Chapter 3
Agatha
I haven’t gone live in two days.
Not that I’m ignoring my fans, it’s quite the opposite.
I’ve been teasing them instead, feeding the hunger with little snippets of sneak peeks of what this weekend will hold.
The first photo I posted was me covered in stage blood, screaming like someone's holding me at knifepoint. The second was me, completely naked in the woodsy area I’ll be filming in this weekend.
Just enough mist and shadow from the water to make me look creepy, but still sexy.
The reactions have been appropriately rabid.
It’s Friday, and I’m on lunch while my kiddos are at recess. I take a bite of my steak and egg sandwich and shoot off a quick text to Jay.
Me: You still good for tomorrow? 10pm. Forest preserve across town. Also, don’t forget to send me what you’re wearing.
Jay’s my co-star for the weekend. He doesn’t work for Behind the Lens, which makes our collabs easier. No paperwork, at least nothing beyond the NDA Lorna makes all our co-stars sign.
No cut of the profits going to someone else.
He posts to his own site, runs his own store.
It’s cool in that self-made way, though he has to cover all his own overhead, which I don’t envy.
At BTL, Lorna handles all of that. Cameras, lighting, props, crew if we need it, all taken care of.
I only pay out of pocket for my outfits, my home setup, and any personal toys, especially the niche ones.
The toy I used earlier this week? Came from Lorna’s chest of wonders.
Once you take a toy from her stash and open the box, it’s yours. No take backs.
The hallway is alive with squeals and stomping feet as the kids return from recess. I wipe my hands and clean up my lunch, tossing the sandwich wrapper and tucking my phone away just as they start piling back in.
“Okay, my little monsters,” I say with a grin, “let’s settle down.”
We’re reading This Book is Perfect today, and by the third page, they’re giggling like I’m doing stand-up.
My frog voice is undefeated. Kindergarteners love this book every year, and today is no exception.
When we finish, I hand out scissors, glue, and sequencing sheets so they can retell the story with cut-and-paste squares.
Tiny hands go to work, chatter and laughter filling the room as I read each caption aloud.
After that, we do a Text Connections activity, talking about bad days, feelings, and how we manage them. The stories range from spilled juice to dead goldfish. I nod solemnly at each one.
We finish with a color-by-number frog craft and tape them all to our classroom door. Twenty-two frogs. Twenty-two personalities. Twenty-two sets of sticky hands.
By the time the final bell rings, folders are packed, shoes are half on, and I’m walking them out front like a tired parade marshal. They scatter into cars and buses, and I head back inside to reset for next week.
I print worksheets. Double-check supplies. Wonder if I need to make another Dollar Tree run for googly eyes and more glitter glue. I’m at the copier when she finds me.
Genny. Second grade. Moral crusader with a budget haircut and the energy of a bitter stepmom.
She crosses her arms, glaring. "Can’t believe they still let you work here. Filthy slut. The message you send to those young kids you teach."
I roll my eyes and keep flipping pages.
"Yes, Genny, because I hand out my channel name during story time. The kids have no idea what I do when I’m off the clock. As they shouldn’t. The only reason anyone knows is because someone—" I smile pointedly, "—sent an email to the entire district."
She huffs. "They deserved to know what kind of example their children are being exposed to."
I grab my stack of papers, turning to her fully. "Some of them did know. A few are really good tippers, actually. Thanks for the second income."
I wink and walk away.
Six months ago, Genny found out about my work with BTL.
She sent a mass email to the staff, the parents, and the school board.
There was a meeting. There was outrage. I almost lost my job.
But Lorna is a force to be reckoned with.
She showed up to my formal meeting, flanked by her lawyer, delivering phrases like "discrimination" and "privacy violation" and "wrongful termination." My contract doesn’t prohibit outside adult work, and the board’s attempt to punish me for it didn’t hold up.
I kept my job. I gained a ton of new subscribers. And I earned a scarlet letter in the staff lounge.
