And it's so unbelievably beautiful.
Screams sound out as the front entrance is opened at just the perfect time to watch her decent, her feet swinging just above their heads in the most theatrical display I've ever managed to create. I hadn't planned on a new group coming in, but fuck, it is everything. I can't help but laugh, my hands clapping at my own show. Hearing footsteps coming up the stairs, I sneak back into the servant’s hall and shut the door. Opening a door that takes me near the exit, I get rid of my mask and grab my top hat once more. Stepping into the cool fall air, I adjust my vest before leisurely walking away from the haunted house. Everyone here will just assume she's part of the show, a bit that was thrown in at the last minute. It won't be until tomorrow morning when they come to clean the place out that t
hey will realize she's not fake. It will cause mass hysteria among the workers and all the participants who saw her dangling above their heads all night. She will be brought up every Halloween, never forgotten.
My butterfly will be forever memorialized, all because of me.
"Rivercrest Landing residents are still in shock after Truman employees found the beloved friend and cheer captain, Jessica Truvinskey, hanging inside of the Truman haunted house last Thursday. Captain Lewis said that they believe her body was being used as a prop for the night's activities and that a large number of people, if not everyone who entered the haunted house, would have seen her. After further inspection of her body, Police were able to connect Jessica's murder to eight others in the community after finding what locals have named the calling card for Rivercrest's serial killer, a Butterfly Kiss, stuffed inside of her clothing. The Rivercrest police department is urging anyone who may have seen or heard anything in regards to Jessica's death or any of the other's deaths, to call the police hotline listed on the bottom of the screen."
"Thank you, Kathy. Our condolences go toward the family and friends of Jessica and everyone who was forced to be a part of that gruesome event. Understanding how traumatic this could be for some of our Rivercrest Landing residents, the local Seven Day Adventist Church has decided to open its doors and offer its space for some of the area's therapists this Tuesday from eight AM to four PM. Their goal is to provide a safe space for the community to gather and seek comfort, whether it be in praise, comradery, or licensed help."
"That’s such a great thing they’re doing, Tom, Thank you… Susan Baker, the administrator for the Rivercrest University psychological wing, has been in working in close contact with the Rivercrest police for the last several months trying to catch the Butterfly Serial Killer and she had this to say about the recent murder..."
"This guy is smart, and he's confident. He most likely isn't going to fit what your ideal thought of a killer would be. All of his victims are educated, pretty, young women, which leads us to believe he must either be very charming or very good looking. It's believed at this time that he chooses his victims on a whim, as none of the victims’ family members have any kind of connection or information to make us think he is an active part of their lives. He probably works at the University or somewhere nearby as all of his victims are students or alumni who lived near campus. The best thing you can do to protect yourself is to stay in groups consisting of more than three people, don't go anywhere before or after operating hours, and make sure you lock your doors. Don't assume you're safe because you don't fit his predicted victim. We don't know enough to say for sure he won't deviate. If possible, carry around a can of pepper spray on your person at all times. The police department is working around the clock to find this guy, but until then, you need to keep yourself safe."
I roll over in my bed to face the door, the sound of the tv waking me from the living room as the news anchors continue to speak to each other. Probably not the most relaxing thing to wake up to, but it's a habit I got from my Nana. She always had the tv set to turn on the second the news started. Mine, of course, is set for the evening news and not the one that airs at the ass crack of dawn. The Butterfly killer is all that the news ever talks about these days. As awful as everyone in this town says they think these murders are, they sure bring it up as often as they can. The first murder sent shock waves through the city. The second one had everyone scared to leave their homes. The third caught the attention of the nation, the whisper of Butterfly Kisses flying across the headlines of every major newspaper. The small town of Rivercrest Landing had a serial killer.
It was exciting for people as much as terrifying. Memes started popping up on social media, some of the more promiscuous women advertising themselves as the next victim on social apps. Butterfly Kisses became something people teased each other about even as women continued to be murdered. It's been months since the first kill, and the police still have no viable leads. I heard a rumor that the FBI was being brought in, or maybe already had been brought in to help with the investigation, but they clearly haven't found anything.
Sitting up in my bed, I toss my covers to the side. Rhys didn't come to the graveyard to sit with me today. He doesn't always, so him not being there wasn't totally weird, but it's the third time this week. He makes regular house calls, though, stopping by in the middle of the night to rid his demons on my skin. Some days he's gentler with me, less harsh. And others, he's brutal and relentless, marking my skin with everything in his arsenal. I don't know what causes his shift in mood, what he does all day long that brings him to me the way it does, but I don't care enough to question it. I crave his attention, his desire, and I'll take it in any form he's willing to give it.
