I open my eyes again, I’m looking at the window. Has he gone ?

Cold fingers slide on my inner thighs, and I raise my head to find those glowing, white eyes hovering between my spread legs.

“I won’t ask you twice,” he says, his cool breath pebbling the skin on my inner thighs.

“What if I don’t?” I whisper.

“Then that would make you a liar,” he says, that deep, sonorous voice making my nerves tingle. “You swore that our connection would be eternal and pledged yourself to me in this life and the next.”

My throat tightens, and the backs of my eyes sting. “I said those things to Xero.”

“I am Xero.”

“How do I know you’re not an impostor?”

“Who else would punish a man for taking advantage of you? Gavin lost his fingers because he stole from my woman.”

My breath quickens, and my chest fills with a twisted sense of warmth. I don’t know why my body is impressed by an apparitional avenger. Violence isn’t exciting. It’s just a necessity.

“Is it really you?” I ask.

He nods.

“Tell me something else?”

“The last time we spoke on the phone, you told me your deepest desire.”

My breath stills.

“It wasn’t just for me to tie you up, fuck you in your sleep, or fill every hole until you passed out from an orgasm overload. For once in your life, you wanted a man to embrace your darkness and not treat you like a fragile creature who needed fixing.”

“How…” I gulp. “How do you know?”

“Because you told me.”

“Because you’re Xero?” I whisper.

He nods again.

“How did you survive the execution?” I ask.

“I didn’t.” He blows a stream of cold air on my thigh. “Are you going to show me that sweet pussy?”

“Turn on the light,” I say.

“Show me in the dark.”

My head swims, and my eyelids flutter. I’m torn between wanting to please him and being terrified of another disappointment. Within my restraints, I work up the fabric of my nightgown with trembling fingers, exposing my thighs to the cool air.

Common sense reminds me that I should focus on breaking out of this dream and get ready for my appointment with Dr. Saint. I should ground myself to reality with deep breathing. However, the part of me that’s desperate to break away from her and Mom’s controlling influences urges me to ignore my rational thoughts.

And when Xero draws closer, my clit swells. The delicious ache between my thighs overtakes any sane reasoning.

“I can’t raise it any higher. Can you help?” I whisper.

His pale fingers emerge from the side of the mattress, and he lifts my hem, exposing the tops of my thighs. Shivering at the unexpected chill, I push my legs further apart.

Part of me acknowledges the ridiculousness of flashing the ghost of an executed prisoner. Another part of me hasn’t felt so excited since Xero first replied to my letter.

“No panties?” he asks, his voice thickening with arousal.

“I usually sleep naked, but?—”

“It’s alright, my precious little jewel. I wouldn’t want you exposing what’s mine.”

The butterflies in my stomach take flight and flutter around my heart. My chest lightens. My lips part with a happy sigh. He still wants me, despite all my mistakes.

“What happens next?” I ask.

“That’s entirely up to you, my love,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you want me to lick your sweet pussy?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Then you will tell me something.”

“What?”

“Did you ever love me?”

My breath catches. “Of course.” Seconds pass, and the air thickens, pushing down on my chest like a lead weight. “I-I’ve never been in love. I’ve been manipulated, infatuated, but I don’t know what it means to love someone who isn’t a friend.”

He nods. “Did you mean what you said in your letters? ”

“Every word.”

“And the sex contract?”

“It was a fantasy. Something to brighten up my nights. I consented to all the things I marked off, but I never thought they would happen in real life.”

“So, when you got the chance to marry me and consummate our love, you ran.”

“I was attacked.”

“Do not bend the truth!”

My eyes widen. How the hell would he know I fudged the timeline? “A-Alright. On my way out, I found a threatening note and a picture, and I called the police. By the time they left, I arrived at the penitentiary late. The woman at the door wouldn’t let me in”

“Excuses.”

“No.” I stare into those glowing eyes within the depths of his hood. “That’s the truth.”

“You didn’t love me enough to put aside the threat. You didn’t trust me to protect you from your enemies.”

“But you were going to die…” My voice trails off. “How was I supposed to know you’d come back as a vengeful spirit?”

His snarl sends every fine hair on my body standing to red alert. “Because I said we would be together, even if it meant defying death.”

He said all of that more than once. I dismissed it as meaningless fluff fueled by lust—the kind of word salad men use when they’re hot and horny and hungry to hook up.

“What now?” I ask, the ache in my clit subsiding.

He draws so close to my pussy that his cool presence sends a shiver through my core. “Tell me you consent, and I will make you come.”

“Consent to what?”

“Everything on that sex contract,” he says, his mouth ghosting over my folds.

Since none of this is technically real, and I meant everything I said in those letters, I have nothing to lose. It’s been an eternity since someone other than myself gave me an orgasm, so why don’t I take advantage of my imagination?

“Fuck, yeah,” I say, my hips lifting.

He pulls back. “You must be sure.”

“I am. I am.”

“Good girl.”

Rising, he clamps a hand over my face, pressing a wad of fabric into my nose. I gasp at his touch, inhaling an overwhelming scent of chemicals.

My eyes water. My sinuses sting. I thrash my head from side to side, trying to break free, but his grip is like iron. The edges of my vision blur, turning the room into a kaleidoscope of darkness.

“Sleep, my love,” he says.

Stomach lurching, I cling to consciousness, but everything goes black.