Page 7 of Soul to Possess (The Artmaker Trilogy #1)

The air was beginning to shift, a palpable change that prickled the skin and sent a shiver down the spine.

Still warm, still clinging to the last illusions of summer, but beneath the deceptive facade of soft blue skies and the lullaby of chirping crickets, there was an underlying scent of change.

A promise of cold winds to come. Of endings.

I fucking loved this time of year. There was something about the impending darkness that spoke to the depths of my soul, a mirror to the void within me. The land turned inward, just like I did, retreating into the shadows as the world prepared for the inevitable descent into winter.

Out in the barn, my tools were laid out with meticulous care, each one sharp and clean, glinting menacingly in the dim light.

They were my instruments, my extensions, and I treated them with the same reverence a musician might afford their prized possessions.

The plastic sheets on the floor had been changed last week, a precautionary measure to ensure that when the moment came, I would be ready.

Chaos was for amateurs, for the messy ones who got caught.

I was neither messy nor an amateur. I was a maestro of mayhem, an artist of annihilation, and my canvas was the very fabric of human existence.

But tonight, I craved something different.

I didn’t want clean. I didn’t want planned.

The folder drawer had been closed for days, the profiles within untouched.

Meredith’s wide, naive grin stared up at me from the top layer, a silent promise of an easy mark, a predictable end.

I could memorize any life I wanted and end it just as easily, but where was the fucking fun in that?

Predictability was becoming a chore, a crutch, and I yearned for the spark of unpredictability, the thrill of the unknown.

I lit a cigarette and stepped onto the porch, letting the wind cut across my bare chest like a thousand tiny knives.

The horses were quiet tonight, their usual restless energy replaced by an eerie stillness.

Even they could feel it—the slow ripple of tension building beneath the ground, the promise of something different, something coming.

I knew who to put this on. Harold "Harry" Thompson, the bus driver.

A reliable man, gruff and weathered by life, but with a spark of fear in his eyes whenever he looked at me.

He knew what I was capable of, and that knowledge was a powerful tool.

I needed to see him, to feel his fear up close, to ensure he understood the gravity of my request.

I made my way to Harry's house, the engine of my truck purring softly as I navigated the familiar roads.

The night was alive with the hum of unseen creatures, the rustle of leaves, and the distant hoot of an owl.

The world was a symphony of life, and I was the conductor, orchestrating the dance of death and despair.

Harry's house was a small, rundown affair, tucked away on a quiet street on the outskirts of town.

The paint was peeling, and the roof sagged slightly, but there was a warmth about the place, a sense of home that I couldn't help but envy.

I parked the car and made my way to the door, my steps purposeful, my heart pounding in my chest with a mix of anticipation and dread.

I knocked sharply, the sound echoing through the house like a gunshot.

Harry answered the door, his eyes widening slightly as he took in my appearance.

He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, with a beard that was more salt than pepper.

His hands were calloused from years of hard work, and there was a weariness in his eyes that spoke of a life lived on the edge.

"Atticus," he acknowledged, his voice a low rumble. "What brings you here?" His eyes were wide with fear, perfect. I didn't waste time on pleasantries. "I need a favor, Harry. Something a bit... different from our usual arrangements."

He nodded, stepping aside to let me in. "Come inside.

Let's talk." I followed him into the living room, the smell of old wood and stale cigarette smoke filling my nostrils.

The room was dimly lit, the only light coming from a single lamp in the corner, casting eerie shadows on the walls.

Harry gestured for me to sit, but I declined, preferring to stand, to loom over him, to assert my dominance.

"I want you to bring me someone, Harry," I said, my voice steady, my eyes locked onto his.

"Someone unexpected. Someone who won't be missed for a while.

You know the type—loners, drifters, the forgotten ones.

Someone you can spot on your route. Someone alone.

Beautiful maybe, young, pretty. Groomable. "

Harry's brow furrowed, and he leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving mine. "That's a risky game, Atticus. You know that."

I took a step closer, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. "I want the challenge, Harry. I want to figure her out, to peel back the layers and expose her to the darkness within me. I want the hunt. The thrill of the unknown. And I want you to make it happen."

He exhaled slowly, a rasped sound that spoke volumes. "And what's in it for me?"

I smiled, a slow, predatory curve of my lips that held no warmth.

"Your life, Harry. The lives of your family.

I won't hesitate to cut out the tongue of every single person who lives in this house if you fail me.

Starting with yours. I want you to imagine that, Harry.

Imagine the blood, the screams, the sheer terror in their eyes as I take what I want, as I leave them to bleed out, to drown in their own blood.

That's what awaits them if you fail me."

His eyes widened in horror, and I could see the moment he truly understood the depths of my depravity, the lengths I would go to ensure my desires were met. "Y-yes, Atticus. I understand."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small, sharp knife, the blade glinting menacingly in the low light.

