Chapter Sixteen
Fuck. My. Life.
I roll onto my side, hacking up air. My eyes are burning, my balls staging a full-blown mutiny, and yeah—those two just ditched me for dead.
Classic fucking Payton. Should’ve known she’d use that pepper spray on me.
I spit out a bitter glob.
Vanessa’s leer mocks me. ‘You poor dumpster fire. Should’ve stuck to jerking off in your sad little dungeon.’
Not wrong.
I snatch her phone off the ground and punch the screen awake. No signal. Of course not.
Congrats! You made it. Just in time.
Well-fucking-played. The bastard set me up. Gutted Vanessa, strung her up, used her body like bait to lure Payton straight to me. But why make me the villain in her eyes?
Guess we’re the main fucking act.
I drag my sorry carcass upright. Got to move.
The real psycho—the one with a flair for goddamn stagecraft—just turned Payton against me. The only person who could keep her alive.
I pocket the phone. Options?
Flush my fucking eyeballs out. Find Payton before she becomes a human shish kebab.
First—the mask. My last shred of dignity. Or camouflage. Somehow, it ended up smack-dab underneath Vanessa.
I scoop it up. Wipe the leaves and what’s hopefully mud off the chin. The right eye slit’s cracked—courtesy of the brat across the street.
Next time you try to save her life, bring a gas mask. At least make sure her hands and legs are bound first.
I zigzag toward the treeline, blinking through the acid eating my corneas. Smeared edges. Looming shadows. And a root somewhere waiting to turn my face into road pizza.
I lurch past a mirage of porta-potties. Stagger into a clearing.
Black trailer. Gothic script scrawled across its side: cleanse your filth.
The door hangs open. Inviting as a bear trap. Bergamot and bleach slap me in the face, undercut by something sweetly rancid beneath. Still, I’ll take it over Eau de Outhouse. Or the dead girl’s stench still clinging to my fingers.
I stumble inside.
First, eyeballs. Second, Payton. Third? Murder whoever designed this gothic fuckery.
The faucet coughs out water. Clear at first, then searing pink as it hits my palms.
The soap dispenser oozes something thick. The color of raw meat.
I scrub anyway. Better her blood than mine.
The first lens peels free with a burn so sharp I swear my vision whites out. The second one clings like it wants to fuse there forever. After a fucking eternity, I manage to drag the damn thing loose, blinking against the sting.
I dunk my head under the faucet and gulp mouthfuls of the stream—cool and sweet enough to fool me into thinking, just for one second, I’m not totally fucked.
What I wouldn’t give for a swig of that ‘holy water’ I shoved down Trevor’s throat. Hopefully, it’s working. Someone other than the fuckface playing god should get a win tonight.
My hands shake as I scrape at the filth. Chemical burn eating my nerve endings. Probably.
I straighten, water sluicing down my neck. Blink at the mirror.
I look like roadkill in a rainstorm. Bloodshot eyes. Busted pride. A five o’clock shadow fit for a mugshot.
I fish a fresh pair of lenses from the case in my pocket. Dumb move, maybe, but I can’t hunt half-blind. The first one slides in with a motherfucking sting. The second one? Glass in an open wound. My eyes water, blur, then sharpen around the neon above me.
YOUR REFLECTION LIES.
“So does everyone else.” I wipe my face with a towel. Smells like eucalyptus. And arson.
Now what?
Hunt down the girl—penance for her defiance. Make her regret every smirk, every stunt, every damn thing she did to taunt and tease and needle you into some pitiful semblance of life.
Put that smart mouth to better use. Paint her thighs with the bruises she earned.
Fuck her into repentance. Then leave her bare and shaking. A warning. A masterpiece.
I shake my head. The fuck? No. Get her out.
Something shifts in the glass. Behind me.
I jerk my head around. Nothing.
Back to the mirror.
A twitch of dark eyes catches mine before the glass swallows it whole.
Just my nerves.
Or not. Maybe someone’s in one of the stalls.
The trailer’s getting warm. Too warm. My limbs feel loose, my thoughts syrupy—until a damp heat licks the back of my neck.
I spin around.
Nothing.
But the air still reeks of wet fur and mockery.
I should be pissed. I am pissed.
Payton Reed blasted me with that eye-melting shit. Maimed my boys. After I spent all night playing fucking knight in a cheap mask.
A laugh slips out. Too loud in this tiny box.
“Oh, you’re so dead, little fox.”
I bark out another laugh and stumble toward the door, tripping over the plush bullshit. Since when is walking this hard?
