Page 38

THIRTY-EIGHT

AMETHYST

I don’t linger at Mrs. Baker’s. Instead, I return home with a plan to avoid Xero’s next round of punishments. Cold sweat breaks out across my skin and trickles down my back. Despite the mounting terror, there’s a pull I can’t shake—a mix of fear and longing that twists my psyche into knots.

When Xero was alive, his attention was like basking in the sun. He was my lover, my idol, my muse. With his love and guidance, I had a place in the world. I felt valued, seen. I flourished. Now that he’s dead, it’s like wilting under a storm cloud, not knowing when lightning will strike. Now he’s a ghost, the security I used to feel with him has now morphed to dread.

I remove all the curtains from the windows and check every flashlight, lampshade, and lightbulb in the house to make sure they’re working. Then, I extract the vacuum cleaner from the cupboard under the stairs and hoover the floors until they shine.

The plan is to make a salt circle around my bed, so he won’t attack me in my sleep. It’s a flimsy defense and probably fictional, but I’ve run out of options. I can’t believe I once used to fantasize about him escaping prison to spend the night. The thought of him coming for me after dark makes me shiver.

Even if I could convince Mrs. Baker to let me stay, Xero could float through the walls and murder Reverend Tom in a jealous rage. He might even plant something terrible in the old woman’s house to get her in trouble with the police.

I’ve never felt so isolated. Never felt so lonely. Never felt so desperately in need of company. Last week, I would have poured out my feelings in a letter, or opened my heart to Xero in the morning and found solace in his words. Now, my savior has become my tormentor.

Mom isn’t answering my calls, and Dad’s phone is disconnected. Whatever happened with Uncle Clive spooked her enough to tell me never to return. Besides, Xero can travel across town to haunt my dreams.

I can’t stay with Myra. She sleeps on a sofa in a house full of men. I don’t want to get any of them murdered, so I’ll remain here.

After cleaning the downstairs, I go to the bedroom. The red envelope I found under the pillow is missing, which could mean anything. I no longer give a shit if it was a hallucination. Chappy is dead, police are swarming the street, and people are searching for the man I killed.

Lord knows I need a fucking break.

But first, I need to move my bed.

Its wooden frame slides away from the wall with a little effort, and I vacuum away the cobwebs and dust. Then I pour a generous amount of salt around its perimeter and bring the bottles and my laptop to the bed.

My phone buzzes.

What are you doing?

I ignore Xero’s message. He can’t touch me during the day. This morning just proves that light makes him incorporeal. He’s probably zipping through the mobile phone networks, waiting for his moment to strike.

Yeah, I’m making up the lore as I go along, based on everything I’ve observed. The last time I asked Xero how he was texting me from beyond the grave, he told me it was electromagnetic radiation.

I crack open my bottle of holy water, take a sip, and wince at the overwhelming taste of plastic. This is a good sign, since Reverend Tom’s religious juju must have warped the molecules. I wash it down with a mouthful of vodka and sigh.

Xero messages again with:

Don’t get drunk.

Scoffing, I take a hearty swig of vodka. This brand tastes almost as bad as the water, but I’m not drinking for my enjoyment—this is the quickest way to dull this relentless pain. Pain at his betrayal. Pain at the thought of his next move. When he comes for me after sundown, I’m going to need every bit of help to face his wrath.

Stomach churning, I crack open the laptop and start a new document. Writing always distracted me from my shit show of a life. Maybe it can help me pass the time until Xero comes to reap my soul.

I’ll write an erotic ghost story. What it should feel like to be haunted instead of hunted. Losing myself in this fictional world is a hundred times better than facing reality. Maybe Xero can get a few ideas.

Nodding, I type the introduction, which is loosely based on the truth. Instead of returning from burying Jake, I’m in the back of a limousine, crying about the death of my sexy assassin, Nero.

Nero is a good name.

The phone buzzes. I ignore it because I’m in the flow.

I write a flashback where I share a night of passion with Nero. He’s doing me from behind, holding my hair like reins. He leans in with his chest pressed against my back, and growls, ‘No matter where you hide, I will always find you. Even beyond death.’

Pausing, I look up from my computer and stare out through the window into the backyard.

“Why would he even say something so foreshadowy?” I mutter, my mind scrambling for answers. “Maybe it’s the night before a dangerous mission, where he’s sneaking into a party to murder an entire family?”

Nodding again, I add that to the manuscript. “Yes!”

The next few hours are a frenzy of typing. Words flow from my fingertips like holy water, and I don’t go back to edit. Fixing typos at this stage will only stifle my creativity .

Xero stops trying to get my attention. I hope that’s because he’s worn out his electromagnetic powers. It must be exhausting for a disembodied spirit to hang two people. One in execution, and the other for perversion.

My pussy throbs at the reminder of how he forced me to torture my own nipples while the vibrations on my clit intensified. If I’d known a man was dead or dying on the other side of the door, I probably wouldn’t have cooperated.

At least I’d like to think so.

When my stomach rumbles, I hop off the bed with two of my bottles, making sure not to disturb the salt barrier, and hurry down to the kitchen. It’s about lunchtime, anyway, when the sun is at its strongest, so I have nothing to fear from Xero.

I open the refrigerator, and my shoulders sag.

It’s empty, save for a jar of mayonnaise that has turned yellow. I threw out a bunch of stuff the day after I killed Jake.

Inside the cupboards are the usual herbs, spices, tins of tuna, and other canned goods so old that the labels have fallen away. I run a hand through my curls. Did I have to use up the last of my money on two bottles of vodka?

Yes, because I needed to dull the edges of my dread.

Tonight, Xero will come for me, and the only thing stopping my mind from collapsing into a puddle of terror and guilt is booze.

