18. Brontë
Haunted - Chris Grey
T he gunshots echo for seconds to come. Two in quick succession that feel jarring in the otherwise quiet wooded area.
It doesn’t seem to register to Jael what she’s done until another moment passes.
The pistol goes off in her grip, the kick back throwing off her aim slightly on the second shot. The first bullet nabs the sheriff in his chest. He drops to the ground like a fly swatted out of the air.
She turns the pistol on the deputy but the bullet goes astray and hits him in the shoulder instead. A more experienced shooter would’ve braced for the backward force when discharging a firearm.
But Jael, for all the trouble she’s caused, is not a natural killer. She’s not naturally violent. Her behavior is reactive. Desperate actions she takes when she feels she’s backed into a corner.
The kickback takes her by surprise. The gunshots rattle her to her core.
She remains in the same stance, arms straight out, gun gripped in her palm, though she doesn’t budge otherwise.
As the gunshots echo and Deputy Dudley’s blown in the shoulder, she blinks in shock. He’s reduced to his knees like his superior, though he quickly recovers. Releasing a deep grunt of pain, he fumbles for the firearm holstered on his hip.
Jael finally seems to realize that she must act.
She fires again—or tries to , by clenching the trigger a third time. The pistol clicks, the unmistakable sign of a jam in the chamber.
There’s no time for her to figure out why. Dudley’s withdrawing his own weapon as he winces through the burning hot pain in his shoulder.
Jael rushes toward him to pry the gun from his hands.
I listen from inside the main cabin room as feet pound the porch area and grunts follow.
The chair groans beneath me, old wood that’s carried my weight for days now. I’ve spent the past seventy-two hours bound in place when I could’ve escaped the moment the chains were snapped onto me.
But I stayed put. I remained where I was, allowing Jael to believe she had power in the situation. The object of my obsession was finally confronting me for all the things she believed I’d done.
I held on more out of fascination than any other reason. It was an immersive experience getting to look into her hooded eyes and see the spark ignited in them. It was incredible to listen to her as she spoke to me, vented her frustrations, and shared her deepest thoughts and fears.
Exhilarating as she lost herself to the same pull I felt between us. She could hardly resist any better than I had over the years, surrendering once she realized it was inevitable.
Her pussy had always felt so warm and inviting as she slept. I savored the chaotic slumbers that afforded me the chance to have her.
But there was also something to be said about the frenzy that was the other night, where she climbed into my lap and fucked herself on my steel cock. Her pussy clung to me so snugly, heat pulsing all around me as she bounced up and down and took her pleasure.
How could I break these chains when my obsession was gifting me these things? I would have let her pull the trigger if that’s what she needed.
Shoot a bullet straight into my skull if that’s what she wanted.
Because that was how deep, dark, and twisted my obsession with her was. I would die just to have her, even if it was once. I would do anything to make her happy.
But I wouldn’t ever let her escape me, so long as I was living. So long as I’m alive, we will be together, and she will learn there’s nowhere she can go to rid herself of me.
The only escape would be death.
As she struggles with the deputy outside, I realize this is the moment I knew would come—the time I would finally exert my strength, break free, and reveal just how indulgent I’ve been by allowing her to hold me captive.
Days of being bound and starved have left me weaker than usual. Pain throbs throughout my whole body without my meds, and the flesh around my wrists has been rubbed raw. Sleep deprivation has taken its toll, though I’m still the monster in the dark she’s feared.
I’m still more powerful than most men walking this earth.
The scuffle continues, a mix of thuds, thumps, and throaty sounds. If she hasn’t taken him down by now, she won’t manage it. The longer the struggle lasts, the greater his upper hand becomes, injured shoulder or not.
I pull, testing the chair’s endurance. The wood creaks but holds under my weight. That won’t be the case for long as I gather air into my lungs and bear down. Every ounce of strength surges through me, my muscles flexing.
I half rise to my feet, still bound by the chains, and then I snap my arms apart as far as they go. The wood cracks, splintering, breaking off from itself. The back of the chair tips over to the ground while I stand the rest of the way, only the chained arms and legs attached to me.
