Chapter 2 Marie
Someone else may look at the dilapidated brownstone with “fuck ur mom” spray-painted in bright red letters over the front door and see despair.
I am not that person. With a cardboard box in tow and the rest of my few belongings stored in my beat-up car parked behind me, I see a start to my new beginning.
I sigh—that stereotypical kind that the main character does at the start of every romance movie—and walk up the cracked front steps and into the building.
Sure, it smells like weed and stale cigarettes, but so have most places I’ve lived.
At least this one is all mine. I climb the metal staircase, barely noticing the muffled shouting from every other door I pass.
Even with the obvious signs that this place is not the diamond my heart tells me it is, I still can’t believe the incredible deal.
I get to my door, dropping the box and fishing through my pockets until I find the key the landlord gave me the day before.
My eyes water a bit once I swing the door open, the stale smell overpowering even for my seasoned nostrils.
It doesn’t push down my smile, though. I kick my box inside and open the window across the room.
Car horns and profanities greet my eardrum like the tweet of storybook songbirds.
With this amount of savings on my housing, I won’t have to take on extra shifts at the diner.
I’m used to little sleep, but night classes three days a week, on top of working full-time and finding space in my schedule to study, have been draining the life from me.
This place is my haven—a chance for me to get on my feet and crawl out of the despair and poverty life has dealt me.
No more time to gawk and imagine my brand-new beginning, time to finish moving my stuff inside before someone breaks my car windows and robs me.
It only takes five trips before I’ve carried everything up to my room.
I barely have any furniture, just a folding table and chairs, a thin rolled-up mattress, and a beanbag.
I’m carrying in the last box of kitchen supplies when the door next to mine swings open.
“Oh, hi! I’m Marie, your new next-door neighbor.”
The older woman sizes me up and down. “You moving into 805?”
“Yes!” I reply, still smiling.
“Shame.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re a pretty young blonde. People who move in don’t last long here.” Don’t know what my hair color has to do with anything, but I guess she’s mentioning it as if it’s a symbol of my innocence. Oh, if she only knew how wrong she was.
My heartbeat quickens and my body hums. “What do you mean?”
The woman sighs, locking her door and stuffing her keys into her purse hanging from her shoulder. "There have been five tenants in this place in the past ten months.”
“Oh, well, you don’t have to worry about me. I’ll be a good neighbor and always pay my rent on time.”
“Been all types coming in and out of here. Sure, most have seemed like addicts, but still, it doesn’t add up.
I think your place is cursed. The police stopped asking me, but I always tell them the truth.
The same thing always happens before they disappear.
Loud screaming in the middle of the night and then nothing.
Yelling and fighting are usual here, but this is different. ”
I size her up. I don’t know how she wants me to respond, and I’m unsure if she’s just a neurotic neighbor.
Of course, her story would explain the ridiculously cheap rent.
I can’t deny the fear zipping through my body, the buzzing that makes me cross my legs just to contain myself, but reason overpowers my squirrel-like instinct.
I don’t believe in curses or shit like that.
Life is hard enough. Almost all bizarre coincidences can be explained by science.
The missing tenants of my apartment—if her story is even true—could all be due to addiction, gang violence, or other illegal activity I’m more than happy to avoid.
I sigh, turning my smile back on. “Well, thank you for the cautionary tale, but I think I can hold my own. I’m sorry, but you won’t be getting rid of me that easily.
I promise you’ll love me as a neighbor. I make a mean snickerdoodle cookie.
I’d love to bring some over one day. What did you say your name was again? ”
She sizes me up again and scoffs. “It doesn’t matter. You won’t last a week.” She turns and walks down the staircase.
“Bitch,” I whisper under my breath, hurtling back into my apartment.
Once I shut the door behind me, I lean against the wall, clenching my eyes and willing my thoughts to clear. I don’t believe her story, but I can’t help that the old woman’s words affected the fearful part of my brain. I’m not a scaredy cat; it’s much worse.
My hands shake, and I must ball them into fists to stop them from shaking loose and falling into the waistband of my jeans.
I could rub myself off and get the need out of my system, but my attraction to fear is something I’m trying to rid myself of, not encourage.
Besides, I have too much unpacking to do to waste my time indulging in self-pleasure.
I’ve been turned on by fear since my teens.
I’m an autassassinophiliac, diagnosed by a real therapist and everything.
We’ve never dived deep into where the kink stemmed from, but it’s not hard to imagine the cause.
There’s probably an event or a whole string of horrible tragedies I endured as a young child that rewired my brain.
I could try different types of therapy to uncover the suppressed memories in my psyche, but why the fuck would I want to do that?
It feels like a blessing that my brain has saved me from that part of my history, even if I’m left with a completely unsavory taste.
I’ve only been in a handful of committed relationships, and even with them, I’m too afraid to admit my deepest desire.
How ironic. You’d think mustering up my courage enough to tell them would turn me on, but sadly, no.
All my sexual experiences have left much to be desired.
I don’t trust men, probably rightfully so, and much to my dismay, I’m tragically heterosexual.
With the information about my deepest desires, they could cause some real harm.
It’s better that I keep my fantasies to myself, the monsters in my movies, and my battery-operated partners.
Even with my compromises on pleasure, the kink is still one I want to kick.
Right now, I’m trying to eliminate any reward for my desires, and so far, it’s not going well.
