Chapter 3 Velra
Velra
Ican’t shake the chills that seem to persistently run across my skin.
It’s as though there’s a constant draft whipping through the ancient walls of this home.
I curl my arms around myself. It’s as if I’ve been thrown into an ice bath, the way my body shakes and shivers.
Some suggest that’s a sign that a ghost is near.
When I close my eyes, I can almost feel the unholy gaze of a ghostly apparition watching me from the shadows.
But when I open my eyes back up, there’s nothing there.
My mind is playing tricks on me in this storm.
“Ugh, this wine is terrible,” Carey groans after taking a long pull of the liquid. It stains her lips and teeth red. My core clenches at the sight.
The tight bodice of her pretty pink dress is wrapped tightly around her front.
Even in the low light of the flickering candles, I can see the stiff peaks of her nipples pushing at the thin fabric.
Her blonde hair cascades down around the curve of her chest, shimmering and straight and lovely.
I wonder what it would be like to be so effortlessly attractive?
To wake up and just have perfectly soft, straight hair and fresh, dewy skin. It must be nice to be a pretty girl.
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” I sing-song as I take a large gulp of my own and drown my envious musings with the sharp burn of alcohol.
The wine isn’t very good. It’s some spiced shit we found in a cabinet.
Most likely, it’s ancient and more than expired.
But at this point, alcohol is alcohol. We already consumed most of the cinnamon whiskey that we brought with us for the weekend.
Just looking at the nearly empty bottle on the counter makes bile rise in my esophagus.
Definitely drank too much of that this trip.
Carey giggles before taking another long sip. “True, and if we’re gonna be stuck here, might as well drain my sorrow about my lost dicking.”
I scowl as I turn back around to add more of the thick, deep red liquid to my goblet.
Yes, goblet, because even the glassware at this vacation rental is vintage gothic.
I’d honestly be impressed if I weren’t so consumed with my annoyance at Carey.
Why does it always have to be about her?
About how amazing her life is? About how great her next guy is?
“She deserves pain, little morsel,” the same feminine voice whispers against the shell of my ear.
I spin, but again, there’s no one there.
Just the dark kitchen with its ornate wooden cabinets, dark stone counters, and cold tile floor.
It’s beautiful, but definitely not modern.
There’s no ‘open concept’ here. Each room is completely separate from the rest, creating the feeling of being trapped in a maze of rooms and hallways.
The peaked arch doorway that leads to the rest of the house is empty, and only darkness lies beyond.
A loud crack of thunder shakes the house. The porcelain rattles in the cabinets behind me. Then silence—as if the house is empty. But I know it’s not.
“Fuck, this storm is bad,” Carey states from where she’s perched on the counter. Her legs dangle over the edge, heels hitting the wooden cabinet as she lightly swings each foot back and forth.
“Mr. Venom said tonight was supposed to be the worst of it,” I remind her before taking another sip of wine. The spices burn slightly as they travel down my esophagus, but I warm instantly once the wine hits my stomach.
“What the fuck kind of name is Rutherford anyway?” She slurs her words slightly as the alcohol begins to take effect.
Rutherford Venom is the owner of this macabre monstrosity of a vacation rental.
Most of our communication had been through email in order to book the house, but he’d called the landline earlier today to warn of the storm and to let us know he was headed up this direction to make sure the basement didn’t flood in the storm.
That was before the power went out, before the phone lines went down, before we were trapped.
“He seems nice,” I shrug and move to lean against the kitchen island facing Carey.
The stone counter is solid and cold against my back, cooling my heated skin. I stare across the space at my friend. Carey’s legs are spread, I notice as I glance down at her thighs. Her heels keep kicking the kitchen counter.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
“Yeah, I’m sure a man named Rutherford who lives in a creepy fucking haunted house is a real chill guy.”
Carey laughs at her own joke before taking another drink from her goblet.
A drop slips from the corner of her lip.
I watch as the blood red liquid slides down her face, streaking her perfect skin scarlet.
The drop drips from her chin down to her chest, trailing a path right into the curve of her breasts.
A bright red stain blooms on the pale pink fabric of her dress. My core twists with need.
“Shit!” Carey exclaims as she notices the stain.
Swiftly jumping down to the floor, she hurries over to the kitchen sink. As she does, her goblet tips and falls over. Red liquid pools on the counter, a sea of sweetness spilling over onto the floor. It drips down onto the tile below.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
My eyes flash back to Carey as the pipes groan before the kitchen sink turns on.
She’s standing nearly nude. Her dress has been torn off, leaving her in just a pair of lace panties.
