Page 4 of CurVy 13

I step from the shower. The free-standing bucket lamps I have set up around the unit and the candles I lit for myself filter through the dark and allow me to see without the intrusive clarity of the overhead strip lights.

Those bastards show every dimple.

I sigh; it’s been a day.

Grabbing a bright pink towel, I quickly wrap it around my body and tuck an end between my cleavage.

As I walk from the bathroom, something catches my eye. I peer through my open bedroom door and frown.

On the floor at the end of the corridor are small red specks. They rock a little, move even. Like feathers.

Did Oliver get in here?

Is this one of his sick jokes?

My spider sense stirs, prickles—it fucking starts to weave.

I freeze, a whimper shuddering inside my throat. “Hello?”

Really?

Hello?

My steps are slow as I walk towards the small speck on the floor, controlling my breathing, fisting my towel high.

Outside, the rain has stopped but the wind rocks the trees, their limbs brushing my tin roof.

Upon the mysterious fleck, I poke the tiny thing with my big toe, feeling a waxy discharge. It’s a rose petal.

The sound of a match dragging along coarse paper filters through the stirring storm. It’s close. Inside. My heart races. Someone is behind me.

I’m frozen, my eyes wide on the rose petal. I can’t convince myself to move as I listen to a sharp inhale and then a long exhale so deep it could be coming from Hell.

“It’s in your head,” I say to myself.

“Not this time.” A voice that rivals the depth of the breath soars towards me.

I fly around to find a dark figure, a broad, very clearly male silhouette. I can’t speak.

The ember flares as he draws another breath in, a glittering red dot within an eerie dark outline.

“I hope you don’t mind me using the matches. I found them on your bookcase—'I burn for book boyfriends.’ Unique merchandise. Sorry to open it, but I like using matches. Always thought that a cigarette tastes better with that sulphur residue filtering through it.”

He lowers the cigarette and takes a step forward. “Or maybe it just reminds me of my youth.”

Another step.

But I still can’t move.

The edge of the bookcase slides past him, the shadow it created slipping away. The glow of the fairy lights touches the side of his face, and I can see more of him.

All the terror inside me rises.

The side of his head is smooth and shiny, and it takes me a moment to realise he’s wearing a metallic mask, one plucked straight from a drama theatre; lips curved down to create an elaborate sad expression; dual holes hollowed to allow the gloss of two real eyes to peer through.

The mask slowly tilts.

Well, fuck, that’s unnerving.