Fine by me. I didn’t have friends growing up. I don’t need them now.
I drop the papers in their bin and grab my things. On my way out, I check my phone. Still no response from Jay. I unlock it again at my car and finally see a message.
Jay: Tomorrow 10pm. Got it. Going full black: hoodie, joggers, Kagekao mask. You’re welcome.
The mask. I sent him that link weeks ago, didn’t think he’d actually buy it. Over a hundred bucks. Guess he’s committed. I send a thumbs up and a reminder:
Me: Don’t break character. My fans like it real. No acting.
He replies with a kiss-face emoji and a cocky, "I know what I’m doing, babe." I roll my eyes and slide into the driver’s seat. That’s when I see it. A piece of paper tucked under my wiper blade. I get out, heart already picking up speed, and unfold it.
Not much longer, little horror.
Beautiful handwriting. No signature. My pulse stutters. I glance around the lot…nothing. No movement. No one watching.
I throw the note onto the passenger-side floor, slam the door, lock it, and peel out of the parking lot like I’m being chased. I’m not new to obsessed fans. It happens. Occupational hazard. Most of the time, it’s harmless. Sometimes it’s not.
This one? Feels different.
It’s not just the note. It’s that message from earlier this week. The one about the purple tights.
Nobody from back then should know who I am now. Nobody from that town should know what I do. They’d rather burn in Hell than admit they watched a cam girl do what I do.
Still, I can’t shake it. Something's wrong.
Tonight, I need a long bath, a heavy glass of wine, and the smuttiest romance on my Kindle.
I’ve got a scene to film tomorrow.
The next morning, I wake up early and head straight for the kitchen.
I make myself a breakfast sandwich, pop the top on a bottle of cranberry juice, pour a glass, and eat while standing at the counter.
When I finish, I grab the empty glass to bring to the sink, but it slips from my fingers and crashes to the floor, shattering into glittering shards across the tile.
The sound punches something loose in me.
I blink, and I’m not in my kitchen anymore.
I’m fourteen, on the floor of my childhood bathroom, sobbing into a towel while Debra yells about vanity and demons and how mirrors are windows for the devil.
Michael stands in the hallway, quoting scripture like he's conjuring lightning.
They found me fixing my hair before church. That was all it took.
“You think you’re pretty?” Debra hissed, ripping the curling iron from my hand. “You think you’re meant to be looked at?”
She didn’t even ask where it came from, didn’t give me the chance to lie. The contraband iron Janessa from youth group had slipped me the night before clattered to the floor as she snatched it, eyes wild with something holier than rage.
She pressed the burning barrel to my collarbone, scorching my skin like she was branding me for her God. The pain was so sharp I bit through my bottom lip trying not to scream.
I snap back to the present with a full-body jolt, breath rattling in my chest.
"Fuck you," I whisper, then louder, shouting, “Fuck you, you fucking religious fucks!”
Debra and Michael. Holier-than-thou monsters wrapped in righteous smiles.
They put me through hell in the name of their God, and I’m not talking about your average strict Christian upbringing.
I’m talking purple tights are a sin. You can’t look at your reflection for more than a second.
And don’t even think about disobeying one of the church’s commandments.
It wasn’t a church. It was a cult, and I will not be convinced otherwise.
I clean up the glass, fingers shaking slightly, and take a piping hot shower to wash the memories away.
I sit under the stream until my skin is pink and raw, until the air is thick with steam.
Afterward, I barely manage to wrap a towel around myself before collapsing onto the bed and drifting into a dreamless nap.
When I wake up, it’s time to get ready.
I pull my now dry hair into a half-up, half-down style and curl the loose strands.
My eyeliner is thick, the kind that bleeds when I cry, and I pick the non-waterproof mascara on purpose.
Maroon lipstick goes on next, deep and easily smudged.
I spritz my perfume twice across my neck.
Just because it’s fake doesn’t mean I shouldn’t smell good while having sex.
