Bury Me Softly

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

The first thing you should know about me is I eat candy corn for breakfast. Like, actual candy corn, handfuls of it, straight out of the bag.

Not because it’s good for me, obviously—it’s basically wax crayons with a sugar complex—but because it feels festive.

And if you’re not living festively, then what’s the point?

The second thing you should know is that I have zero filter. None. No matter how hard I try. Which is probably why my date is already blinking at me like a confused owl while I explain, in great detail, how many bodies you could hide in a standard-sized trunk if you really packed them in right.

I don’t say it to be creepy. I just think it’s interesting.

“You’re…kidding, right?” he asks, laughing nervously.

I smile at him—lips cherry-glossed, stretched just a little too wide.

My head tilts, and my hair slides forward like a black silk curtain spilling into my lap.

At the ends, it fades to pure white, the kind of perfect ombré that took me five years and a small fortune to get right.

Worth it, though. Even messy, it gleams like I’m trying to seduce the moon.

My eyes are the real show, though. Too big for my face, wide and glassy like someone sewed them into my face in a doll factory. People call them pretty, but mostly they just stare too long, like they’re waiting for me to blink. Spoiler: I don’t.

“Of course I’m kidding,” I sing-song, then add with a tiny shrug, “Mostly.”

I giggle, and he laughs too—relieved—and just like that, the tension breaks. This is what always happens. I say something weird, I smile, they laugh, and I think, maybe this one won’t run away like the rest.

Maybe.

Now my date is talking. Something about stocks, or maybe golf—honestly, I stopped listening around diversify your portfolio. His lips move, his fork gestures, and I nod along like a good little doll, but my brain is off somewhere else entirely.

Specifically, the breadbasket.

Did you know you could choke to death on a dinner roll in less than ninety seconds? True story. It happened once in Ohio. I read about it while eating breakfast, which was also bread, so it felt a little ironic.

I take a sip of wine to keep from blurting that fact out loud.

I’m trying to be normal tonight. That’s always the plan—look cute, smile sweetly, laugh in the right places.

I even wore the dress: black silk with a hem that kisses my thighs and a neckline that could double as an invitation.

My nails are glossy blood-red, my eyeliner sharp enough to be considered a weapon, and I spent twenty minutes curling my hair before deciding I liked it better messy. I look good. Sexy, even.

And yet.

A flash of orange catches my eye in my reflection on the wineglass.

I reach up and pluck a tiny scrap of Halloween candy wrapper tangled in my hair.

Typical. I’m always finding little stowaways—glitter, twigs, party confetti, once even a small dildo—from my adventures.

Honestly, it’s less “hairdo” and more “evidence collection.”

I tuck the wrapper into my clutch like that’s perfectly normal and flash my date a smile, cherry-red lips and a tad too wide and unnerving.

“So,” he says, leaning in. “What about you? What do you do for fun?”

Ah. The dreaded question.

Fun. I could say I like reading vanilla romance books, movies where the main characters don’t get brutally murdered and live happily ever after, and long walks that aren’t in the cemetery.

But all of that would be a lie, and what I really want to say is: I talk to ravens like they’re my therapists, I own more skull mugs than regular cups, and last week I bought a Ouija board at a garage sale because it. Came. In. Pink.

Instead, I tilt my head and give him the kind of smile that makes waiters trip. “Oh, you know,” I say lightly. “Festive things.”

“Festive…things?” He’s slow to repeat.

“Yup,” I chirp, sipping my drink like it’s obvious. “You know…baking ghost-shaped cookies, watching scary movies alone in the dark, reorganizing my skull mug collection by jawline width or how much blood they could theoretically hold…”

His eyebrows twitch, just a little, like he’s not sure if I’m serious.

I mentally sew my lips shut and sit back in my chair, crossing my legs the way Cosmo articles always say you should if you want to look sophisticated.

Except on me, it doesn’t look elegant—it looks more like Penthouse centerfold with a Halloween coupon code.

My thighs are plush, my hips flare out like they’re advertising fertility, and my ass…

well, let’s just say I was built with way more cushion than the chair I’m sitting on.

On me, even the most sensible dress hikes up like it’s auditioning for Cinemax After Dark.

I know he notices—men always do. I’m tiny—travel-size, pocket edition, fun-size—take your pick.

But I’m packed like contraband: waist small enough to disappear in a man's hands, tits that verge on too much for my frame but never sag thanks to my very beneficial relationship with gravity, and legs that turn lethal when perched on heels sharp enough to make TSA nervous.

