Horrorscape Read online

  Her mother was eying her with a worried expression. “Blake sounds like a nice boy, and of course it should be safe if Lisa and James are both going.”

  Val's heart sank a little; this was not what she had been hoping to hear. Outright refusal would have been nice.

  “Besides,” her mother continued, in a light voice, “Eastwood is a wealthy area. Val might meet someone nice. And she'll have her cell phone.”

  “Mom. James and I haven't broken up yet!”

  Yet? Where did that come from?

  Luckily, her mother didn't pick up on it. “Sorry, honey. But you won't be dating James forever. You should keep your options open, that's all I'm saying.”

  “Val's not a gold-digger,” her father said sternly. “We didn't raise her to be that way.”

  “I'm not saying she is. I'm just saying it would be nice for her to meet some new kids—especially after what happened—and if one of them happens to be a boy, well…”

  “She's a big girl now,” her father said, surprising her. “She should be able to go to a party. God only knows, most kids her age have already gotten into drugs and sex, both. Val's a good girl with a good christian sense of right and wrong. She'll be able to take care of herself.”

  The unexpected praise brought color into Val's cheeks. On impulse, she hugged him. “Thanks, Daddy.”

  “Of course, Bunny,” he said, patting her back.

  “But what about you, Val? Do you want to go? You said you weren't sure.”

  “I've been getting the phone calls again—and yesterday, a creepy letter.”

  “In that case,” her mother said. “It might be good for you to get out, to be with friends.”

  “Really?”

  “It's far better than being alone. Your father and I might be going out that night, too.”

  “Just make sure you take your phone,” her father said.

  Neither of them went into the incident in greater detail, tiptoeing around it like a sleeping dragon instead. Val was relieved. Her earlier conversation with James had left her drained; she was grateful not to relive it.

  “I guess,” she sighed. “And I'll call if I need a ride.”

  “And tell that boyfriend of yours that if you don't return safely, I have—”

  “Robert, give the Remington a rest. She gets the point.”

  My first party.

  Back when things were normal, she had been to her friends' local affairs but had always known most, if not all, of the guests, whether they were acquaintances, friends-of-friends, or just people from track. Then the invitations had stopped. It was as if the incident had left her contaminated and everyone was afraid of catching what she had by association. Sophomore year had been a very lonely year.

  This would be different. The party was in a different neighborhood, with different kids: kids who wouldn't know her as Psycho Girl, or Psycho Slut. She'd just be an ordinary girl, one of many. She wouldn't know anybody there except for her own friends.

  Val paused. Funny. She didn't think that was supposed to be so fearsome.

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  The phone was silent: a sleeping predator that could be shaken awake at any second. Soon, very soon, it would be. The call he was expecting was a very important one.

  He lay beside the phone on his bed in the darkness, calmly breathing in the musty air. The house, and most of its belongings, had been obtained at a moment's notice from used stores—or from the goodness of his many brothers' and sisters' respective hearts.

  Blood is thicker than water.

  A shadow passed over his face. How true that was. No matter. He'd set the stage to his liking. All he had to do was wait for the opening scene.

  He toyed with the stem of the rose, letting it slide through his fingers until he was cupping the bloom in his palm. As glorious as the chase was, sometimes a gentler touch was required, grasping with a silk glove, not letting the intended feel the iron beneath until it was too late.

  His fingers contracted and the fragrant smell of crushed petals filled the room. A few slipped through the cage of his fingers and fluttered to his bare chest.

  Soon.

  The phone rang.

  He blinked lazily and turned over to reach for the phone, snapping it open.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes?” He was pleased to note a pause.

  “This is James—James Lewis. You sent me an invite.”

  “Ah, yes. I did.”

  Another pause.

  “Well, I got it.”

  “And you'll be able to come?”

  “Yes. And so can Blake, Lisa, and Val,” he said, lumping her name in with all the rest.

