Page 19 of A Pack of Pumpkins
I replace my thumb with my lips, brushing a kiss over hers. Her quiet moan sends a sharp electric jolt through my body, my cock hardening instantly. Her fingers twist in the front of my shirt, pulling me closer. My hands slide down her sides, then under her skirt, between her thighs and the seat of the stool.
She opens for me.
And I step between her legs, pushing her soft, flowy skirt higher.
We come up for air panting.
“You have to get to work,” I remind her gently.
Clara shakes her head in refusal, eyes still hazy.
I chuckle. “I promise I’ll be here when you get back. Can I give you a ride?”
“No, it’s okay. I’m taking my car. I need to stop at the store after.”
One last kiss. Soft. Sweet.
And then she’s gone, leaving me in the kitchen, already missing the weight of her in my arms.
Bram
It’sthemiddleofthe day, autumn light dimmed by rain clouds pressing low against the windows. The glass fogs at the corners, raindrops streaking down in steady rivulets. It should feel cozy—the patter of rain, the smell of damp earth—but instead my skin prickles. The house feels… off, as if the storm has pressed all the shadows closer.
I’ve been staring at my laptop all morning, the cursor blinking on a blank screen. I’ve gone through every single one of my pre-writing procrastination rituals. People always joke that it’s writers being lazy, but honestly? It used to help me work through plots.
It doesn’t anymore. That’s why we’re here. I haven’t written anything good in almost a year.
My newest release came from old notebooks. It was already mostly finished from years prior. Recently I haven’t come up with anything new. I’m burned out and I have no clue how to fix it.
Clara’s face won’t stop popping into my mind. My alpha snaps forward every time, and he doesnotlike being ignored. He’s a dominant asshole.
A tapping sound pulls me from my spiral.
Dagan left about an hour ago to check out the shipwreck site. Victor muttered something about coffee. Jack went out for more things to make the place feel like a home. Mugs, blankets, extra pillows, firewood for that ridiculous fireplace in the living room. He’s been on a “real home” kick since we got here.
None of us follow a normal nine-to-five, not with the kind of work we do.
The tapping comes again. I glance at my still-blank screen and give up, pushing back from the desk.
I follow the faint noise through the kitchen and around the corner to the butler’s pantry. I ease open the door, but nothing’s inside except a few dry goods Jack brought home.
The tapping comes again. Not from the pantry. From the door beside it.
I open it slowly. A staircase leads down into the basement.
I flip the light switch. A single, dim bulb flickers to life far below. The clicking continues. I descend the stairs one careful step at a time, cataloging possible explanations. My logical brain votes chipmunk. My writer brain offers… haunted chipmunk corpse. Like I said—burned out.
The wooden steps creak under my weight. It’s colder down here. Damp. We’ll need to check for foundation issues.
A water boiler and furnace sit on a dirt floor. The stone walls are bare and uneven. It feels less like a basement and more like a grave.
The door slams shut behind me.
I don’t panic. I don’t even flinch. I’ve been writing horror for fifteen years. Twenty if you count my middle school attempts. Creepy basements don’t do much for me anymore. It’s windy outside. Probably a breeze through the front or back door.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
The clicking continues, leading me deeper into the cold. One old steamer trunk sits in the far corner. Dust coats it thick enough to leave prints. It looks like it’s been here a century.
