Chapter 11
Agatha
The backseat rattles with every turn. Plastic buckets knock against each other.
The bone saw slides along the floor and bumps against the cooler full of fake intestines and blood mix.
I don’t glance back. I already packed everything twice, maybe three times, so I know it’s there.
The mask is in the passenger seat, seatbelt fastened.
Its stitched mouth is curled in a crooked grin, like it’s laughing at me. I keep my eyes on the road.
The barn isn’t far. Maybe twenty minutes out past the edge of town.
I’ve driven this way before. It felt easier, then.
Today the road stretches long. Each tree I pass leans in like it’s whispering something I don’t want to hear.
The speakers thump as Halestorm’s I Get Off blasts through the car, loud enough to shake the rearview mirror.
I sing along under my breath, mouthing every lyric like a prayer I half-believe.
I drum my fingers against the wheel, not caring if anyone sees me singing like a lunatic with blood in her trunk and a mask in the passenger seat. This is how I survive—volume up, windows cracked, pretending I’m just another girl on a joyride.
But I’m not.
I’m heading to the place I might die.
And I’m singing, anyway.
What if he shows up?
My knuckles tighten on the steering wheel. My palms are damp and cold, and I rub one against my thigh to dry it.
What if he doesn’t?
I lick my lips.
What does it say about me that I want him to?
I could die tonight. He could show up, fuck me, kill me, and vanish again. He could peel me open like a fruit and leave my body for someone else to find. He did it to Jay. There’s no reason he wouldn’t do it to me.
But I’m still driving.
My foot stays steady on the gas. My hands don’t shake.
Not yet. I tell myself this is for the subscribers, my fans.
It’s about control. That I’m choosing this.
But deep down, I know that’s only half true.
The other half? It’s obsession. It’s need.
It’s something feral and stupid that I can’t talk myself out of.
I think about the way his hand felt wrapped around my throat. The sound of his breathing behind the mask. The heat of him. The way he whispered in the woods, “You’re even better in person.” I can still hear it. Still feel the scrape of his hand on my thigh. My mouth goes dry at the memory.
Maybe he’s not the monster. Maybe I am. I killed the old version of myself a long time ago. The quiet girl. The girl who apologized too much and lowered her eyes and let people take what they wanted. I buried her in latex and blood and a thousand recorded orgasms. What’s a little more destruction?
The sign for Townline Butcher comes into view. It’s rotted halfway through and slumped sideways. The letters are barely legible through the moss and grime. I slow down. The barn rises just past it, sagging like an old man holding his breath.
I pull up close and kill the engine. For a second, I just sit there, hands still gripping the wheel. My heart’s pounding, but it doesn’t feel like fear. It feels like anticipation.
“If I die here,” I say out loud, “at least it’ll be on my terms.”
I unload the gear piece by piece. Camera bags.
Prop buckets. Tripods. The cooler. The blood.
I carry everything inside, and the barn swallows me whole.
I set up the lights first. Ring light in the perfect position.
Diffused fill light behind the crate I’m using as a seat.
I hang the cheesecloth strips from the rafters.
They’re stiff with dried fake blood. I loop the meat hooks with stained rope and let them sway.
The latex organs go on the wall. I nail them up like trophies. I scatter the chains across the dirt floor. My bone saw rests on a table covered in butcher paper along with a few other organs and fake bloody bones.
Once everything’s in place, I undress.
I peel off my sweater. My leggings. My bra. My skin prickles in the barn’s cold air. I don’t shiver.
The lingerie I picked is dark brown, the color of old blood. The lace is thin and soft and cuts low across my hips. My boots are heavy and black and make a satisfying thud as I lace them up and stomp once to test the grip.
I grab the blood.
I pour it over myself, slow and steady. Across my chest. Down my arms. A splash across the tops of my thighs.
I don’t stop until it’s dripping down my legs and soaking the edges of my boots.
I smear it with my fingers. Across my ribs.
Between my breasts. My VCH piercing peeks against the lace, still new and tender.
I click the remote.
The camera light goes red.
I sit on the crate, legs spread. I hold the saw in one hand and rest it on my lap like a lover.
“Welcome back,” I say. “Thought I forgot you?” I tilt my head and smile into the lens. “No. I remember everything.”
The mask sits propped beside the camera.
“This is your invitation,” I whisper. “Come see what I made for you.”
I drag the saw across my thigh. The fake blood smears deeper. Somewhere outside the barn, a breeze stirs. The wind moans against the boards. And then something creaks. A soft, dragging step.
My breath catches. I don’t turn. I don’t move. I only smile wider.
Let him come.
Him
We shouldn’t feel this way.
She’s testing us. We see it in the way she moves on camera. In the way she breathes. In the way she wants us to see her want it.
Garron says she’s fucking with us. Corwin calls her a tease. But we don’t say anything. Not yet.
We’re watching the GPS data.
Every pin. Every hidden folder. Every auto-saved address.
She’s been to the barn three times in the last week. We zoom in. Satellite view. No cross-streets. No security cameras. No neighbors. It’s perfect.
We pull up the image of her house next. We’ve looked at it a hundred times, but tonight it feels different. We study it like it’s prey. Four windows in the front. Two of them upstairs. One light always stays on. Kitchen. Probably a habit.
We click to the next tab and pull up her high school yearbook photo, freshman year, back when her hair was brown and her smile barely touched her mouth. Same eyes though.
We remember that day in middle school. When we dropped our notebook in the hallway and she kneeled to help us pick up the pages. She didn’t say anything. Just smiled and handed them back.
None of us ever forgot.
The GPS pings suddenly. She's live, on the move again, and when we zoom in, the location settles over familiar coordinates. The barn. She's already there.
“She’s already started,” Garron mutters.
“Then we’re late,” Corwin snaps.
We move.
The drive is fast and silent. We don’t talk. We don’t need to.
The barn appears up ahead, dark, framed by trees like it’s rising out of the grave. Her car’s parked in the gravel just outside, trunk open. There’s a flicker of soft light pulsing behind one of the broken slats.
We kill the headlights and park across the field, slipping out. The wind is sharp, biting at our coats, but we barely feel it. Our eyes are locked on the glow. We creep up slowly, sticking to the shadows. Grass crunches underfoot. A chain clinks somewhere inside. And then, we see her.
Through the narrow gap in the wood, there she is.
In her element. Blood dripping down her skin in thick, syrupy ribbons.
Lingerie the color of dried roses. Hair twisted into a bun at the crown of her head.
Her thigh glistens with a streak of red, and her voice carries just enough to reach us; low, sultry, laced with a smile.
She’s talking to the camera.
To them.
To us.
She stays seated, the bone saw resting across her lap. Then she drags it slowly along her thigh, letting the fake teeth scrape against her skin.
Too bad the blood’s not real.
She glances up, straight into the lens, and brings her fingers to her mouth. Licks them clean like she’s savoring something sweeter than sugar.
It’s time.
“She’s waiting,” Corwin says.
“She thinks she’s in charge,” Garron sneers.
“She’s not,” I reply.
We reach into the trunk and pull out the new mask. A hybrid—part Purge, part The Punisher skull. The eyes are hollow.
Garron doesn’t speak. He just puts it on.
It’s his turn. He moves toward the barn without a sound. We watch him disappear into the dark, and we smile.
Let the next scene begin.