Page 171 of Phobia
Long, thin fingers clasp my throat and steal what little oxygen I had left. My eyelids fly open in a panic—a worse one than I’m already wracked with. The clown in front of me beams. His white eyes glow, nearly iridescent.
Tears spring to my eyes as he clamps down on the sides of my neck. My blood chugs. I can feel each heavy pulse as it slows, drawing to a stop.
My lungs deflate, contract. Scream.
His fingers tighten, grazing the hair at my nape.
“Sweet dreams, darlin’.”
***
The first thing my brain registers is that it’s quieter. The high-pitched wail is gone, and in its place is a deep, thundering bass. It’s heavy, vibrating into me, into my lungs.
Breathing hurts. My throat burns and aches. I swallow the lump down, but it stays lodged against my uvula.
My eyes are much harder to force open. To see what I saw before.
Please be a dream.
I lean forward, only to be slammed back at my efforts. I wriggle my shoulders, feeling tight bands wrapped around my biceps. My stomach.
Hell, my feet, too?
Dropping my head until my chin bumps my… My eyes fly open at the feel of my bare skin. I blink through the lights still flashing. The fog still lingering.
My stomach is contracted, heaving and waving with my stuttered pants.
My jeans are long gone, leaving only my wet boxers plastered to my thighs.
“Welcome back,” a heavy voice drawls in a… southern accent? My head jerks up at the sound, finding the clown pacing the space opposite me. The room we’re in resembles a regular motel room only… not.
What once was wallpaper is now bare, ripped open walls, gaps in wood separating rooms. There’s a bed. It’s stained. Black speckles, red puddles, and… yellow blobs.
A rope hangs from the banister. A gut-punch reminder of the suicides that happened here.
Evil churns all around me, forcing itself into me. Tainting my blood. Blackening my organs. Eradicating my soul.
I glance down. But it’s still so impossible to see with that godforsaken, flashing light. My eyes burn so badly. The tears never stop flowing.
“Please,” I whisper. My voice cracks. A loud cackle booms out.
I wince and hunch inward. The sound creeps up my spine, slithering slow and daunting. A slow descent into madness.
That scraping sounds again. A glint of silver. The clown…shit,what was his name? It was creepy. Made my skin crawl.
He lifts his arm into the air, casually swinging…oh, Jesus, is that an ax? That’s an ax…
Flashes of red streak as he swings it around. My eyes draw toward the wooden handle, where there’s even more red. It’s stained into the grain.
It’s fake blood. It’s fake,I chant.
My yelp is muffled when he lunges, the handle of his ax aiming right for my mouth. It slams against my teeth, rocking my head back as they clank together. He pries my mouth apart and shoves the wooden handle inside.
Copper.
Oh, my God, it’s real blood.
I start hyperventilating. My vision swarms as I choke, gagging as he shoves it deeper, the curved end splintering my flesh. My throat contracts, preventing entry, even as vomit threatens, creeping up.