They’re pure white. I nearly scoff, but manage to hold it in.
Her back is to me, the soft glow of the candles casting distorted shadows across the expanse of pristine flesh.
Not a mole, not a mark, not a single thing mars her perfect skin.
She has the dress in her hand, attempting to wash away the offending red stain.
“Fuck! I love this dress,” she whines.
“It’s just a dress,” I remind her.
She stops scrubbing, turning to glare at me over her shoulder.
I can’t help but let my gaze wander lower to the swell of her round tits.
She’s still mostly turned away, but from here, I can make out just a bit of her dusty pink nipple.
I lick my lips to wet them. In the low light of the candles' glow, I can barely make out the stiffened peak. I want more. I crave more.
What? No—no, I don’t. I shake off the ridiculous thought. This wine must be stronger than I thought.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
“It was expensive,” she finally sighs as she returns to washing off the fabric. “And it’s my favorite.”
My annoyance softens. A pang of regret fills me, and I swallow down the growing tension between us.
Placing my wine down, carefully so as not to add to the mess, I make my way over to her.
I place my arms around her waist, hugging her against me.
I bring her back to my front and just hold her for a moment.
She smells like warm vanilla. It’s comforting.
I feel her muscles relax after a moment.
“You’re right,” I relent. “It’s a lovely dress. And you look great in it.”
She lets out a soft sigh, her hand caressing mine around her waist and pulling me in tighter. “I think we’re just going a little stir crazy in here with the storm. I’m sorry if I was snippy. Love you, V.”
“Love you too, C,” I reply with the familiar nicknames, warming something inside me.
We stand in comfortable silence for a moment, enjoying the warmth of the other for as long as we can. Moments like this between us are becoming fewer; a cavernous hole is growing, festering with the rot of envy and contempt, ruining the love we once shared for each other.
“Should we clean up the wine and head back upstairs?” I ask as I place a small kiss to the crook of her neck. Beneath the heated skin of my lips, I feel the steady thrum of her pulse. Throbbing, beating, calling to me.
I feel it again—the presence. As if eyes are watching me and fingers are gliding down the soft skin of my back beneath my shirt.
“Sure,” she slips from my grasp, taking her warmth with her. She slides the dress over her head again, covering herself. “I’ll refill our glasses with what’s left, and you clean up the spill?”
Annoyance pricks at me. Of course Miss Priss won’t get on her knees and clean up the mess that she made.
“Do you want her on her knees for you?” The same feminine voice whispers in my ear.
I don’t turn this time. I don’t need to. There won’t be anyone there.
Drip. Drip. Drop.
“V, hello? Are you gonna clean up that wine?” Carey’s voice snaps me back to the present.
“Wha—Oh, yeah. Sorry,” I mumble as I search through cabinets until I find an ancient looking dish towel. The corners are aged and frayed, the white fabric nearly gray. Surely no one will mind if I use this rag to mop up the spill.
Carey has already grabbed the goblet, so I set to work mopping up the wine on the counter first. The red liquid immediately soaks the towel, staining it a deep shade of scarlet.
Once the counters are clear, I bend down to my knees on the floor.
The wine has dripped off the counter and pooled into a puddle of red on the floor.
Staring into the liquid on the dark tile, two eyes stare back at me, my own dark irises reflected in the surface of the spill.
“Are you ready to play, my little morsel?” The feminine voice whispers as a second set of eyes appears within the surface of the spilled wine. These ones are a glowing set of silver irises that seem to burn into my very soul.
“Velra?” Carey calls, but I barely hear her; I’m too entranced by the mercurial glow of the eyes that are watching me.
“Such a beautiful little treat,” the voice coos as the feeling of nails running along my spine intensifies. “I can’t wait to taste you.”
“Velra!” Carey shrieks as she throws a paper towel in the puddle beneath me.
When the ripples fade, the eyes are gone.
“What?” I snarl as I snap my face up to meet her gaze. Carey has the sense to look almost taken aback by my annoyance.
“Come on, let’s go,” she says, this time softer though. A plea, not a demand.
Relenting, I mop up the pool of red and stand back up. Throwing the towel in the sink, I rinse off my hands under the cool water of the faucet. My body thrums with electric energy. When done, I spin back around to find Carey waiting for me, a wine glass in each hand.
“Ready?” she asks as her blue eyes assess me.
“Yes,” I nod as I move to follow her. “I think I have a great idea of what we can do next to pass the time.”
A slow smirk spreads across my face as I follow her from the room and into the darkness of this hell house.