The outfit is simple, strategic. A wine-red velvet dress, low-cut to show off my cleavage and so Jay can pop a tit out when he wants. The hem barely covers my ass, easy for Jay to hike up and take me without any pretense. I wear a black thong underneath. That’s it.
Shoes are the most important part. I need to be able to run, so I lace up my black Converse and call it a night.
Jewelry is the final step. A casket shaped ring made of real bone, a few silver ones with bats and moons, and last, a black velvet choker that’s snug around my throat. I buckle it in place and wink at myself in the mirror.
Hot.
It’s quarter after nine. Perfect.
I grab my bag and toss in a water bottle, portable phone charger, my ID, and debit card. Then I head out, scream singing along to Whore by In This Moment while I drive. I stop at a gas station about halfway there, snag a Full Throttle from the cooler, and sip it like it’s holy water.
By the time I pull into the parking lot of the forest preserve, my stomach is dancing with nerves.
I text Jay.
Me: I’m here.
He responds instantly.
Jay: Go hide, pretty girl. I’m coming to find you.
I laugh and text back.
Me: Phone’s charged. Making this as real as possible.
The phone is how I film my chase scenes.
Gives everything that shaky, panicked Blair Witch vibe.
Viewers eat it up. I lock my car, hide the key in the gas door, and head into the woods.
The night is quiet, every leaf rustle and distant hoot magnified tenfold.
My Converse crunch against the trail as I slip deeper into the trees, until I reach the exact spot Jay and I picked earlier this week.
It’s dark. Perfect.
I go live.
“Hey, you creepy little shits,” I whisper, aiming the camera at my face. “I’m taking a moonlight stroll and I swear I keep hearing things. So you’re coming with me. If I die, you better call the cops and make sure my next of kin gets my toy collection.”
The chat lights up.
Sk8rSlut97: OMG YESSSS IT’S STARTING
ChurchOfAgatha: Walking into the woods alone? She’s insane. I’m obsessed.
ThighHighPriest: This is how religion starts. Praise be.
I giggle and keep moving, reacting to every little snap of twigs and shifting breeze like I’m genuinely terrified. Which, honestly, I kind of am. It’s really fucking creepy out here. But I know Jay is coming. I know it’s just a game.
That is, until it doesn’t feel like one.
I freeze and the skin on the back of my neck prickles.
An owl hoots somewhere above and to the left. I spin, camera shaking, and catch a figure in the distance. About fifty yards out. Still. Watching. The mask looks so much worse out here in the dark.
Jay.
I pan the camera, let the viewers see him, and whisper, “You guys... I’m not alone. I don’t know what to do.”
Then, out of frame, I give him the signal. The small wave we agreed on.
But Jay doesn’t wave back. He lifts his hand and slowly holds up three fingers. Then he starts counting down.
Two.
One.
Shit.
I turn and run, camera bouncing with every step, my breath loud in the mic, heart pounding. He’s fast. Too fast.
He chases me through the woods, the sound of his footsteps growing louder behind me until I’m sure he’s close enough to grab the back of my dress. I swerve around a tree, leap over a root, and finally dive behind a thick trunk to catch my breath.
“I think I lost him,” I pant, trying to keep the camera steady. “Fuck. I thought I was alone out here. I was going to give you guys a sexy little picnic table video with fun toys. This isn't what I had in mind. I need to get back to my car—”
A hand clamps over my mouth. Another wraps around my arm.
And then I’m shoved hard. My back slams into the tree. Bark bites into my spine. My phone nearly slips from my fingers. Before me stands a tall, masked figure.
The mask catches the moonlight and I take in its craftsmanship.
One side is dark onyx black, the other silver, streaked with black slashes like the paint is weeping.
The eyes are wrong, one is covered by mesh, the other a jagged wound in the metal.
The mouth is an exaggerated, bleeding grin, curved up like a corpse that died laughing.