Horror and Chill (Behind The Lens #11)

Chapter 1

Agatha

The camera loves me. Or maybe it fears me. Either way, I take its attention like a gift and use it like a knife.

I press record and become someone else entirely.

Not Agatha, the kindergarten teacher who sings about the weather and helps six-year-olds find their shoes.

Not the girl who still checks over her shoulder, even though no one from that life—starched collars, curfews, and scripture—knows where I am now.

I become the witch, the creature, the nightmare dressed in velvet and sin.

My hair spills in platinum ribbons down my back, each strand intentionally smooth, every angle crafted to provoke.

The black velvet bow perched high on my head gleams in the light.

It’s not sweet. It’s the kind of bow you wear while carving your name into someone’s ribs.

The black sheer robe drapes over my skin and underneath, a leather harness crisscrosses between my breasts, like it was made for restraining something holy.

My pasties—black vinyl skulls with tiny grins and hollow eyes—peek through the mesh every time I move.

They aren’t there to cover anything. They’re there to dare someone to ask what else I’m hiding.

Men call it goddess energy or daddy issues, as if they understand the difference. They don’t.

The set tonight is one of my favorites. I built it in my apartment’s second bedroom, and it smells like candle wax, dust, and secrets.

Candles flicker along the wall, each one dripping like it’s crying.

Fog from a small machine curls around my ankles.

There is an altar behind me, just off-center, covered in black lace and bones.

Plastic ones, but the lighting makes them look convincing.

My fingers trail along the curve of my thigh, stopping where the blade glints in the strap of my garter.

It’s a ceremonial piece, engraved with fake runes that look ancient but mean nothing.

The blade isn't sharp enough to break skin, but it still carries weight when I hold it.

Marilyn Manson groans through the speaker behind me, his voice pulsing through the room.

“Did you miss me?” I ask the void. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

The chat flares.

Sk8rSlut97: YESSS BITE ME MOMMY

QuietInTheBack: You’re the only girl who could slit my throat and I’d say thank you

TonyFromAccounting: I want to be buried in your lingerie drawer

ChurchOfAgatha: This is holy. This is religion.

I fucking love my fans. They're all degenerate creeps with an eye for theatrics and a healthy obsession with me. It's flattering in a blood-smeared, slightly stalkerish way.

I crawl toward the camera, letting the sheer black fabric of my robe fall open just enough to tease without giving it all away.

My silver-white hair hangs low, the massive black velvet bow perched on top of my head still perfectly symmetrical.

My lashes are thick, fluttering, dramatic as hell.

The liner cuts sharply across my lids like a scalpel.

My lips are a deep wine red, glossy and intentional, and I lick them slowly while tilting my head, watching the screen like I’m hunting prey.

“What are my little playthings willing to give me tonight to get what they want?” I purr. And then come the offerings.

BloodAndBoudoir: My soul.

GothDaddy69: My bank account.

QuietInTheBack: My spine, but only if you bend it.

I smile, slow and deliberately, the kind of smile that would have gotten me dragged to the gallows in Salem if I’d been unlucky enough to be born in sixteen ninety-two.

There’s too much red on my lips, too much power in the way I tilt my head, too much pleasure taken from knowing exactly how far they’d go if I told them to.

It isn’t innocence they want from me; it’s permission to worship something that shouldn’t be lusted after.

“I take cash, bone marrow, and willing hearts,” I whisper, letting the robe slip off my shoulder. “But only if they come with strings attached.”

JasonWasHere: FUCK.

GutterPrince: I’d chain myself up if you said the word.

JennyBean69: Skull pasties?? You’re sick for this and I’m obsessed.

DadIssuesUnresolved: This is better than therapy.

I run my hands slowly over the leather harness, fingertips dragging along the straps like I’m deciding which piece to unbuckle first. I shift onto my knees, straddling the black faux-fur rug, and arch my back just enough to let the skull pasties catch the candlelight again.

“You don’t want the reveal,” I continue, my voice thick as honey left out in the sun. “You want the ache. You want the almost.”

A chorus of emojis and begging fills the screen. I pretend to consider it.

