I walk to the closet and grab the tent, throwing the strap over my shoulder. As I pass Miranda, I glance at her, a telling smile on my face. "By the way, be up and ready by nine tomorrow. Janine will be by to grab you." I face forward and continue out of the office. Without turning around, I continue, "I've got a full spa day scheduled for you in Asheville: massage, facial, the works. Enjoy!"
With that, I open the front door and make my way out, hoping to hell my hooks have started to dig in.
The fire crackles loudly in the still night air. Its warmth makes the forty-degree temperature irrelevant. Seated in a rocker just in front of the tent, I hold my hands to the fire. My eyes scan the cabin windows, waiting impatiently for the lights to turn out. I glance at my watch. Eleven o’clock. She should be asleep at any point now, knowing she has the spa in the morning. My nervous rocking creates a chorus of crunching leaves beneath my chair. The sound worms its way into my brain, but I can't stop rocking. I will the lights to turn off. But they don't.
Just as the tension begins to threaten my sanity, the lights do go out, and the jolt of adrenaline that surges through my body is similar to jumping out of an airplane for the first time—a relentless, nerve-shattering strike of equal parts panic and pleasure.
Standing from the rocker, I scan the windows as I back up to the tent. I make my way around the tent and to the shed directly behind it. Retrieving the key from my pocket, I unlock the bottom padlock then put in the combination to the top lock. The wind picks up, sending a shiver down my spine. There's something odd about being here and doing this with someone not a hundred yards away. I take one last glance around the tent toward the windows. The lights are still off. All is quiet and calm.
I open the door slowly, and I'm met immediately with the sound of muffled sobbing. I step into the shed, closing the door behind me, and I flip on the lights.
The whore's eyes bat in reaction to the flood of fluorescent light since it’s been a day since she was last exposed to it. Her naked body squirms beneath the restraints but to no real effect. Her breathing picks up, pushing and pulling the duct tape over her mouth—in, out, in, out—with each wrangled breath. When her eyes finally adjust and they fixate on me with a look of absolute terror, the strike of adrenaline hits me again, racing from limb to limb like electricity.
It doesn't go away this time though. No, it spikes in intensity with each step I take toward her, with each time she flinches from my every movement. Inspiration will come… and it will come through pain. It will come through bloodshed.
I run a gloved finger slowly up the length of her body, tsking as I shake my head from side to side. "No, no, no, my dear. There's no use in crying." I stop at her nipple and hover my finger there for a moment before marking a pretend X over both of them. "Your fate has been decided. It was written long ago." I settle a hand against her throat and squeeze, just enough to drive the point home. I lean in, my lips against her ear, and whisper, "I am the executioner… and tonight—tonight, your number's been drawn."
“Dark in My Imagination” – of Verona
I can't sleep. Every noise, every creak and pop in this house leaves me unnerved.
Being in a stranger's house while he's camped out in his backyard—a stranger who isn't exactly that because for years you've all but worshipped him—is an odd feeling. A gust of wind howls around the corner of the house. The bare branches of the tree outside my window scratch against the pane. That noise makes me cringe.
I stare at the ceiling, watching the shadows from the limbs dance across it. There is no way I’m finding sleep any time soon. I roll onto my side and turn on the lamp before grabbing the strap of my satchel and hauling it up onto the bed. I dig through, looking for my plot book, but instead, I pull out Echoes of the Fall. This is one of my favorites of Edwin's books. My fingers slowly trace over his name. EA Mercer.
And isn't this something? Here I—little Miranda Cross—sit, snuggled down in his guest room bed, in the very house these words were written. I know what he looks like when he's pissed, when he smiles. I know what he smells like. I know things so many of his fucking readers would love to know, and something about holding this book in this very room is exhilarating.
I turn to the first chapter, my eyes poring over his words.
Her eyes bead with tears—worthless tears—as I wrap the duct tape around her pretty mouth. I'm not exactly sure why I cover their mouths like this. It's not like anyone would hear her pitiful screams coming from this cabin in the middle of the woods—
And my attention darts from the book to the window, all too aware of where I am right now. Chills splinter up my spine. I don't scare easily. In fact, for the most part, I thrive on fear.