Good enough for now.
The sharp crack startles them on the porch. Both look up mid-struggle as if trying to place it. Dudley recovers first, throwing his fist at Jael and striking her across the jaw. He uses his new advantage to grab her by the front of her jacket and slam her to the ground in a wrestling-like maneuver.
He’s dripping sweat and blood as he scrambles for the gun they’ve lost hold of. The same gun that had once been holstered to his hip.
My legs ache taking their first steps in days. I approach the door, my gait stiff and unnatural, appearing first as a shadow on the floor to the deputy.
He’s stretching out his hand to reach for the gun, then notices how the floor darkens in front of him. He looks up at the realization he’s not alone anymore.
I glare down at him from behind my minotaur mask. Horror unfolds on his sweaty face, his brows furrowing in question as he peers up at the large figure looming over him that’s more monster than man.
“What’re—” he starts and then screams.
I fist his hair, fingers clenching shut in his damp strands, as I raise him up like a doll. He swings at me, his weak fists connecting with air. I rattle him, shaking him, making his head snap back and forth to show how easily I can exert myself over him.
Then I toss him away. I send him tumbling halfway across the porch, where he connects with the banister and slumps down to the ground.
That’s nothing compared to what I can really do.
My steps are slow and heavy as I approach him. He’s pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, his whole body trembling. He’s sweating so profusely, it clings to the edges of his face and drips from his matted hair.
“L-look,” he stutters, “I d-don’t know who or w-what you are, but I’m a sheriff’s d-deputy?—”
“Shut up.”
I snatch him up a second time, dragging him to his feet. My massive hands grab the sides of his head, snapping it left, then right. The crunch his neck makes is gruesome, pure agony that draws a feeble grunt from him.
He can’t even release a real scream. The pain is that instant and debilitating.
Neck broken but still very much alive, I drive him face first into the wooden banister. I bash his face in again and again until the wood is decorated with his blood. Even once it is, I’m not satisfied.
He’s still breathing and rage still surges through me.
I let out a howl that rumbles for miles as I throw him to the ground. I beat my fist into him, smashing in what little remains of his face.
Breaking whatever’s left.
Eye sockets are fractured. Teeth fly. His flesh rips open.
I make a mess of him until there’s nothing left but misshapen bits and pieces.
Finally someone more pulverized than I am. Except he’s dead as his pulse gives out and he goes still.
My chest heaves from the ragged, animalistic breaths I draw in. I rise to my feet with clenched fists dripping blood, coming to my senses some. Some semblance of thought and rationale as I survey the gory scene.
The sheriff died minutes ago in a pool of his own blood. The deputy has joined him. His gun remains where he left it, just out of reach on the porch floor.
And then there’s the object of my obsession—she’s still paralyzed with shock that I’ve broken free from the chair. I’m standing before her a monster ready to do what he does best. Smash and kill things.
When I turn toward her, she scoots away, her arms trembling even as they hold her up. She barely manages to push herself to her feet, stumbling back as she does. I take a step toward her, and she throws herself a few more back.
“Don’t be afraid,” I grunt.
But everything about the moment says otherwise—the crimson blood that drips slower than honey. The dead men laying at our feet. The chains and broken pieces of chair still attached to my hulking frame. My slow steps toward her.
Jael scrambles for the pistol she’d used against the sheriff and deputy and tries yet again to fire it in vain. It clicks and clicks, signaling the chamber’s still stuck.
She shakes her head in frustration, a cry bubbling out of her. The panic explodes from within. She’s terrified of me, convinced this is her worst nightmare.
“Stay away!” she yells, backing up.
“No,” I answer simply in my thick voice. My grin spreads from behind my mask. “Never.”
It’s the prompt she needs to make her next move.
Jael flees.
She runs for it, vaulting over the wooden banister and landing in a heap on the grass below. Quickly bouncing to her feet, she’s up and sprinting in impressive fashion. But I’m in no rush even as she races toward the trees. I’m her shadow and no matter how far she runs, I’ll be right there with her, playing this latest game of cat and mouse.
We have all night.