I lean toward the camera until my mouth fills the frame, until they can see the little imperfections in the gloss, the slight smear in the corner of my lip. I lick it slowly and blow a kiss to the lens.

It fogs with heat.

Then I sit back, thighs spreading just enough to make the room lose its mind.

I pull the dagger from my garter, flipping it in my hand like a magician.

It’s cool against my palm and totally useless as a weapon, but it looks good when I press it between my breasts again and drag it lower, slow, teasing, letting the tip rest against my navel as I moan, quiet and deliberate.

The sound draws a fresh wave of desperation from the chat. One of the regulars—TonyFromAccounting—starts pledging custom tip amounts just to get me to say his name.

“Tony,” I respond. “You really think you could survive me?”

The next five tips max out the stream.

I smirk, letting the silence drag just long enough to make them beg. I reach down, slowly this time, until my fingers brush the small black remote beside my thigh. I click the button once and the toy I put in my cunt before starting this session roars to life.

My thighs twitch, just barely, but the chat catches it. Of course they do.

GothDaddy69: That jump. I saw that jump.

Sk8rSlut97: OH WE’RE DOING THIS

BloodAndBoudoir: Bless this cursed night

I lean back on my elbows, stretching out across the fur rug, one leg bent, the other extended, body framed perfectly in the wide-angle lens.

The black leather harness digs into my ribs, and the skull pasties gleam every time I move.

My mouth falls open like it’s all too much; too much sensation, too much pressure, too much teasing and maybe that’s true, but I’m not here to play fair.

The next setting on the toy is stronger, and when I hit the button again, my breath catches. Not a fake sound or a performance. A real, guttural gasp that tightens my chest and rolls low through my belly.

The chat explodes.

TonyFromAccounting: I NEED TO LICK THE FLOOR

JennyBean69: Bitch your FACE

DadIssuesUnresolved: This is why I don’t believe in god anymore

I let my head fall back, fingers grazing my inner thigh like I’m deciding whether to give them more. The buzz inside me isn’t subtle anymore. It’s constant, maddening, and perfect. My voice slips into soft, broken moans, timed to the rhythm, controlled, but just barely.

I spread my legs wider, hips rocking gently, and press the remote again before looking into the camera. It spikes.

I cry out; not loud, not theatrical, but raw. There’s a crack in it. Something human. Something mine.

The camera catches everything: the way my jaw clenches, the flush climbing my throat, the way my stomach tightens like I’m about to unravel from the inside out. I reach between my thighs, slow and shaking, and let my hand hover. I don’t touch. Not yet. I want them begging.

QuietInTheBack: PLEASE

GutterPrince: If you come I swear I’ll explode

Sk8rSlut97: PLEASE LET ME brEATHE

I brush my fingers against the toy, light and taunting, and the whimper that escapes me is high and sharp enough to make my own eyes flutter. It’s not fake. My body arches once, twice, breath stuttering as everything coils tighter and tighter and tighter. And then I let go.

The orgasm hits like a wave and keeps rolling, dragging me under. My back bows. My hand clenches. My legs shake as I grind against the pulsing toy. I moan their names. I moan nonsense. I don’t care. I give them everything.

I don’t pretend this part.

I ride the aftershocks, gasping softly, hips still twitching. My fingers slide off the remote and fall beside me on the rug. My thighs stay open, trembling, as I lie there, half-naked and panting, catching my breath like I’ve run ten miles straight into Hell.

The chat is a blur. Nothing but capital letters and tip floods and confessions of eternal devotion.

I stare at the lens for a moment longer. No words. Just sweat, breath, and the kind of eye contact that makes a man believe he’s already sold his soul.

Then I smile, slow and feral, and click End Stream.

The moment I shut the camera off, it all crumbles. The silence that follows a stream is never quiet.

I wipe the makeup off my face, watching as the illusion melts in streaks.

The lipstick smears across my chin like dried blood.

The eyeliner smudges until I look like something that crawled out of a well.

I stare at myself in the mirror. Without the glamour, I look younger. Smaller. Not weak, but almost human.

“Enjoy the show, freaks,” I mutter to the dark.

I click open my inbox. A few new private messages sit unread. Most are the usual: tips, requests, long paragraphs about love and lust and the color of my hair. But one stands out.

