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“What do you say?” he teased as he stood up, looming over me with his frightening height.

“Thank you, Wayne. I love it,” I said with a small smile as I took the gift from his hand.

“Give me a kiss.” I didn’t hesitate to lean up on my tippy toes and connect our lips, a groan rumbling from his chest as he smacked my arse. “Slice me another piece. I wanna make those coasters you saw in that magazine,” he said, referring to the Woman’s Day magazine that had the pattern for coasters I'd shown him two months ago. I moved over to the hanging flesh, clenching the rusty blade in my hand to disguise the tremble. No matter how many times I’d carved the desiccated skin, I was still petrified of it.

I didn’t dare think about who it was.

I used to.

That was a mistake.

The knowledge that I just saw this person alive still bothered me. I’d heard their pleas for help, and been the one at the end of their ire every morning. I let them vent and call me every name under the sun. But I never uttered a word or shared my own grievances. I didn’t tell them anything. It was better that way.

The skin on the line was dry at the edges, heavier in the middle, and flies scattered when I pulled at it. I could feel the rotten flesh caking underneath my fingernails. The scent fumigating was indescribable as I pulled the flesh taut to haphazardly cut a large piece. I held my breath, but tasted it nonetheless as the blade sliced through the flesh. I bit back a whimper as coagulated blood landed on my exposed toes. I carried the chunk over to the bench and placed the slab in front of Wayne. He had a round cookie cutter ready and a familiar glint of darkness in his hooded eyes.

“I just wanna go home…please…”

The man who Wayne abducted two months ago continued to plead for his life from where he was chained to the wall, a complete waste of energy he wouldn’t have for much longer. From the moment they were kidnapped, they were already dead—even as they sat there, chained, begging to be free, their heart still beating and their lungs still breathing. Outside of these four walls, their family was already grieving, impatiently waiting for that call that confirmed the body of their loved one was found, their identity stripped and stolen, left to rot and fester in the summer heat.

“You know what? I’ll do it after dinner,” Wayne said as he stood up, the chair creaking as he pushed it back to drape his heavy arm across my shoulders. “Don’t wanna stay down here too long when you look so gorgeous today.” He caressed my hair, his bloody hands leaving trails of crimson in their path. I swallowed down the bile that threatened to erupt and managed a smile. Wrapping my arms around his thick waist, I looked up at him with my chin resting on his chest.

“Can we….maybe watch a movie tonight?”

VHS tapes of old films were my only escape from this world. An hour or two spent in front of the television instead of down here, surrounded by death, was one of the few things that kept me going most days.

“We can do anything you want, Angel,” he promised, his pungent breath making my stomach clench. Wayne was the equivalent of a killer whale: large, deadly, and calculated. His very presence, let alone touching him, made me sick with disgust and grief, a feeling so dark and twisted, its black wool woven into my veins. But I had no other choice.

When I stared into his eyes, all I could see was the blank stare of death, piercing my soul if I stared too long. I looked away and rested my head on his chest, swaying as Wayne hummed a tune, his chest vibrating against my cheek, and I let myself sink into it, just for a second. Because if I didn’t think too hard, I could almost…

“I missed you,” Jackson said against my temple as his hand traced shapes on my lower back I couldn’t quite follow.

“I missed you too,” I murmured against his chest, his heartbeat drumming against my cheek as we swayed to the⁠—

“Let me out of here, you fucking piece of shit!” the man on the mattress screamed, and the world snapped back into place. My eyes flew open as Wayne stiffened in my hold.

“Wayne, please,” I begged, not wanting another ruined movie night. Wayne cursed and roughly pushed me aside, making me stumble into the wall, scraping my knuckles against the harsh brick.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, cunt?” he growled as he grabbed the front of the man’s greasy hair and smashed his head back into the brick behind him, screaming as his skull cracked against it. I drowned out his cries and plucked up the gift Wayne just finished, absentmindedly brushing my thumb over the centre. The feeling was strange. It wasn’t as soft as you'd expect; instead, it was rough and textured. I closed my eyes as I heard an echo of Liam's accented voice in my mind.

He was a good man. I thought, at least. He never swore or cursed me out, only tried to coax me to talk numerous times after he introduced himself the second night, even though I ignored him like I was supposed to. But…he was nice to me. So I’ll cherish this piece. I kept my head down as I passed by Wayne who was in the process of unchaining the man to hang him up from the wooden beam. My chain dragged behind me, a soft metal song I’d trained myself not to hear.

“Have dinner ready before I come up,” Wayne demanded as he removed his belt. I climbed the stairs two at a time and pushed open the basement door, pulling the rest of my chain in and closing it shut behind me, making sure it clicked into place. The house was quieter up here, but not silent. Never silent. I hesitantly wandered down the halls, passing by the pieces created out of past victims hanging all around me, their souls trapped within the frames.

I was terrified to be in the home alone.

Sometimes I heard things: footsteps, whispers, something brushing past me when nothing was there. I tried to tell Wayne once, but he said it was all in my head. I lingered on a piece that Wayne painted with the blood of a teenager who had fascinating eyes—one blue, one green. My naked silhouette loomed over me, thick intricate strokes that were supposed to be the contours of my body. I trailed my fingers over the dusty glass, tracing the details with a tremor in my hand.

I was his muse, Wayne. I’d learnt in the early days that he’d had an obsession with me. Claimed he had loved me from the moment we moved in next door. I was two—he was forty-four. Obviously as a child I had no idea, and as a teenager I had been completely oblivious to his affections, too enwrapped with Jackson to notice the older man’s attention. Too young and naive to know his innocent touches on my shoulders or cheeks were more than that of a father figure.

If only I could go back in time and tell her.

Tell the younger me to stay away from him—stay far, far away from the man with the blue eyes and the charming smile. Because he was not what he seemed, and now I was paying the price for it.

CHAPTER FOUR

EVIE

Seven Years Ago