Chapter 9
Agatha
There’s something perfect about the first moment I step into the old barn.
The air is cold, stagnant. Not musty like I expected, but sterile in a way that makes me think it used to hold something more clinical than animals.
Though splintered in areas, the wood beams along the ceiling are still strong.
The meat hooks hanging from the rafters glint when the light hits just right.
Chains dangle from a few, still slick with a grease that refuses to dry.
It smells faintly like iron and mold. Like history and rot. Perfect.
I breathe in deep, holding it in my lungs, letting it take root inside me. This is where I’ll do it. This is where I’ll bait the hook.
Kira found the place through one of her tattoo clients.
It used to be a butcher shop back in the fifties, shut down after a series of health code violations that no one bothered to clean up.
The town forgot about it, let the vines take the siding and the wind strip the paint.
But the bones remain, and that’s all I need.
I spend the next hour walking the perimeter, mentally sketching the angles, the shots, the transitions. I record voice notes on my phone, talking through every detail while the scene starts to form in my brain.
"Wide pan here. Chains swaying in the foreground. Lights flicker. We open on a heartbeat sound effect. One red stiletto hits the floor. Cut to blood dripping from a bone saw."
I feel like I’m high. Not from drugs. From the thrill of control.
This time, I’ll be the one behind the mask.
The rush follows me out of the barn, buzzing under my skin like static. I feel lit up, not the way I do after a good show or toe-curling orgasm, but more intense. Like I’ve tapped into something feral and crazy.
By the time I get home, the sun has dropped low enough to set my living room aglow in shadowy hues of orange.
I don’t even take off my coat. I head straight to the closet, dragging out the storage bins I haven’t opened in a while.
One by one, I flip them open, peeling back layers of plastic and old packing paper.
The scent hits me first; latex, dust, and the faintest trace of fake blood that never quite washes out. I breathe it in like it’s incense.
I start laying everything out on the floor.
The latex hearts from that zombie short I shot three months ago still hold their shape.
The blood packs are a little sticky around the edges, but intact.
I find a coil of rusted chain leftover from another project; a bondage shoot I did in an abandoned textile mill.
I spread it all before me, fingers twitching with the need to begin.
I strip off my coat and move to sit cross-legged in the middle of the chaos, pulling out a ceramic bowl and a wooden stirrer.
I mix the glycerin first, slow and steady, then add deep red food coloring and a dab of blue to kill the brightness.
Cocoa powder goes in next, for texture, for realism.
I stir until it thickens, until it clings to the spoon like fresh blood.
I test a drip down the side of one heart, watching the way it slides, catches, pools.
Perfect.
Outside, the sky darkens to bruised purple, but I don’t reach for the light switch. I flick on my ring light instead. It halos the mess in front of me, casting long shadows across the floor that make the scene look like a crime already in progress.
I stare at what I’ve created, what I’m still creating. And for a second, I feel like a damn artist.
Texas Chainsaw Massacre is the theme.
A few more little details and we’ll be good to go. I soak cheesecloth in blood and string it from the shower curtain to mimic flayed skin. Then I dig out the old bone saw from the Halloween box and check the fake edge, before coating it with the tacky red mixture for more theatrical attention.
I step outside, crouch low to the ground, and set the camera on the edge of the stoop. The wind smells like rain and car exhaust. I test the shot with a few practice clicks. The blade scrapes against the sidewalk just right.
The camera clicks on.
I drag the saw slowly across the pavement, leaving behind a thick trail of red that creeps into the cracks. My fingers glisten, wet and sticky, and when I lift one to my mouth and suck it clean, I catch sight of movement in a window across the street.
I giggle under my breath.
If anyone’s watching, I hope they’re horrified. Or maybe intrigued. Either way, they’re getting a show.
I cut the footage and step back inside, the blood drying tacky on my fingers. It’s sticky, twisted, but beautiful.
The mask arrives in the mail two days later.
It’s grotesque and human-like. Faux flesh stretched over molded latex, with jagged stitching along the jaw and an uneven patchwork of skin tones.
The eye holes are wide and empty, cut just enough to show a glint of what's beneath. It’s a replica of the original Leatherface look, down to the crude texture and the way it slumps slightly, like it’s too heavy for the face it’s meant to cover.