My head spins. Nothing fits right. Not the ache behind my eyes, not the laughter frothing out of me.
The sink’s edge bites into my palms as I steady myself. The mirror swims in my vision—
A flicker of pink in the reflection—a snout?
My gut clenches. I whirl around.
Nothing. Just those stupid thorn-framed mirrors and velvet black walls pressing in. The air’s thicker now. Sweet. Cloying.
Another laugh bubbles up—almost like a sob.
“Okay. This is fine. You’re fine.”
My voice sounds different. Loose around the edges.
I’m not drunk.
Am I?
The mirror twitches again—a flash of black beady eyes.
Gone before I can focus.
Just crawl back under your rock. Let the lights fade out. Stop fighting.
No. Find Payton.
A sound rumbles deep in my chest—like hinges grinding inside my skull. Thinking hurts. Breathing hurts.
The door. Get to the fucking door.
My legs don’t listen. I lurch sideways, shoulder crashing into a vanity.
Little bottles of Sinful Cherry and Virgin’s Bite lip balm scatter everywhere.
Virgin’s Bite. Perfect.
Except she’s not a virgin, is she? She’s yours.
“Damn right.” That crooked laughter rattles the vanity.
Come on, move. You’re not this weak.
The mirror shudders. This time, I see it clearly—a figure lurking behind me. Porcine snout. Glossy black eyes.
Not real. Not real. Not—
The door.
I reach for the handle twice before I realize my hand’s already on it.
Locked. Of course it’s locked.
“Hilarious,” I slur, kicking it.
My leg moves too slow—as if I’m underwater, dreaming with my eyes open.
My head snaps to the vents.
Small. Discreet. Whatever’s drifting out of them now … it’s not bergamot.
I throw my weight against the damn door. Once. Twice. The frame shudders but holds.
Behind me, a wet snuffling sound.
“Nope.” A giggle leaks out—high, manic, giddy. “Nope, nope, nope …”
Glass fractures. The snout grins wider in every jagged piece.
YOUR REFLECTION LIES.
YOUR GONNA SCREAM.
YOUR GONNA DIE.
I blink. Shake my head.
YOU’RE ALREADY DEAD.
I laugh. Maybe I am.
The walls are pulsing. A faint buzzing in my ears—mosquitoes? No, giggling. Not mine. It’s coming from above. Inside the vents.
Think.
Move.
Don’t fucking die here.
I scrabble at the handle. Useless. Pepper burn on my tongue. Every breath sawing glass down my throat.
Not like this. Not choking on my own spit in some glorified trailer.
The candelabra. Iron. Heavy. Probably bolted down by the same pretentious fuck who thought ‘Cleanse Your Filth’ was a cute theme for a murder shack.
I wrench it free, tendons screaming.
First swing.
The iron glances off the doorframe near the hinges—wrong angle. The jolt up my arms rattles my teeth. My shoulder pops. Pain down my spine. I crash into the sink.
Get up. Get. The. Fuck. Up.
Second swing.
This time, I aim lower—where the lock should be.
crack.
The wood splinters. Something metal pings inside the wall. Door opens a finger’s width—real air—then snaps shut.
Almost.
Liquid down my temple. Sweat. Blood. Water. Doesn’t matter.
Something’s behind me.
Don’t turn around.
But the mirror’s already showing me.
The thing has its snout pressed against the glass, fogging it with each wet exhale. Black beady eyes lock onto mine in the reflection.
“Come play with me,” it whispers.
The words crawl over my neck.
“Don’t you wanna fuck me?”
Third swing.
I pour everything into it—every ounce of rage, every fucking second I’ve spent watching Payton through my screens, every ‘Good morning, neighbor’ I bit back.
The candelabra shrieks through the air—
boom.
One more.
boom.
The door explodes outward. Night air rushes in.
Freedom.
I tumble after it but eat gravel instead, lungs burning like I’ve been breathing knives.
Move. Run. Find her—
Leaves on my cheeks. Smell of earth … gasoline.
Boots step into view. Polished black. Laces neatly tied.
A porcine snout blots out the moon as it bends down.
Up close, the mask looks like an ugly patchwork of skin. There’s something in its gloved paw. A needle.
“Shhh,” it coos, stroking my hair like I do with Max after a nightmare. “Just a little nap.”
The prick in my neck burns.
The trees blur. Stars gutter out. My heart kicks—one last fuck you.
If I get up, I’m skinning that pig.