With a shiver, I open the icebox, finding a loaf of bread. I’ve learned the hard way that the type I like has a short shelf life, and freezing is the only way I can enjoy it without having to pluck out mold.

I pry free a couple of slices and pop them in the toaster. If I didn’t have a manuscript to write, I would take time to defrost them, but instead, I make toast. In minutes, I’ve created a tuna mayo sandwich, which I wash down with a cocktail of holy water and vodka.

Afterward, I walk upstairs, feeling buzzed from lunch, and hop back onto the bed. When I open the laptop, the screen is blank.

“No,” I whisper.

The phone buzzes with a message that makes my heart jump into the back of my throat. Ignoring it, I reboot my computer, only to find the file gone. Panic tightens my chest, making my breath come in shallow gasps. Sweat breaks out across my brow as I log into my cloud storage system to check for autosaved versions of the manuscript, but there’s nothing.

My spirits plummets, and any comfort I obtained from the vodka fades into the background. The bastard deleted my ghost story.

The phone buzzes again, and every fine hair on the back of my neck stands on end. Dread pools in my belly as my mind flickers through a dozen painful scenarios. Will it be a picture of Reverend Tom’s corpse or some man’s body parts? Or a preview of how he plans to attack me after dark?

With a deep breath, I force myself to look at the screen.

Keep ignoring me and I will continue to destroy your work.

My heart pounds as I text back:

What do you want?

Three dots appear on the screen, making my heart beat faster. Is he using spectral hands to type the message or is he possessing some poor bastard with a phone? Finally, the response comes:

Your complete destruction.

My breath catches, and I type back with shaky fingers:

Why?

The next answer is immediate.

Because I crave your pain.

“You’re a sadist,” I whisper to the screen, my voice hoarse.

He messages back with:

I never pretended I wasn’t.

“What’s the point in writing anything if you’re going to destroy my work?” I shout, my voice cracking with frustration. My hands clench into fists, and my vision blurs with tears of anger and despair. Everything I’ve worked for is slipping away, destroyed by the very person I once trusted. “You’re determined to ruin my life.”

When he replies with a thumbs-up emoji, my nostrils flare. I toss the phone on the other side of the bed. What do I have left if I can’t write my erotic ghost story?

The rest of my young adult series ?

Xero really liked Rapunzelita.

I shake off that thought. People don’t want to read fractured fairy tales about girls who don’t get nasty with the villain. At least not my audience. I sent book one of the Rapunzelita series to multiple agents and didn’t receive any replies. Myra was nice enough to read it for me, but she said it wasn’t the sort of thing her agency promoted.

My gaze lands on the vodka bottle, my desperate means of escape. I crack it open and take two long swallows, welcoming the burn. Within seconds, the world feels a little less painful, a little less real.

When life gives you setbacks, you don’t have to keep pushing forward. Sometimes, it’s okay to get wasted. There’s no rush. Your problems will still wait for you in the morning, ready to crush you all over again.

After I realized no one was interested in Rapunzelita, I spent months wallowing in rejection, completely dependent on Dr. Saint and Mom’s validation until I fixated on Xero’s mugshot. He wasn’t dark and brooding, like most anti-heroes, but eerily compelling with his chiseled features and ice-cold irises.

Driven by madness or a desperate need for someone to appreciate my talent, I drafted him a letter, painting myself as a mysterious and troubled heroine. His attention once filled the void of my loneliness, but now, it’s reduced me to seeking oblivion in budget booze.

“Less whining,” I say to my budget-friendly bottle. “More drinking.”

After taking another gulp of cheap liquor, I flop against the headboard. The buzzing of my phone fades into the background, muffled by an alcoholic fog. As my vision blurs, I slide down the bed and welcome unconsciousness.

Hours later, rhythmic knocking drags my mind out of sleep. It’s an unearthly sound, like bones rattling against wood.

A hangover pounds through my head and my gut churns with nausea. It’s about this time I regret trying to drown my sorrows in vodka.

I crack open an eye, expecting it to be light. All I see is the darkness of my bedroom until the unearthly sound rips through my eardrums.

Knock, knock, knock.

Panic grips my chest, sending a surge of cold adrenaline. Every instinct screams at me to reach for the knife under my pillow, but my arms are pinned to my sides.

This is his doing.

Movement in the shadows pulls my attention to the corner of my bedroom, and he steps out of the dark.

The seven-foot-tall specter drifts toward the foot of the bed, his eyes shining with a malevolent glow.

My breath shallows.

Is this the night he finally drags me to hell, or will he continue tormenting me to insanity?

That thought slices through my brain fog like a scythe. I thrash within my bonds, wanting to crawl out of my skin, but my arms feel tied to the sides of my body.

Will he pass the salt circle?

It’s supposed to repel evil spirits. I laid it perfectly.Twice.

When Xero pauses at its perimeter, terror loosens its grip around my heart, replaced by a flicker of faith.

The salt will hold.

Won’t it?

A cold wind sweeps into the room, extinguishing any remaining hope. His head bows, pulling those glowing eyes away from mine and toward the salt.

I glance toward the window. When the hell did I leave it open? Is thesalt circle broken?

He advances through my protective perimeter and passes the foot of the bed.

Panic restarts, turning the edges of my vision black. I thrash within my invisible restraints, my mind screaming, my gaze fixed on his glowing eyes.

Cold fingers pull back the sheets, exposing my trembling thighs to the cool air. In one swift movement, he lifts my nightgown up around my waist.The pulse between my legs pounds a staccato beat. Arousal floods my clit. The muscles of my core tighten in anticipation of another night of torture.

Terror consumes my consciousness, and my last hope before I succumb to the darkness is that maybe, this time, he’ll allow me to come.