I pressed the tip gently against his throat, feeling his pulse race beneath my touch.

"Good, Harry. Because I have such wonderful plans, and I wouldn't want anything to interrupt them.

You see, I want to feel the fear, the desperation.

I want to hear the pleas for mercy and know that I hold their lives in my hands.

That's the power I crave, Harry. The power of life and death. "

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat like a trapped animal. "Wh-what do you need me to do?"

"September fourteenth," I said, my voice a low, dangerous purr.

"The south route. Bring me someone alone.

Someone who won't be missed. You can spot them, Harry.

The lonely ones, the forgotten ones. Bring me one of those, and I might just let you keep your tongue.

But fail me, and your family will pay the price.

Do you understand me, Harry? Do you understand what's at stake? "

He nodded, a jerky, involuntary movement, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "Y-yes, Atticus. I'll bring her to you. I won't fail you."

I released him, stepping back to admire my handiwork. His face was pale, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and determination. Good. He understood. He knew what was at stake.

"I'll be watching you, Harry," I said, my voice a low, dangerous growl. "Every move you make, every breath you take, I'll be there, in the shadows, ensuring you don't fail me. Don't make me prove my point, Harry. Don't make me show you just how serious I am."

And with that, I turned and left, disappearing into the night as silently as I had come, leaving him to contemplate the gravity of our arrangement and the very real threat that hung over his head and the heads of those he held dear.

As I drove back home, the world seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with anticipation and the promise of violence.

I could feel it in my bones, in the very marrow of my being—the knowledge that something extraordinary was coming, something that would test the very limits of my sanity and push me to the brink of madness.

And I fucking loved every bit of it.

For now, I had to wait. To bide my time and let Harry do his work, to let the pieces fall into place as they would.

It was a torture of its own, this waiting, this anticipation, but it was a necessary evil.

For the hunt was always the most exhilarating part, the chase, the stalking, the knowing that your prey was out there, unaware of the darkness that was closing in around them.

I spent the next few days in a state of heightened awareness, my senses honed to a razor’s edge as I prepared for the unknown.

I cleaned my tools with meticulous care, sharpening each one to a deadly point, ensuring that they were ready for the task at hand.

I changed the plastic sheets in the barn, laying them out with precision, a silent promise of the blood that would soon stain them.

I even went so far as to practice my strokes, my cuts, my strikes, each one a work of art, a testament to my skill and my dedication to the craft.

And all the while, I thought of her. The unknown.

The nameless, faceless woman who would soon become my obsession, my fixation, my everything.

I wondered what she looked like, what she sounded like, what she smelled like.

I wondered what her story was, what demons she harbored, what secrets she kept.

I wondered how she would taste, how she would feel beneath my touch, beneath the kiss of my blade.

The anticipation was a living, breathing thing, a monster that gnawed at the edges of my sanity, threatening to consume me whole. But I welcomed it, embraced it, let it fuel the fire that burned within me, the fire that demanded to be fed, to be sated, to be fulfilled.

I found myself pacing the floors of my house, my mind a whirlwind of dark thoughts and twisted desires.

I would stand at the window, staring out into the night, imagining her out there, somewhere, unaware of the fate that awaited her, unaware of the darkness that was even now reaching out, tangling with her destiny, pulling her inexorably toward me.

I lit a cigarette with one hand and trailed the other across the rough wood of the porch railing, fingertips sticky with the faintest sheen of varnish and resin. Natalie hadn’t screamed until the end. Most of them didn’t.

But her mouth—those soft, curved lips—had become the centerpiece. I’d preserved them in clear acrylic, the curve caught mid-beg. Open. Aching. Beautiful. Her voice was gone, but that expression stayed. Suspended. Eternal.

She was on the wall now. A part of her, anyway.

Hung above my drafting table like a saint’s relic.

The rest of her—well. Art didn’t always have to hang.

Some of it buried. Some of it burned. Some of it bled into the very foundation of the place.

And yet she felt like a warm-up. A sketch before the masterpiece.

The real next masterpiece hadn't arrived yet. But soon.

I took a drag and let the smoke claw at the back of my throat.

The wind shifted, carrying the smell of pine and distant cattle—cover scents.

I used to think that was enough, that layering the illusion of normalcy would keep me hidden.

But now? Now I wanted her to see me. Whoever she was.

The girl Harry would bring. A stranger. Unstudied.

Untouched by my system, my structure. No folder.

No plan. Just instinct and chemistry. Just chaos.

And if she didn’t run—if she didn’t flinch—if she looked past the mask and saw the rot and didn’t look away?

I’d burn the folders. All of them. I’d stop pretending I needed structure, or strategy, or secrets.

I’d carve her into me. Carve me into her.

One way or another. I flicked the cigarette off the porch, watching the ember spiral like a dying star into the grass.

September 14th. One week. She was coming.

And she didn’t even know she’d already been claimed.