Chapter 4 #2
I press my fingers to the planchette, not too seriously, just enough to feel it hum faintly against the pads of my fingers. Maybe it’s the vodka. Maybe it’s my heartbeat ricocheting against my ribs like it’s trying to break out and dance naked in the cemetery.
“Silas Bonehead Boone,” I intone, as solemn as I can manage while cross-legged in my skimpy nightgown. “Did you die tragically under a horse? If yes, point to the word. If no, spell butt.”
The planchette doesn’t move. I giggle, leaning over until my hair spills across the letters.
“Declan Skully Cross,” I say next, voice lighter. “Eyeliner boy. Tragic death? Were you hot or just coked out? Don’t lie, I’ll know.”
Still nothing.
Finally, I glance at Marrow, his headstone dripping with ivy like it’s blushing. My lips tug sideways. “And you, Mr. Sebastian Marrow Vale…I bet you were the kind of man who wrote love letters in your own blood. Did your family hide the silverware when you got dramatic?”
The board stays silent, plastic planchette waiting under my fingertips.
I sigh, flop back onto the blanket, and stare at the sky. “You guys are boring dates, you know that? At least the last one bought me dinner before he bolted. You just sit there after I do all the work. Quiet. Judgy.” My words are syrupy and drunk, but they wobble at the edges, too.
The silence in the cemetery is heavy. Not dead heavy. Listening heavy.
“Ugh,” My arms and legs go boneless to the ground beside me as I groan, my nightgown riding up. “You know, I didn’t even get an orgasm last night before he ditched. Now I’ve been on edge all day. It’s tragic really!”
“Tragic!” I cry louder, throwing an arm over my eyes like a fainting starlet. The other hand still rests on the planchette, and I swear it trembles under my fingers like it’s laughing at me.
“I deserve better,” I mutter, squirming against the blanket, the velvet hot under my thighs. “A girl puts in the work—hair, tits, personality cult of Halloween—and what does she get? Half a dinner date and a man-shaped puddle of nerves who can’t last past a couple tiny little jumpscares.”
My nightgown has ridden up high and I can feel the cool creep of fog curling right against my bare skin. The sensation makes me gasp, then laugh at myself, then gasp again when my thighs squeeze tighter.
“Ohhh,” I giggle, breathless, tugging the hem of my nightgown higher instead of fixing it. “That’s better. Isn’t this better, boys? Do I look prettier when I’m desperate?”
Bonehead doesn’t answer. Skully doesn’t blink. Marrow rustles faintly in the ivy, and my drunk brain decides that it is approval.
I drag my hand down from the planchette to my own thigh, nails tracing the soft skin there. “You’d appreciate me, wouldn’t you?” I ask the graves, voice sing-song, but shaky. “You wouldn’t run. You’d stay. You’d watch.”
My fingers drift higher, pressing lightly, teasing. My giggle stutters into a moan I bite down to stifle too late. The fog thickens, swirling in time with my hand, like the whole cemetery is holding its breath.
I tilt my head back, doll-eyes rolling skyward, lipstick smeared, laugh breaking into another shaky whimper. “Maybe if I come hard enough, I’ll raise the dead. Trick-or-treat, bitches.”
The fog dances around me like it’s trying to get in on the action, but I barely notice anymore. My other hand is busy, sliding beneath lace, finding that aching heat I’ve been carrying since dinner last night.
“God,” I groan, breathless, rocking against my fingers. “Why do men always tap out before dessert? I’m a snack, damn it.”
My laugh shudders into a whimper as I circle harder, thighs flexing, nightgown bunched up shamelessly around my waist. The fog seems thicker here, damp and cool on my flushed skin. It curls up between my legs like smoke chasing a flame, and I can’t tell if I’m imagining the way it makes me twitch.
“You like this, don’t you?” I pant, eyes fluttering shut.
“Bonehead, you’d hold me down while you fuck me like you own me.
Skully, you’d take my ass like you have a right to it.
Marrow…” My voice dips, sweet and sultry.
“You’d mentally write a poem about the way I come while you shove your dick down my throat. ”
The silence answers nothing, but it feels full. Heavy. Like three pairs of unseen eyes are fixed on me, waiting to see how far I’ll go.
I moan louder, grinding down into my hand, losing rhythm in the drunk, desperate push for release. Glitter sticks to my flushed skin. My breath fogs the air above me, sharp and ragged.
“Fuck,” I laugh, high and frantic. “Do you like what you see, boys?”
The planchette skitters suddenly across the board, scratching audibly as it goes. One sharp drag to Yes.
My hips jerk, pleasure tightening like a noose in my gut. I gasp, shudder, curl around myself, my hand working faster.
“Y—e—ohhh God-”
And that’s it. It snaps, hot and sharp. My cry echoes too loud in the cemetery, raw and messy, my body trembling apart on the velvet blanket.
When the wave finally ebbs, I collapse back, chest heaving, hair sticking to my damp forehead. The night is still. Too still.
My laugh limps out of me, breathless, cracked down the middle. “Well,” I pant at the headstones, “that was…teamwork.”
No answer. Just the kind of silence that feels alive, like the air itself is holding its breath. It almost feels like time itself has been paused. I’m dizzy. Overwhelmed. Practically swaying.
It feels…weird.
Time resumes, the air flows once more, my head clears.
Then—crunch.
I jerk upright, nightgown riding dangerously high, hair wild and sticky with glitter. My doll-eyes sweep the mist, heart hammering against my ribs.
Another crunch. Heavier this time, like a foot, like weight. Then a faint scrape like clacking.
No. Lots of clacking. Moving closer. Louder.
The fog stirs. Shapes thicken inside it. Three of them. Tall, angular, wrong.