Page 2 of Hell House
I spray the keg contents into a plastic cup, filling it to the brim. I tilt my head back, guzzling the room temperature alcohol. It was disgusting but it would get the job done. I fill up another cup, my veins already buzzing. I see Walker sitting out on the porch tuning his guitar. He looks alone, which looks fuckin’ perfect to me. I head outside, the warm air stirring with the breeze. The noise from the party is much quieter out here, though there are a few party goers strewn around the lawn. I take a seat opposite of Walker, who doesn’t acknowledge my arrival, too engrossed in strumming the strings of his guitar. His backward baseball cap sits low on his brow hiding part of the diagonal scar that runs from the top of his hairline and into his eyebrow, barely missing his eye. If you asked him how he got it, he would give you another made-up story that was more outrageous than the next.
“You think they’ll leave soon?” His gravel-full voice asks. I sip my beer and chuckle.
“Not a chance.” He scowls at my answer. We’d both bonded over our dislike of other people. If we weren’t required to join this fraternity by our parents, we wouldn’t have. My father and brother had nagged the shit out of me until I relented. Walker’s father was also a former pledge and threatened to not fund his college education should he not become apart of the fraternity. I wondered, not for the first time, if they knew the truth. If they knew what exactly they’d signed us up for. The living hell we’d been shackled to. I tend to drown my sinful instincts by overindulging in alcohol and keeping my hands busy with sketches or tattoos. Walker fights back his Wrath by either toting his guitar around or decimating the shit out of his punching bag. He’d already gone through several guitars and punching bags this last year alone, so I wasn’t sure it helped him much. These things inside us were powerful, they demanded to be obeyed, and sometimes that twisted part inside of me enjoyed it. There were times I found myself relishing in the Lust I’d been saddled with. Buried deep in pussy or playing with a cock, it didn’t matter. But lately that feeling had been waning. I found myself wanting more- needing more than the screams of pleasure a stranger gave me. I wanted- fuck I don’t even know what it was I wanted, but it no longer aligned with the urges the demon inside of me demanded. I felt more and more like a puppet on a string. I was desperate to cut my ties with it, but I knew the consequences would be far more devastating than I could even imagine.
CHAPTER TWO
Salem
Isit, legs crossed in my fishnet stockings, in what must be the most uncomfortable chair known to man. My black Converse covered feet are bouncing with anxiety. I pop my gum, completely bored out of my mind. Whoever was in charge of decorating this office absolutely knew what they were doing when picking out the furniture. Whereas the headmaster’s chair looked like you could curl up in it and take a nap like it was a cloud made of angel feathers, this chair felt like they’d found it at a Medieval torture store with extra knives thrown in just for fun. What did they do? Go into a store and say, ”Yes, please give me one that feels like nails are going straight up my ass.” Kinky fuckers.
I pick at my black nail polish while waiting for Headmaster Hayden to show up. I’d received an email that my presence was required at 10 am sharp and it was now 10:15. I let out a loud sigh of irritation, wondering what the fuck he could want to meet with me about and come up with nothing. I’d only been at the school for a total of 14 hours, so there was no way I’d fucked up already… was there?
I count the ornate tiles that line the headmaster’s ceiling trying to pass the time, impressed with the amount of detail and gold foiled figures that are etched into each one. This ceiling would have even impressed Michelangelo. Though one could never be too sure, it wasn’t like I knew the dude personally to ask him.
When the headmaster finally shows up, I’m sitting upside down, my fishnet stocking legs hung over the back of the chair. I was just one row away from finishing my riveting tile count. 1,523 tiles so far.
The headmaster clears his throat and I pop a bubble from the gum I was chewing.
“Ms. Knox, sorry to keep you waiting.” My eyes lock with his, and I find a disapproving scowl meeting my annoyed stare. I let out a sigh and turn myself right side up.
