Page 13 of Grotesque
I’d get tothatlater.
I stuffed the last bite of chicken into my mouth. “It’s gotta be the land. Some sort of toxin buried in the ground.”
“Maybe. Your best bet would be to get someone from out of town to come in and test it, because no one local will. I know you just moved but, do you have anywhere else you can stay in the meantime?”
“No. And I have to live there for a year anyways.”
“Why?”
“Because otherwise I don’t get to keep the house.” I wasn’t fool enough to tell him about the money I’d come into. People were killed for less, though Quint didn’t peg me as the murdering type. Ted Bundy was a real gentleman too, though.
“Sheesh,” he mumbled.
“I know.” I leaned back in the booth. “Thanks for listening. Again, I know I sound nuts, but…thanks.”
“You don’t sound nuts. Ok, maybe a little, but seeing a bunch of moths is the least scary story I’ve heard coming out of that place.” Quint reached across the table and nudged my hand. His smile was infectious, and I couldn’t stop my own when my eyes met his.
I wondered if everyone else’s experiences had started off small. “I guess you’re right.”
We walked back to my car. It was chilly by the water. I wasn’t used to the crisp air and would need to buy warmer clothes for the winter months to come. I stuffed my hands in my pockets to try and retain the little bit of heat I had left in them.
I looked up into Quint’s honey brown eyes.
“If you need anything, I’m a phone call away,” he said.
I ducked my head, suddenly feeling shy with the way he was looking at me. “Thanks.” I chewed the inside of my lip. “For listening, and for believing me.”
“Of course.” He held out his arm. I propelled myself forward into the side hug and allowed myself to hold onto him a little longer than necessary. “Text me when you get in?”
“Sure thing.” I smiled, turning back to my car. As soon as it was running, I cranked the heat all the way up.
I was still smiling as I drove away, but it faded as I caught sight of Quint in the mirror. His own smile was gone, replaced with a grimace. Worried. He looked worried.
Scopaesthesia: the fear of being watched. I scrolled down the search engine’s homepage. All other definitions said I had paranoia. Was that why grandma Macky had left the house to me? Did some sort of twisted paranoia run in the family? Surely the haunted house and vampire stories couldn’t be real.
Night had settled about an hour ago. The fog that came with it wrapped the house in a cool embrace.
I settled onto the couch downstairs and clicked my phone off. I needed to relax.
By relax I meant put on a movie to distract myself. I silently thanked Macky or whoever had paid the electric and cable bills to ensure I would be taken care of until I fulfilled my end of the bargain.
I settled on a classic horror I’d somehow never seen, my mind wandering as the credits rolled and the film got underway.I’d always liked scary movies, probably because they helped desensitize me. If I watched them enough, they stopped being scary. And if I was ever faced with a situation in real life, then I’d already know whatnotto do in order to survive. Well, in theory anyway.
My attention floated back to the screen. The lead actress was relaxing in the bathtub, her eyes closed, completely unaware of the stalker in her home.
The shot flashed to the intruder, the camera panning slowly up the length of a hunting knife in his leather-gloved grip. It crawled up his black-clad form to a masked face.
There was something strangely erotic about the way he watched the woman, and how she stretched and slid deeper into the water. She kicked one of her legs over the rim of the tub. He pushed the door open a little wider with two fingers, but still her eyes remained closed.
Heat wound down my throat, slinking into the pit of my stomach. I knew this was supposed to be a horror movie, but the way he was watching her was hot. It was even hotter when he strode into the bathroom, confident and menacing.
I ran my hand over my chest as the camera panned over her breasts, peeking through the soap suds. The next shot was of her red manicured toes and that dangerously sharp knife grazing the air around them, following the arch of her foot and across her calf. How could she not feel him looming over her?
“Open your eyes,” I hissed as I let my touch trail further down my body, beneath the top of my shorts.
As if she heard me her eyes slowly opened, then widened, but before she could scream the stalker had grabbed her ankle with one hand and pressed the knife against her throat with the other.
“Not a single sound,” he said; his voice gravelly beneath the mask. Blood trickled into the water that lapped at her throat.
