Chapter 19
Agatha
They’re not taking the bait.
Days have gone by since I streamed with their ring on my thumb, taunting them, daring them, and still nothing. No knock at the door. No shadow slipping past the window. No masked figure in the corner of my eye. Just silence, thick and punishing.
It makes me restless. Every hour without them crawls under my skin.
The longer I wait, the more it eats at me, scraping little pieces off until I feel hollow.
What if I overplayed my hand? What if showing what I took drove them away instead of pulling them closer?
No. That isn’t right. Men like them, whoever they are, don’t back down. They don’t run.
So why haven’t they come?
I’m back in my classroom. The waiting has wound me so tight I can barely stand still.
The kids chatter as they take their seats; the scrape of little chairs on linoleum grating my nerves.
I force my voice steady, running through letters and sounds, praising the ones who remember, gently redirecting the ones who don’t.
On the outside, I look calm. On the inside, I’m not even here.
I can’t stop thinking about them.
The feel of their masks against my skin.
The press of their bodies when they crowd in close.
I don’t know what they look like. I don’t know what they taste like.
That should terrify me, but instead it carves a need into me that burns hotter every day.
I want that rush again, the spike of my pulse when they step out of the shadows.
The way the air gets heavier, like it knows something’s about to happen.
Nothing else has ever made me feel that alive in such a reckless way.
Mason tugs on my sleeve, holding up a worksheet. I blink down at him, swallow the flush creeping up my throat, and kneel to help him. My voice comes out warm and steady, no sign of the storm in my chest. They don’t need to know that their teacher is unraveling.
“What’s up, Mason?” I ask, taking the paper from his hand. “You stuck on this one?”
He nods, lower lip caught between his teeth. “This question. I don’t get it.”
I guide him through the numbers, pointing to the spots where he mixed them up, and his face lights up when he sees the answer fall into place. Kids don’t fake that kind of joy. It softens me, even when I feel like I’m cracking apart.
“Good work,” I tell him, handing the pencil back. “Got anything fun planned this week?”
His grin widens, a little gap showing where he lost a tooth. “I hope so. My uncles said they’re gonna come get me. They always take me once a week to do something fun.”
My chest tightens at that word, uncles, but I force a smile. “Sounds like you’ve got a pretty good deal there.”
“Yeah,” he says with a nod, proud.
He trots back to his desk after setting his worksheet in the finished work bin, and I watch him go, wishing I had an uncle to save me when I was a child.
When the final bell rings, the hallways empty into a clamor of laughter and sneakers squeaking against the floor. I wave goodbye, lock up the classroom, and walk out into the cooling air.
The sun sits low, dragging long shadows across the pavement as I head toward the lot. My bag is heavier than usual, even though I know it’s just the stack of worksheets I promised myself I’d grade tonight.
I unlock my car and slide behind the wheel, gripping the steering wheel harder than I need to. The silence makes it worse. No chatter of students, no hum of the building. Just me and the thud of my pulse in my ears.
I back out, glance in the rearview mirror, and for a second I swear headlights linger half a block down. Too far to make out, too steady to call coincidence. I tell myself it’s nothing. Just another teacher leaving late. Just another neighbor heading home.
The drive feels longer than it should. Every stoplight is too red, every turn too sharp, and I keep checking the mirrors like I’ll catch someone there if I just look quick enough. But it’s only me. Always only me.
By the time I reach my house and unlock the door, the feeling is too strong to ignore. I freeze in the doorway, the key still in my hand. My skin prickles with the certainty that I’m being watched.
I spin around.
The sidewalk is empty. No cars rolling by. No neighbors peeking through blinds. Just stillness, ordinary and quiet.
But I know what I felt.
I step inside, slam the door, and lean back against it with my eyes shut. My breathing is uneven. “My place is too quiet, too normal. I dig in my bag, drop the ungraded worksheets on the coffee table, sigh, kick off my shoes, and sit down with a pen.
I grade a few pages, circling mistakes, writing encouragements. The words blur together until I set the pen down and rub my eyes. I can’t focus. I keep thinking about them.
That’s when the idea sparks.
I flip open my laptop and start planning. The calendar shoot.
A My Bloody Valentine theme…perfect. Bloody hearts, chains, a mask, a girl screaming pretty for the camera. The image builds in my head fast, vivid and impossible to ignore. But the location is the problem. No mines around here. No tunnels I can slip into. I need something old, something eerie.
Google gives me the answer. A cemetery nearby,but not the manicured suburban kind. This one has crypts, old stone mausoleums with doors rusted shut and names no one remembers anymore. Perfect.
I know the cemetery liaison would never approve what I want to do.
Not a chance. So I dig deeper. Groundskeeper.
Someone who controls access, who actually holds the keys.
His name pops up, tagged in local posts about clean-up days and holiday wreath sales.
He’s older, not much of a social presence, but he has a Facebook page.
I stare at his profile picture, then click the message button.
Hi, my name is Agatha. I’m a content creator, and I’d love to book some time in your cemetery for a private shoot. I’m willing to pay generously. Please call me.