I slip it on in front of the mirror and watch myself disappear.
I don’t speak.
I don’t have to.
He’ll know.
There’s no better time than now since the mask is already on.
It’s time to show him what happens when someone talks back.
I climb the stairs slowly, one hand trailing along the banister.
My legs are bare, my thigh is still a little raw from the scene with Kira, but I like the way it stings when my sweater brushes the skin.
It’s oversized, worn thin from a thousand washes, the sleeves hanging past my fingers and the hem barely covering my hips.
Underneath, I’m wearing nothing but a pair of plain black panties. Cotton and high-cut.
I step into my film room and lock the door behind me.
Moving over to the ring light, I set it to a low dim and lower myself to the floor.
My back is pressed against the mattress, legs spread wide and bent just enough to tilt my hips.
The camera will see everything I want them to and nothing more.
The faintest trace of my new piercing shows through my panties.
My heart is racing, but not with fear, with defiance.
I boot up the website, adjust the frame, and click the button that sends the notification out into the world.
Live Now.
The little red dot glows in the corner. The chat starts slow, then pings to life.
User259: Holy shit.
DaddyVoid: That mask.
CrimsonMouth: SHE’S LIVE AND ARMED
I keep my hands in my lap, fingers curled loosely. I don’t shift or touch anything. I just breathe. Let them look and wonder.
“You liked watching me run,” I say from behind the mask. “Liked the way I gasped when you touched me. But you never said your name.”
I hold the silence for two beats, then. "What kind of monster forgets the introduction?"
Another pause. I inhale through my nose, slow and sharp, just enough to let the breath hit the mic. "That was rude."
The chat stalls for half a second.
DarkRoomDoll: Wait what?
GoreSlut420: Girl who u talking about?
DaddyVoid: Is this about the dude in the woods??
SnackPackSlut: I thought you knew him??
The scrolling picks up, fast and messy now, like ants after blood. Everyone's speculating, typing over each other, trying to make sense of the tone shift.
CrimsonMouth: She’s talking about him, isn’t she
ChurchofAgatha: That guy from the chase scene?? Wasn’t that staged?
CreepCreepCreep: Bro she’s giving Final Girl energy rn, I’m scared and hard
I don’t answer. I just tilt my head a little more, like I’m listening through the screen. Like I’m waiting for something.
And then it happens.
A new name appears.
PurpleTights: Next time I’ll have better manners.
I freeze.
The room doesn't.
The chat goes feral.
User259: WHAT THE FUCK
SnackPackSlut: WHO TF IS THAT
CrimsonMouth: MODS MODS MODS
GoreSlut420: IS THIS A BIT OR???
VelvetNoose: Oh my god is that HIM is that ACTUALLY HIM
My pulse hammers. I shift forward without meaning to, elbows pressing into my thighs as I stare at the name. The profile picture is nothing. A black circle. No post history. Joined today. No tip record.
But I know it’s him. The name tells me everything I need to know. I reach for the keyboard, type nothing, then pull my hands back. Let them wonder. Let him know I saw it.
I keep the mask on, but I lean closer to the mic. “I’m filming something new this weekend,” I murmur. “Someplace quiet. Out past where the road forgets to be a road. Where the only thing left breathing is the wind through broken rafters.”
User259: Uh what does that even mean
SnackPackSlut: Girl just say you're going to the woods again???
CrimsonMouth: This is why I have anxiety
VelvetNoose: No because she’s being POETICALLY UNHINGED
GraveyardDaddy: The road forgets to be a road???? Help
“Maybe you want to play again,” I say, low. “Maybe this time, I’ll make you scream louder than I did.”
CryptCummin: THIS IS NOT A BIT
User259: DO NOT DO THIS
CrimsonMouth: If he shows up again we all sue
CreepCreepCreep: SHE’S BAITING A KILLER
ThighHighPriestess: She’s my Roman Empire
I pause. Let the wave of panic roll past me. Then I speak again, soft, thoughtful, like I’m wondering aloud.
“Maybe he’s a killer.” Another beat. “But maybe that’s my kink.”
And then I log off.