I walk over to my dresser, pulling out a pair of black jeans and a plain cotton tee-shirt, I slip them on. Stepping out of my room, my eyes find the tv, watching a commercial for cereal as I grab my hoodie off the back of the sofa. Moving into the kitchenette, I open the fridge, sighing at the three condiments in the door, two slices of processed cheese, and rotten lettuce that looks like I could enter it into the next science fair. Fuck, I need to get groceries. I let the door close, eyes landing on the oven clock. It's a little after eleven. If I can get to the station in time, I can grab a train to Piggly Wiggly before they close. Decision made, I walk to the door and slip on my sneakers. I'll have to get a new pair soon. These are almost completely worn down. The fabric around my toes is thin and on the verge of getting holes. I don't think they'll make it another winter, but for now, they're fine.
I pat my pocket, making sure I have cash before walking from my place, locking the door behind me.
I barely made it in time to get in and grab a few things before they kicked me out. I could tell the cashier was less than happy to be holding a register open for me, even though I made it to him four minutes before they officially closed. I don't blame him, though, it was almost midnight, and he was probably ready to be home. Juggling my two grocery bags with one arm and my chest, I reach into my pocket to grab my door key. Unlocking it, I use my foot to push it open, practically throwing my stuff onto the counter before my arms give out, and it all falls onto the floor.
"You're late."
I jump, knocking one of the bags I just set down onto the floor. I huff, glaring at Rhys, who's lounging on my couch, bare feet hanging over the edge. Crouching, I start to pick up everything that fell. "How'd you get in here?" Setting everything back onto the counter, I start taking things out of the other bag.
"The door, Hadley. Like most people." He sits up, feet landing on the floor as he watches me with one eye, long blond shag hiding the other.
"Fucking smartass." I start putting my few groceries away. "The door was locked." I crumple up the bags once they're all put away, tossing them in the trash. He doesn't respond, and when I look up, I notice he's watching tv. Kicking my shoes off, I grab them and toss them by the door, moving to drop next to him on the couch. He's sitting directly in the middle of the small couch, not bothering to move when I sit down, so I'm squished to the side. "What are you watching?"
"....ing News. Tracy Mucket, a senior at Rivercrest University, was found murdered in her own home. Detectives say she appears to be another victim of the Butterfly serial killer. RLQ News anchor, Robert Yunder, is currently on the scene..."
"Why are you watching a recording of the news?" Rhys sits back at my question, cornflower eyes dropping to my lips. He must be in a fairly decent mood tonight, considering he hasn't mauled me yet or thrown any insults.
"It's what was on when I came in, and I didn't feel like searching for your remote." Ah. I forgot I left the tv on earlier. "You're a fucking weirdo."
My place is warm, and my hoodie suddenly feels like too much pressed so close to Rhys. I pull my arms from the sleeves and tug it over my head. Shaking it out, I lay it over the side of the couch. "It's not weird to watch the news."
"If you're in your seventies." He's not smiling, but I
can hear the humor in his tone.
Running my hands through my hair, my fingers catch on a few tangles. I don't remember the last time I brushed it. "Whatever. Why are you here? Just to watch the news? And why weren't you at the cemetery today?"
"Hadley shut the fuck up." His fingers grab the front of my shirt, hauling me up onto his lap, back to front. His teeth scrape along the shell of my ear, hot breath puffing along my cheek. "I didn't come here to chat."
My skin immediately responds to him, pebbling with goosebumps. His rough palms dip under the shirt, squeezing and pressing into my skin as they run up my ribcage. I've grown accustomed to his touch, know what kind of fuck he craves based on his first few touches. He's been coming over for weeks now; never once has he asked me about birth control or protection. I've come to the conclusion he doesn't care. He's not worried about me getting pregnant because, in his mind, it wouldn't be his problem. Of course, I can't. But he couldn't know that because I've never told him.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I grab the edge of my shirt and pull it over my head, letting it fall through my fingers by our feet. Rhys's finger unclips my bra, and I let it fall from my arms. His hands leave my skin, and I feel him shift under my butt, his shirt thrown in front of me onto the floor. I lean back into the warmth of his chest, swallow hard when his palm slides between my breasts to grab my throat. My fingers work the button on my denim as his teeth scrape over my shoulder, breath making my skin wet. His fingers tighten on my throat when I shift my hips to pull my jeans down, not letting me move away from his chest when I use my feet to pull them off the rest of the way.
His hips are shifting below my ass, erection grinding into me through his jeans. He doesn't like when I touch him too much, only ever allows brief swipes of my fingers, so I put my hands on my own thighs, biting my lip when his free hand starts to slide down the flat of my stomach. His fingers shove their way under my panties, roughly pressing into my clit with a jerking motion that has the slick of my pussy smacking loudly with each rotation. I widen my legs, bringing them up to straddle his waist from behind, my heels digging into his waist, as he works me with his fingers. I rub against his erection, my slick seeping from my panties to stain the denim between my thighs.
A small sound squeaks through my tight throat, and Rhys's teeth sink into my shoulder, drawing another groan. "Louder." I let out the sounds I was suppressing in my chest, each one grumbled and low as it fights to make it past the press of his fingers. His fingers on my clit press harder, my left nipple plucked and squeezed into a tight bud as Rhys continues to place wet hot kisses along my neck and shoulders.