Chapter Twenty-Three
Don’t Knock
A year has passed since I lured Brent to his death in the bar alley. That night changed everything for me.
I misjudged him, which taught me a valuable lesson. Just because someone acts like a gentleman doesn’t mean they are.
Things can change in the blink of an eye, especially when someone expects to get something out of you, and you reject them. I see things differently now when I meet people or see them in public. Even perfect strangers aren’t safe from my internal thoughts. Every time I see someone doing something kind for another, I always wonder, what’s their motive? Is that guy holding the door for the lady to be friendly, or is it because he wants to get a second look at her ass as she passes through the doorway?
Even when I see two people interacting who seem to know each other well, I find myself focusing on their body language, checking for subtle hints of deception.
After dealing with a wave of ups and downs, going from having a clean house and creating a bunch of art to sitting on the couch and letting my apartment fall into disarray and then back again, I concluded that no one else matters. Other people, in general, are beneath me. They don’t have a demon who’s a flame away from sucking out their souls for something I perceive as sinful.
I’m the one who has literally gone through hell and back. I’m the one who has been beaten, raped, and drugged. I’m the one who is more powerful because of it.
Because of him.
He sees it too. The way he looks at me has changed as well. Not in a loving way, more like I’m proud of what I created kind of way. It’s sinister, and I love it.
Mastyx and I have fallen into a routine. One that, despite the pain it causes and the injuries I endure, I’ve grown fond of. I find myself longing for him constantly—the heat of his clawed hands on my thighs, the warmth his body brings me on these cold winter evenings.
He never stays for long. I lure my mark, call Mastyx to me, and he takes what he wants from them and from me. Sometimes there’s aftercare, which I look forward to, but not always. At times, it seems as though he’s in a hurry to return to hell. Perhaps he’s eager to gloat about his new face, the one taken by the most recent doomed soul I’ve brought him.
In the time it’s taken for me to go from hating him to our current status, I’ve saved enough money from my art to put a down payment on a house. I now have thousands of followers on social media and a backlog of artwork requests. With every death I am responsible for, inspiration seems to find me, and the creations that follow have stirred the art world, drawing the attention of a local community arts center, which has requested a full display of my work for its next annual art expo. Their events draw thousands of people from hundreds of miles away and expand over multiple blocks. One of the main streets through downtown remains closed for the three-day weekend event, forcing the public to detour around the area.
When I discovered the house I wanted and bid on it, my parents weren’t exactly pleased. It’s too far away, Mom said. It doesn’t have curb appeal or any front windows, Dad said. Butbecause of the unique style of the design, it sat on the market for an unprecedented amount of time, and the price just kept dropping. How could I resist?
I close the door behind my parents and lean against it. Finally, the house I closed on a few days ago is empty except for me. They’ve been with me all day, unpacking boxes, putting things away, and schooling me on the ins and outs of homeownership. My dad fixed a dripping faucet, tightened a few loose knobs, verified the fireplace was in working order, and made sure it was clean before they left.
The fireplace.
I still remember the first time I toured the house. The minute I spotted the ornate fireplace in the living room, with its carved marble, beautiful oak, and iron insert, something stirred inside me, and my loins screamed for attention. I could feel Mastyx’s closeness at that moment, even though the fire inside wasn’t lit.
Although the house is small, it’s just enough for me, two bedrooms and one bathroom, with an efficient kitchen and a small island. From the kitchen, I can see the living room, my bedroom and office, all at once. A direct line of sight to each room, depending on which way I turn my head. Off to the far right side, a door that leads to a back porch, and on the other side, a small pantry. The second bedroom is set up as my office space and craft room.
My apron dangles from a coat hook near the door. I didn’t want to get a job; my art pays for everything, but I knew that, to get a mortgage on this place without my parents’ help, I’d need a consistent income.
Once I started working at the deli not far from here, it didn’t take long for me to rise from deli assistant to deli manager. Customers raved about my perfect slices and charming personality. Not to mention that when the manager went on maternity leave three months after I started there, theygave me her job temporarily to run things, and I fell into the role as if it had always been meant for me. So, when she decided she’d rather be a stay-at-home mom, I was the obvious choice. And now, here I am, two days before my twentieth birthday, all moved into my first house, with a well-paying job, a beater in the driveway, and a demon for a boyfriend.
Boyfriend. It’s weird when I call him that, but what else would I call him?
I’m just happy at this point to not have to commute so far to work. Driving almost an hour back and forth from my apartment was getting to be too much. I would have chosen something closer to my apartment, but Wahalla is where I wanted to be on account of the city’s history. They have the highest rate of missing persons than anywhere else in the U.S., so what’s a few more?
I had to take a detour on my way to work one day, and it took me right by this house. I knew the moment I saw it that it was meant to be mine. The space between neighbors was ample, almost a whole other house could fit between us, and the front yard has a small fence, a long sidewalk, and, most importantly, it has a lot of character and charm, with detailed millwork around the porch roof and columns. The porch is welcoming but not spacious, just enough room for a chair and a small table if I choose to sit outside. On either side of the steps, red daylilies bloom, drawing attention away from the windowless front. And the door…gorgeous, and heavy mahogany with vines and leaves carved into it.
It almost felt like it was inviting me in—calling to me.
The neighbors have been overly friendly, taking every opportunity to strike up a conversation and even going so far as to find excuses to leave their homes when I step outside. I keep conversations short and uninformative. The last thing I need is to make new friends and have them stop by unannounced. I’veliterally been their new neighbor for less than twelve hours, and I’ve had two casseroles and three plates of cookies dropped off. Jesus, do people really eat strangers’ food like this around here?
One of the casseroles has a dog’s hair trapped beneath the Saran Wrap. I gag and frown. Come on, people, lint-roll your clothes before cooking.
I scrape both casseroles into the garbage, along with the cookies. I’m not a huge fan of sweets to begin with, but raisin cookies are my least favorite.
Blech.
After a day of relentless knocking, doorbell ringing and uninvited visitors, I decided I needed a sign. I paint one of my wooden planks outside, and once it’s no longer tacky, I add the words ‘Don’t Knock’ in white paint before setting it on top of the washer in my laundry room to dry. I don’t mind the doorbell as much, but the incessant banging on my beautifully carved door will eventually create a wear mark.
I suck in a sharp breath and let it out just as quickly, then kick off my shoes, grab the remote, and sink into my oversized couch cushions, covering my lower body with a throw. The channels flick from one to the next, nothing really catching my attention. I toss the remote over to the coffee table, leaving the news channel on and blow out a long-winded sigh. Finally, I can relax.