As I work on unpacking a box of utensils into the wonky kitchen cabinet drawers, the sun setting and shadows dancing across my walls, all I can imagine is a serial killer barging through my door and pressing me up against a wall.
Sure, he’d likely slit my throat and wear my skin, but the events leading up to the horror are enough to make my panties completely drenched.
I grunt, abandoning the box and digging into my purse for my pill container.
It’s only 7 p.m., but I don’t work until tomorrow afternoon.
There’s no reason to rush and unpack everything right now.
I swallow a sleeping pill dry, find my silky blue pajama set in a box of my clothes, change, and shuffle my baby-blue slippered feet to my mattress.
I groan after discovering I still need to put on my sheets.
After fifteen minutes of wrestling with the corners of my lumpy mattress to stretch the worn fabric of my fitted sheet, I lie on my bed, completely exhausted and ready to let my dreams take me away from my perversions.
It’s pitch black when my eyelids drag open.
I try to fight the intrusion to my slumber, but the shouting and banging won’t let me go.
My body weighs me down, and the sleeping pill turns my reason thick and sticky.
I register that there’s some fight happening outside my apartment, and from the sound of it, it’s escalating.
My groggy brain fills with scenarios of how the scuffle could end.
Someone could set off a gun, sending stray bullets through the thin walls of my bedroom.
A normal person would jolt upright, dial 911, and seek cover.
I, on the other hand, am clearly not normal.
My heartbeat quickens, sending a rush of blood to my swelling clit.
What if the men outside burst through my door and kidnap me, using me as a hostage to settle their dispute?
It’s unlikely, but my fear doesn’t need reason.
I let my heavy hands seek out the heat underneath my sleep shorts.
I couldn’t find my underwear, so the silk of my pajamas rubs against my slick flesh.
It’s terribly arousing, and I play with myself as the screaming heightens outside.
My breath hitches as my strokes through my wetness increase.
I’ve held myself off for too long. I’m so close to coming, and I’ve barely just started touching myself.
I don’t close my eyes, instead searching my room for a shadowy figure I can imagine is a creature lurking in the corner.
My vision rests on a large object in my closet.
I don’t remember what I have stored in there, but I swear, piercing eyes stare back at me, glowing in the darkness.
Still, the rational part of me assumes it’s just my mind playing tricks on me, using the drugginess of the sleeping pills to make my visions even more frightening and erotic.
I cry out, plunging my fingers into myself as I clench.
My mind plays even more delicious tricks, and I swear I can hear the figure grunting and the sound of frantic movements.
My fear escalates even more, no longer focused on the very real disagreement outside my door, but the imagined beast waiting to pounce and devour me.
I keep my eyes open as I massage my bundle of nerves, increasing my tempo, imagining a hulking monster pressing me against the bed, grazing razor-sharp fangs against my skin.
White teeth sparkle in the darkness, and heavy breaths escape large nostrils.
I can’t hold back, no matter how long I want this mirage to last. I cup my breast, pinching my nipple, as my other hand strums until I’m drowning in a wave of ecstasy, my blood changing into lava.
Another horrible trait of my sexual deviancy is that I’m unable to stay quiet.
In the past, with roommates, I’ve had to gag myself to make sure no one hears me.
Now, I’m alone, and there’s already a screaming match to take the blame if I let my pleasure free.
I scream, the sound coming deep from my belly as my orgasm washes over me.
My whole body convulses, my cries coming out in a chaotic, choppy rhythm.
It’s been ages since I let myself devour my cravings, longer since I let my vocal cords slap against each other.
I’m so lost in my ecstasy that I don’t even second-guess when the monster steps out of my closet, looming over me.
Giant claws wrap around a member protruding between his hairy, tree-trunk legs.
He’s still shadowed, only illuminated by the faint moonlight from outside my window and his ever-glowing eyes.
Something clings to his hands, coming from his body as he strokes himself even faster.
I don’t flinch, instead continue to rub myself until I’ve milked every last drop, screaming until my throat is raw.
It’s not until the monster roars and a large, warm wetness splashes against my thighs that I come back to this plane of reality.
Holy fucking shit. My throat is too sore to even scream, my brain still trying to catch up.
My eyes open, really open, and I make out his features.
He bends forward—too tall to stand straight in my room, and two curling horns cage both sides of his crown.
He continues to stroke his cock—even in the dark I can tell its massive.
His white fangs glint from the low light and heat bellows from his huge nostrils.
For a moment, I still let myself believe this could all be a dream, until he lets go of himself, small popping sounds following, and grabs me from the waist and throws me over his shoulder.
Reality hits me, as if an ocean of cold water had been poured on my head.
I scream. Not of pleasure this time. Of pure terror.
I’m not horny, though. Maybe if I didn’t just get myself off, but now, as I claw at the coarse hair covering the beast’s back, staring down at the equally hairy tail, I yell in pure fear.
It can’t be a dream. His claws poke my skin as he clenches me, one hand almost wrapping entirely around my waist, his other cupping my ass.
I vibrate with his steps as he walks away from my bed.
He grunts and then a whirlwind sound comes from below me.
In my struggle, I’m able to pull myself up, turning my body around to see where he’s taking me.
Instead of a closet floor, a black vortex spins below me.
My bitchy neighbor can probably hear me now, smirking to herself that she told me so. I scream as loud as I can until the monster jumps into the blackness and my consciousness blinks out.