  “Val?” Enjoying the way her name sounded in his voice, rich and full and rounded, like blood, or a finely aged wine. “Hmm. I don't recall her name being on the guest list.”

  That would defeat the purpose of the game, wouldn't it? The boyfriend's ego wouldn't let him attend a party alone and Val—well, he wanted her skittish, but not so spooked that she would be too afraid to go to his little soiree.

  He had spent a long time on that letter, toying with the words, playing with them like a cat with a mouse. He wanted her to suspect, yes, but not to be certain. The unknown was far more deliciously terrifying than the known, and she did look so arousing when she was afraid.

  Do you like roses, Val? What about white jasmine?

  He'd been too eager before, in his foolish youth. Now that he had matured he was better able to rein in his impulses and appreciate the delay of gratification. Delay could be savored and seductive in and of itself. What was the hunt, after all, if not a delay of the capture?

  An annoying voice jerked him from these pleasant thoughts. “No. I guess she wasn't invited.”

  “Pity.”

  There was another silence, longer this time. “Does that mean she can't come?”

  “No, no, bring Val if you want to—just make sure she wears all black.”

  “All black?” His voice was wary. “Why? That wasn't on the invitation I got.”

  “I wonder why. It must have slipped my mind.”

  “Is this some kind of theme party?”

  “You might say that.”

  This time, when he spoke it was no longer a front of bravado but curious, inquiring, and—unless he was mistaken—perhaps a little frightened? His smile grew. Yes.

  “Who are you, dude? How do you know us? Do you go to our school?”

  “All will be revealed in good time,” he said softly. “Goodbye, James.”

  “What? How do you—wait—”

  He hung up the phone carefully and pushed himself up to a sitting position. Unruly black hair fell back against his neck and shoulders as he stretched, closing his eyes like a cat. A candle was burning on his desk and the flame danced as he moved closer. He picked up the remnants of the rose he'd been toying with and slowly fed it to the flames, watching as they greedily consumed the flower.

  Finished, he expunged the flame, filling the room with blackness. He went back to bed, this time to sleep. Everything was coming together so nicely.

  But first, a taste.

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  The Macarena chimed noisily from the confines of Val's backpack. In the quiet of her room, the sound was loud and frightening, especially after the way her nerves had been thoroughly unfurled by the business of those letters.

  She rooted through old homework until she found the phone beneath some crumpled sheet music. “James?”

  “Hey. I just got off the phone with our host.”

  “You actually spoke with him?” What did he sound like? Did he sound like Gavin?

  “Yeah. Somehow he left you off the guest list.” Val frowned as James quickly added, “He says it's still all right if you come, though.”

  How nice of him. “What's his name?” She found it difficult to believe someone would remember all three of her friends' names and still manage to overlook her. More than that, it was hurtful, so much so that it
might as well have been an intentional slight. Maybe it was.

  “That's the thing,” James was saying, “he wouldn't tell me. His name, I mean. His voice didn't sound familiar, either—certainly not like anyone I know.”

  A bad feeling brewed in the pit of her stomach. This time, it took more effort to quash. “Don't you think it's a little weird he wouldn't tell you who he was?”

  “I guess.” James seemed annoyed by her probing. “He said it was a theme party, so maybe it's an attempt at mystery. The theater geeks do stuff like that.”

  “What's the theme?”

  “No idea. Look, it's lame, but at least he's trying.”

  “James, I'm not really comfortable with this—”

  “Oh, that reminds me. He wants us to wear all black. Can't believe I almost forgot.”

  “Why—”

  “Don't ask, I've got no idea. Theme party, remember?” James let out a deprecating laugh. “I gotta go, Valentine. Pick you up tomorrow.”

  “But I don't—”

  He hung up before she could finish the thought. She set the cell phone down roughly on her nightstand. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately, cutting her off before she could get the last word in.

  For a moment, she considered calling him back and telling him point-blank that she didn't want to go. She even scrolled down to his name in her contacts list. Then she put down the phone and sighed.