I leave my number. I expect silence. Maybe a reply tomorrow. The phone rings before I can even shut the laptop.
“Hello?”
The voice on the other end is gruff. “This is Herbert. You messaged about the cemetery?”
“Yes.” I sit up straighter. “I want to do a horror movie themed movie shoot. I’d need one of the crypts, or the mausoleum area. Just a couple of hours. Private. No damage to anything, of course.”
He snorts. “Absolutely not. That’s not what this place is for.”
I expected that. I lean back on the couch, soften my voice. “Two thousand cash.”
Silence. Then, “You serious?”
“Yes. Two thousand. Up front.”
Another pause, longer this time. Then a sigh. “Fine. One night. You clean up after yourself—no trash, no damage, and I never saw you.”
“Deal.”
We pick a date. I hang up and sit there staring at the phone. My pulse is racing, not from fear but excitement. It worked. I have my set.
I grab a notebook and start planning props. Fake blood, lace, chains, maybe a pickaxe for effect. Lorna is going to love this. She’ll sell the hell out of it.
The thrill of it makes my skin buzz. I lean back into the cushions, let the notebook slide to the floor, and push my hand under the waistband of my slacks. My body responds instantly, needy after all this build-up with no release but memory.
I close my eyes and think of them. The masks, the pushing me for what they want. The rasp of a gloved hand on my thigh. The sound of a voice I can’t place to a face. I rub harder, faster, chasing the edge.
When I come, it rips through me sharp and unsteady. My body jerks, my thighs tense, and I bite down on my lip to keep from screaming.
But the moment the pleasure crests, it’s yanked out from under me by a memory.
I'm sixteen again, and my childhood bedroom surrounds me. Michael is in the doorway, red-faced, shouting. “You’ve invited temptation into this house!”
“Momma! Get up here,” he calls.
She comes hurrying down the hall, eyes wide, hands already wringing the edge of her nightdress.
“She was touching herself,” he says. “Impure in thought and deed.”
Debra looks at me and then looks at the floor. “You know what we must do,” she whispers, but she never stops staring at the carpet like the answer is written there.
“No! No! Please!” I scream. Michael’s hand clamps around my arm, hard enough to leave bruises, and he drags me down the hallway. My heels skid on the carpet, my free hand clawing at the doorframe as I try to hold myself back, but he jerks me loose and shoves me into the bathroom.
The overhead light is bright, bouncing off the tile, making the whole room look crueler. The tub roars as he twists the spigot all the way, the stream pounding against porcelain, filling fast with water that’s icy from the pipes.
Debra doesn’t look at me. She strips my clothes from me and folds them carefully in a neat little stack on the counter, as if this is a chore instead of punishment.
I’m left in nothing but thin white cotton panties.
I cross my arms over my chest and shiver, but it doesn’t matter. To them, I’m already stripped bare.
When the water climbs high enough, I’m dropped into the tub roughly, and Michael kneels beside the tub. His palm presses down heavy on my shoulder, the other spreading over the top of my head. He starts to pray, his voice booming like he wants God Himself to hear.
I thrash when he forces me under. The water is so cold it feels like fire. My lungs seize, my body jerks. My scream turns into a mouthful of bubbles. I kick against the porcelain, nails scraping against the side of the tub, desperate to push myself up.
He lets me break the surface, just long enough to cough and choke, and then asks if I feel clean. He doesn’t wait for me to answer. His hand is already pressing me under again.
“In the name of the Lord,” he shouts, each word vibrating through the water, muffled but heavy. Again. And again.
By the time he’s done, my lips are purple, and my teeth rattle like they’re going to break out of my mouth. My chest burns, my head swims. I collapse against the side of the tub when he finally lets me up.
They drag me out, my body shaking uncontrollably, and wrap a rosary tight around my wrists. The beads bite into my skin as he knots them, his voice low. “To not fall back into temptation.”
That same night, I press my forehead to the cold bathroom window and watch smoke curl from the yard.
My mattress burns in the fire pit, black smoke twisting into the dark sky while Michael shovels at the embers like he’s proud of himself.
Debra tapes scripture over the bathroom mirror so I can’t look at myself, so even my own reflection is considered dangerous.
For the next month, I’m not allowed to undress alone.
Debra watches as I change and stands with me in the bathroom, a bucket of water and vinegar in her hands.
She pours it over me, cold streams running down my back and chest while she whispers over and over, “Clean the rot. Cleanse the root. Lust begins in the flesh.”
When the memory finally lets me go, I'm back on my couch with my hand still pressed hard against my belly like I'm trying to hold myself in.
The room is quiet except for my breath. I stare at the ceiling until the spinning stops.
I don't cry. I refuse to give them that now.
I sit up slowly and wipe my palms on my thighs.
They put that girl through hell and called it salvation. They tied her up with prayer and called it love. They turned every mirror into a threat and every word into a weapon, and still here I am. Breathing. Working. Planning.
I'm not a child. I'm not theirs. And if anyone thinks they get to pull me back under, they will learn how long I can hold my breath.