Page 1 of Shadowed With Fear

Prologue

Mrs. Beckett died on a Thursday. Nothing was the same after that.

The day was just like any other. Brahm and I were hanging out in his house, watching old horror movies that his younger sister is obsessed with. They were arguing over some deep meaning shit in Frankenstein and I was just watching. Always watching.

There is so much that one can learn about the human condition if they just…observe. Small tells, personal quirks, biases, it can all be read in a person’s body language. Actions always speak louder than words, and a picture is worth a thousand of them. Brahm gives me so much shit for it, but it is the truth. Like right now, the way Dahlia has her arms crossed near her chest, thin creases between her brows, and a slight twitch of her fingers balled up on her arms tells me she is point five seconds away from blowing her shi—

“Can you just shut up for two fucking seconds, B, and listen to what I am telling you? Or do you insist on hearing yourself speak because I ain’t listening to a goddamn word,” she bites.

I can’t help but smirk to myself, biting on the cold ring inside my lip.

Knew it. 1- Me 0- People

“Dahl, you’re talking out of your ass. There isn’t some bullshit higher power meaning to any horror movies. They are literally just supposed to scare you,” Brahm deadpans, shooting a bored look my way.

“Exactly, and why do you think they scare us so much? Huh? There is an unconscious understanding, B. Frankenstein is the fear of science, technology, warning against man playing God, the disconnect mother’s feel toward their children, and so much more. If you don’t give that some of the credit, then you’re completely missing the point.

“Everything in film has a purpose and a reason for being there. Why else would the monster be shown as compassionate and sympathetic? When in the book he is way different?”

I have to give the girl some credit though. She makes a lot of good points.

“Is it because they want to audience to relate to it?” My brows furrow as she turns to me, a light in her eyes and a small smile on her lips.

Dahlia gives me a small nod, “Exactly.”

There is a warmth in my chest knowing that she approved of something I said. This strong-headed girl has always astounded me, but it’s rare moments like this that we seem to actually get along. Brahm snorts and she turns to him.

“What?” she snaps.

“You can’t seriously believe that the monsters in the movies are relatable, D,” he smirks at her. With one side-eye thrown my way, I know he’s just fucking with her now. I roll my eyes at him.

“I can and do, actually. Movies can tell us more about humanity than even the most righteous men. Besides, it’s quite easy to pick people and what monster or characters they are like.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Prove it.”

Jesus fucking Christ, here we go.

“Smartass, why don’t we start with you then. Brahm, name aside, you’re Dracula.”

Even I laugh at this point.

“Really? Brahm is Dracula?” I try to hide the amusement in my voice, but I can’t, and I know she’s annoyed. The creases are back between her brows, and her foot taps against the carpeted floor.

Dahlia clears her throat and stands, “Brahm: son of a wealthy man whose family established a town; master manipulator especially when using his looks; has means of gaining political stances; owns a grand estate; and sucks the life out of any fun situation he’s a part of.” She grins.

“Dracula: a Count in a long line of royalty established in Transylvania; has powers of mind control and his looks are used to captivate prey; has a big ass castle; and literally sucks the life out of everything. Case in point.” Dahlia flops back onto the couch with a smug look on her face. Brahm is just staring at her, and so am I. I mean, that was pretty accurate, and aside from just these basic characteristics, Brahm does kind of act the way Dracula does in the movie.

He’s very confident in every action he takes. It’s calculated and always a part of some plan. I know that what Dahlia said threw him off.

There’s a contemplative look in his eyes. “Okay,” I start, “What about the rest of us then?”

“Easy. Adam is Frankenstein, Alexander is Wolfman, and Henry is Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde.” She picks at a piece of fuzz on her sweatpants as if she hasn’t just turned our world’s upside down with this revelation.

“And me?” An antsy sort of excitement runs through me.