  What was the point? She'd already decided to go. Calling him back now would just make her try to weasel out.

  She considered James's last instruction. Wear all black. She wondered why. Black was a color associated with the occult, wasn't it? It was October, true, but still too early for Halloween. Good God, what if he was a satanist?

  This isn't a horror movie, she reminded herself sternly. She laughed bitterly. Satanists? Really? That was silly thinking, even for you. Far more likely to be harmless eccentricity. Rich people were allowed to be a little crazy.

  “I don't even want to go,” she muttered.

  “Val? Did you say something?”

  “No, Mom. Just—just talking to myself.” Did she own anything black? She shuffled over to her closet. The mirrored surface of it reflected her too-pale face. She tugged open the door and began to rifle through the hangers. No, nope, no—aha!

  Val tugged free a black lace shirt she had completely forgotten about. She wasn't sure she'd even had a chance to wear it; a price tag was still dangling from the arm.

  Pretty, but not really her style. Too dark. Dark satin, with lace screening, it was set in a design that looked like dead flowers. Carnations, maybe, or peonies. Her mother must have bought it for her. She hoped it still fit. She'd gained some weight since quitting track and couldn't remember when her mother might have bought the shirt.

  The phone chimed again from the desk.

  Val draped the shirt over the back of her desk chair. James? No—it wasn't his ring tone. A text message. Well, that explained it. She didn't recognize the number, though, and the area code was from out of town.

  Please, not another prank call.

  She selected 'read' from her phone's menu. There was a second as the message loaded. Val's eyes widened.

  Open game.

  Chess, she thought. Oh, God, no, please, no.

  She punched the buttons so hard her fingers hurt. Is your name Gavin?

  The response was almost instantaneous: Gavin who?

  (Checkmate)

  Chapter Four

  Antipositional

  Dying sunlight filtered through the gauzy blinds, filling the parlor with a dusty glow. He picked up one of the glittering glass chalices from the buffet and carried it with him into the bedroom where he poured in it a garnet wine whose bouquet evoked images of iron and berries and passion. Very primordial, it was not enough to dull his keen senses. Quite the contrary—it made him feel more alive.

  The wine was rich and heavy on his tongue. Thick, viscous, metallic and tart. Easy to see why red wine was used to represent blood in Communion. The similarities were striking. “Cheers,” he murmured.

  As the alcohol burned a path through his blood, he relaxed further. She had him keyed up. He enjoyed feeling the anticipation of the fight, but the time was not yet right. If she knew just how much he enjoyed her resistance, how it pleasured him to know how superior his strength was to hers even at her most desperate, how he could still remember the taste of their commingled blood in his mouth, she would be—he smiled—very alarmed.

  She was already imprisoned. He had bound her to him long ago, the moment she unwittingly revealed her weaknesses to him. She just couldn't see the chains. Not yet.

  Soon, he reminded himself. Soon. He picked up an antique gold pocket watch, polished to a shine for the occasion. Glanced at it. Very soon. It's almost time.

  First impressions were everything.

  This was the standard he employed as he did a final walk-through of the house. He needn't have bothered—he knew he had prepared sublimely—but it gave him satisfaction to admire the effect of his own handiwork.

  Yes, he was quite pleased, he decided, taking another sip of the wine. Quite pleased, indeed.

  His other guests had responded mere hours before. They had taken a bit more of his resources and persuasion, but their jaded disaffection would provide an interesting dynamic.

  He stepped into his white pants and began to button up his black dress shirt, all the while keeping his eyes on his reflection. Over the shirt, he added a white dinner jacket, and a white cravat to hide the silver chain he wore around his neck. Italian black boots completed the ensemble. He looped the watch chain through his belt loops, slipping the watch into his front pocket.

  Ready or not, here I come. He drained the glass of wine and went back downstairs. Come play with me, Valerian.