“So, what’s all this about?” I ask cutting right to the chase. This bozo already has eaten up an hour of my time that I could have spent sleeping in my new dorm room. It was far too early to be jerked around. Especially after attending the ‘Welcome Back to School’ Frat party I’d wandered into last night. My head was still pounding from that extra shot of tequila.
The headmaster makes his way to his desk and takes a seat. When he sits, a brief look of comfort swipes across his face before shifting into one of seriousness. The smug fucker with his comfy chair. Was I being salty about this Godforsaken torture chair he had students sit in? Yes, yes, I was. My ass was going numb after the hour I’d sat here waiting for him. If I were the hexing type, he’d be on that list for sure.
“As you know, your grandmother Clementine Knox, has been a huge contributor to Kildale Academy and she made it crystal clear that your attendance here at this prestigious Academy was to be given special attention. She called me just last night to remind me that you were to be offered every opportunity.”
Of all the pompous and nepotistic things… THAT’S why I’d spent my morning in this torture chamber?
“Well, if that’s all-“ I go to stand up, but am interrupted by the headmaster who makes a gesture for me to halt.
“Not exactly. See, while you are from an impeccable family line, and one that donates frequently, this is still a prestigious Academy and any… shenanigans will not be tolerated.”
“Shenanigans?” My eyebrows raise at his insinuation. I mean, he’s not wrong. I do love a good shenanigan.
“Your file was quite the read Ms. Knox, and it took some convincing from Clem to get the board to agree to your acceptance. I hope that all of those childhood antics stay where they belong- in the past.”
I bristle at his words, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. My ass was tingling, and I wanted nothing more than to be out of this room and away from this man’s overinflated sense of authority. I’d known men like him all my life, and this one seemed no different. The same brand of assholery, just in a new zip code.
I tilt my lips up into an appeasing smile, one I’d used countless times to get myself out of a tight jam.
“I thank you so much sir, for the concern. But like you said, those were childish antics. I swear, totally in the past. I so appreciate you taking the time out of your busy schedule to meet with me.” He couldn’t see my crossed fingers I had behind my back.
He gives me another once over, displeasure pursing his puckered lips. “Yes, well… One more thing. Since you are a legacy, you’ll be expected to attend the alumni ball that takes place next month.” I feel my eyes begin to roll and try to stop them mid movement. A ball? Just great. Being in a room full of stuffed up egotistical people sounded like one of my nightmares come to life. Kill me now.
I smile tightly, “Can’t wait, sir.” He nods and I grab my black purse that I’d bedazzled in spikes. It was cute as hell and doubled as weapon should I ever need it. A smack with this purse would definitely do some damage. Maybe even take an eye or puncture a testicle.
“Oh and Ms. Knox, don’t forget the school uniform. We have a dress code to adhere to.”
My back went ramrod straight. Who does he think he is? Miranda Priestly? Fashion Police? School wasn’t even in session yet, and I know you can wear whatever the fuck you wanted to during non-school times. I’d read the damn student handbook front to back.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.” I turn on my heel, and jog back to my dorm room. I felt like I’d just painted a giant target on my back. Fan-fucking-tastic.
CHAPTER THREE
Pierce
Last night’s debauchery is still clinging to my skin as I slowly, achingly sit up from the couch I passed out on. I stretch my arms above my head to work out the kink that’s lodged itself into my back. As I bring my arms down, I wrack my hands down my face. My fingers brush against something slimy plastered onto my stubble. I go to peel it off and, “AH! Fuck!” The shiny foil wrapper glistens in my hand and I drop it like it’s a venomous snake intent on injecting me with STDs. I throw the thing on the ground. I just had an open condom wrapper stuck to my face. A fucking open condom wrapper ON MY FACE. I stumble over my own feet trying to get to the nearest bathroom to wash my face and hands off- or maybe just set myself on fire. Sick. I hope to Hell it’s not a used one, but I didn’t stay around long enough to check. I scrub my face until it’s raw. When I assess my reflection in the mirror, I notice a square imprinted onto my left cheek. God how plastered was I to not notice I fell asleep on something like that? My mind wanders to the princess and the pea story.