A single line.

You look best when you think no one’s watching.

I sit still for a full thirty seconds. I don't respond.

I never respond to the ones that make me feel.

.. noticed. I tell myself it's just a fan.

A little too observant. Maybe one of them recognized a crack in the background of the wall.

Maybe they noticed the shape of my bookshelf. Maybe it means nothing.

I shut the laptop and let the silence eat me.

The next morning smells like apple juice, washable markers, and stale coffee. It is a scent I have grown to love.

My classroom is a carefully curated nightmare for any overbearing PTA mom. The bulletin board has cartoon ghosts on it year-round. Our reading nook is shaped like a coffin. The kids think it is hilarious. I tell them monsters are just misunderstood. They believe me.

“Miss Aggie, look! I drew you,” says Caleb, holding up a picture of me with vampire fangs and a black dress that goes all the way to the floor.

“That’s terrifying,” I tell him, placing a hand to my heart. “I love it.”

He grins, missing his two front teeth. He’s sticky with glue and pride.

“I made you a grave, too,” he adds.

“You are my favorite tiny psychopath,” I say, loud enough to earn a giggle from the table. “But don't tell the others, and definitely don’t tell your parents.”

They don’t know who I really am. Not the real me. Not the one on camera. Not the girl in the bloodstained corset. They think I’m fun. A little weird. They ask if I live in a haunted house and if I have pet spiders.

I lie, of course, and tell them yes.

By the time the last marker is capped and the final backpack zipped, my face hurts from smiling. I wave them off one by one, wishing their parents good luck, like I’m sending them into battle. The second the classroom empties, the silence is deafening.

The mask slips just a little again.

After school, I return to my apartment, which feels colder than usual. Golem greets me at the door, flicking his tail like I’ve offended him personally. I feed him, pour a glass of cheap wine, and light my favorite black currant candle.

The quiet here is different from the quiet in my classroom. That one is temporary, filled with leftover laughter, smeared fingerprints and the hum of routine.

I sink into the couch, still in my light blue dress with glitter weather emojis all over it, and stare at the laptop on the coffee table. The screen is dark, but it feels like it’s watching me.

Of course I open it. Curiosity always wins.

My inbox loads slowly, as if the machine knows what’s coming and wants to spare me a few extra seconds. One message sits at the top. No subject. Just a name I don’t recognize. I click anyway.

Do you still remember me, Agatha?

You should.

You wore purple tights that day.

I never forgot.

My blood goes cold, as if someone cracked open a window I didn’t know was there.

Purple tights. I know exactly which ones. I wore them once in tenth grade, on a dress-down day when I thought maybe I could try being bold. I thought maybe I could stand out and not regret it. They were ridiculous; cheap, bright, loud, but I loved them. For exactly four hours.

Someone must have called. A teacher, a parent, maybe just someone who thought they were doing a good Christian deed.

My parents showed up at school without warning, faces tight with fury and righteousness, like they were there to perform an exorcism, not pick up their daughter.

My mother: Debra, dragged me to the bathroom and made me strip while she quoted scripture under her breath.

My father; Michael, waited outside the stall, praying loud enough that the other girls stopped talking.

In my parents' eyes, they were immodest. Temptation in nylon form.

Proof I was slipping, straying, letting the Devil in through my skin.

They made me put on long black pants they brought from the car.

The kind that clung to the sweat on my legs like shame.

My tights went in the trash. I never wore anything bright again.

My lungs forget how to work for a few long, tight seconds. I grip the wine glass hard enough that the stem creaks in warning.

He remembers. Whoever he is. I don’t move. I just stare out the window, watching the light shift across the glass.

I slam the laptop shut and finish my wine in one long swallow.

There’s no logical reason for my heart to be pounding like this. I’m safe. I’m home. It’s just a message. Nothing to panic over.

But still, I glance at the door. I check the lock. I check the windows, too.

If this were one of my cam scenes, this would be the moment the masked man stepped into frame. The music would spike. The candles would flicker like they knew something was coming. There’d be a hand around my throat, and I’d pretend not to like it until I did.

But this is real life. And I’m still alone. For now.