I swirl my wine, grinning when he finally drags his eyes back up to my face. “I also do normal girl things. Totally healthy, very balanced.”

He laughs, but it’s forced. His gaze keeps drifting down, like he can’t decide whether to make eye contact or write me a thank-you note.

I’m used to it—men never know where to look first. My tits?

My mouth? My too-big doll eyes? Doesn’t matter.

Their stares always get stuck somewhere, like gum on a shoe.

And right on cue, the waiter arrives, tray in hand, slipping into the moment like I summoned him.

He sets a plate of salmon in front of my date, then slides my chicken parmesan across the table with a look I know too well.

His eyes don’t leave my chest the entire time.

Not once. When I smile at him he fumbles the tray, rattling the silverware like a drumroll.

“Careful,” he stammers, cheeks pink. “Plate’s hot.”

“Thanks,” I chirp, twirling a lock of my ass length hair and completely ignoring the plastic spider ring that dislodges itself and falls to the floor.

The poor man actually lingers a beat too long, like he’s forgotten there’s an entire restaurant full of other people to serve. My date clears his throat sharply, a sound like he’s trying to gather dominance through sheer vocal cord aggression. The waiter blinks, mumbles something, and retreats.

I spear a noodle, twirling it around my fork like I didn’t just break the help, watching the sauce cling red and thick to the tines. My brain whispers: blood smear, arterial spray. I hum happily.

Across the table, my date sits up straighter, shoulders squared, a new brightness in his eyes. Competition has entered the chat.

“So…your name is October,” he says suddenly, with the bravado of a man who’s just realized he’s not the only option in the room. He rolls it on his tongue like it’s a riddle. “October. Is that why your parents named you that? Do they love Halloween too?”

I beam, delighted. “Nope. They thought it sounded poetic. Joke’s on them—I turned out more pumpkin spice chainsaw massacre than fall foliage sonnet.” I giggle, leaning forward. “Some people call me Toby though. ”

“So…is Halloween, like, your favorite holiday?”

“Yes!” My whole body perks up, nearly bouncing in my seat. Finally, a question I care about. “Halloween is like—Christmas, my birthday, and my funeral all wrapped in one. It’s magic. The air smells sharper, the nights stretch longer, and the dead get restless. You can feel it.”

His smile is stiff. “Feel it?”

I lean forward, voice dropping conspiratorially, doll-eyes wide. “Mhm. You’ve never stood in a graveyard at midnight in October? The ground hums. Like the earth is breathing. Or maybe like it’s hungry.”

He blinks, fork frozen halfway up to his mouth.

I laugh, sweet and quick, and pop a bite of chicken into my mouth. “Relax, I’m kidding. Probably. Sort of.”

The thing is, I don’t realize I sound creepy until I see the look on their faces. I’m not trying to be unnerving. I just…think differently. It’s not my fault my idea of romance looks like holding hands across a Ouija board.

I sip my wine again, grinning at him like I didn’t just mention hungry cemeteries.

“Anyway,” I say cheerfully, “what about you? What’s your favorite holiday?”

He stammers something about Thanksgiving, and I nod seriously, like he’s just confessed a dark secret.

Which apparently just gives him leave to ramble about the most boring of all the holidays, which is fine—I’m mostly fascinated by how his fork trembles slightly every time he lifts it.

Nervous energy tastes good on a man. Like salt.

Shit, I think he just asked me my opinion on the subject.

I twirl more pasta and tilt my head, trying to look thoughtful instead of deranged.

“I do like Thanksgiving,” I say, giving him a cherry-red smile.

“It’s basically a holiday about feasting.

Which is very primal, don’t you think? Everyone gathered around, tearing into flesh, pretending it’s wholesome. ”

His laugh is nervous, but at least it’s a laugh. I beam at him, proud of myself for being charming. See? Normal girl. Totally normal.

I spear another bite, sauce clinging like coagulated blood, and my brain helpfully supplies an image of someone slipping on it and cracking their head open on the marble floor.

Except instead of blood spilling out, it’s an army of thousands of little red spiders that instantly go on a murder rampage.

Then suddenly I’m in my own little horror movie, and me and Mr. Saltine-Cracker over here have to find a way to escape, but-

Dammit. It’s always like this—my thoughts spiral down the rabbit hole, except instead of rabbits it’s corpses. Still, I hum happily as I chew.