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  Val tugged the lace shirt over her head, adjusting the hem over the top of her gray stone-washed jeans. She didn't have any black ones and was quickly coming to resent the cheery pastels of her wardrobe as she searched in vain for a solid black sweater.

  I could swear I owned one, she thought, shoving aside hoodies and t-shirts. The one Nana gave me, with the beaded flowers on the back. It would be perfect. But that sweater had gotten a hole in it. She had thrown it away last year.

  I'm losing my mind.

  She stared at her reflection. The transparent sleeves and sweetheart neckline weren't at all suitable for an October evening. James would be annoyed—when he stopped staring down her decolletage, that is.

  I shouldn't be going to this stupid thing. Look at me. The shadows beneath her eyes were darker than ever, the color of an angry bruise. I'm a wreck.

  And afraid. So afraid. He had left his mark on her. She could still hear his voice in her head, even now.

  (Redheads bruise so easily …)

  Would her therapist have been content to let Val rely solely on her medication for solace if she knew how his words haunted her still? She grabbed the jar from her bedside table and shook out two small yellow oblongs. Probably not, she thought, choking the pills down dry.

  (Don't make it so easy for me to take advantage of you)

  What other choice did she have? Spend her life hiding in the shadows?

  “Mom, do you have a black sweater I could borrow?” Val tugged at the neckline, trying to see if she could get more coverage by making it drape lower in back.

  “None that would fit you,” her mother called. “And don't yell through the house, Val!”

  “Sorry.”

  She called Lisa. Lisa had tons of clothes, and most of her wardrobe was black. She claimed it was slimming. “Yeah, I can lend you a sweater,” Lisa said. “No problem.”

  “Oh my God, can you?”

  “Jesus, don't freak, Val. It's just a sweater. Do you think a dress is too dressy for a high school party?”

  “I don't see why it would be.”

  If Lisa was wearing a dress, Val was in trouble. The number of little
black dresses she owned was zero.

  “What kind of dress is it?” Val pressed. “Formal? Because I'm wearing jeans….”

  “You'll be fine. I'll probably be overdressed as is. Whatever. It was on sale at the mall and fits like a dream. I'm going to wear it to the party since Thomas never called me back about the invite. Asshole. He is going to be so jealous when he sees the Facebook photos.”

  “Thomas?”

  “Yeah. The guy I was telling you about. On Thursday? He totally blew me off—go away, Mom! God, when the door is closed that means don't bug me! I swear, she's been buzzing around me all day, like she thinks she's going to get invited, too.” Lisa went on in a lower voice, “And she would go. That's what scares me. She totally would.”

  The thought was, indeed, terrifying.

  “Oh, James is here. Speak of the devil.” Her voice got faint for a moment as she held the phone away from her mouth. “I got it, Mom! Mom. Dammit. Sorry, my mom is hitting on your boyfriend. This is officially creepy. Gotta go. I'll bring your sweater—see you soon.”

  Val looked at the mirror a moment longer, and sighed. I look like I'm going to a funeral. She brushed her red hair and added a dab of lip-gloss. Or a cult. Or like I'm very strung-out.

  Luckily her parents were in the kitchen and not sniffing around her bedroom door like Lisa's mom. She was able to walk right on by without them commenting on her clothing.

  (I'm surprised your mother let you come out to play with the big bad wolf)

  “Have fun, Val!” her mother said, when she heard the front door open.

  “Remember what we talked about,” her father added.

  How could I forget?

  “I will!”

  James picked her up in his dad's '97 Honda. Val's nervousness grew when she saw what her friends were wearing: all black, no gray, and so formal. Lisa was wearing a strapless; Blake, a collared shirt and shorts; James, the same debonair slacks and shirt he'd worn to homecoming just last week, minus the tie.

  When she sat in front, Lisa passed up a cropped chenille sweater which she tugged on. She tied the ribbon around her waist, and it made her bust look too big for her own liking. Lisa would. Having pulled the edges of the sweater as closely as possible, she gave up and fastened the bow making a mental note not to bend over.