Whispers of the Devil

a

ur nights. She recently started a new blood pressure medication that’s supposed to make her feel drowsy, but so far, it’s having the opposite effect. T

he dainty, elegant and high-bred young debutant, the book's heroine.

of a smile, her eyes softening and looking f

gh time I showed you just how rakish I can be….” I quickly scan the rest of the page and glance

stretch, my back which is aching from sitting in an ancient wingback armchair for the last three hours. I walk to her bedside, glancing at the m

s her quiet, rhy

real stunner, actually. It makes all of this more heartbreaking. She’d been my age once, twenty-six with noth

have to do with the work Curtis has been doing on the new HVAC system, which still isn’t working. But tonight feels

Penny’s room. I really don’t want to risk waking her up, but

d the stairwell, the darkness closin

of course, of the darkened corners and bumps in the night. I sleep right through it now, especially si

ir tonight. Something that tells me I

ouse and the ghosts that surely inhabit it the

need to g

nd feel my way to the kitchen. The light switches in this old house are in odd places, and the one in the main

the windows as I enter the kitchen and turn on the light. The back porch light illuminates the rear of the house, giving new life to how hard it’s raining righ

perty is now protected marsh land, from what Curtis told me. I spent a whole afternoon sitting on the bac

rounds a little bit and see for myself wha

laces I’ve worked at over the last four years? Being here, in my family’s ancestral home, gives me the sudden urg

expecting someone to be standing in the doorway to the kitchen. My heart r

nding a near silent vib

few hours, and Curtis never comes this early, especially when there’s a storm circling the property. Hell, e

ck to the sink to rinse my glass. Lightning flashes, il

. Just beyond the tree line. I squint, trying to get a

leaping into my throat as the blue-hued light illuminates what I a

ep, close enough I can see the outline of the hood shieldin

htly my knuckles turn white. I don’t know what I’m thinking when I unlock the backdoor and yank it open so hard it bounces off

re doesn

t of here! I’ll

hin

signing up for self-defense classes at the local gym. Whoever this is, they're standing far enough away that their body is still obstructed by the trees, and the rain i

so violent the house seems to groan in anguish.

s gone, just

st the second floor landing. “Fuck!” I hiss, not daring to close my eyes or look behind me. The house rattles against another earth-shaking clap of thun

or beeping quietly with eac

ne. Not in the storm. Not in the dark. Not against the tangled cypress trees and overgrown vines that choke the tree line. I’m

t so real.

eavy, and my head begins to nod. I fight it, but I’m pulled into the kind of depthless sleep only true exhaustion can accomplish. Som

ll asleep here again. I should punish you for this

h me,

back hit a

nd demanding as his thumbs hook und

ike he’s just finished a glass of fine scotch. I

ou’re fucking soaked, Layla. Those f

over my clit, sliding through the wetne

r to the side, and I cry out against the pain then the sudden pressure between my legs. He’s eno

s, his voice low and full of gravel as some

is cock burie

nning the flat of the

to get away, but

eas

n my thigh, then up again, slicing through my underwear. I ta

es

oo

nife to cut through my shirt, tearing it off my body and tossing it across the room as he pumps into me. He slams the knife down into the bed next to me, piercing the ma

s exactly what I need. It’s what I’d never admit I’d like–being

voice that has me quaking around him. I

into the stormy daylight pouring through the curtains. I rise, trembling, my shirt damp with sweat, and

ping aunt. The door is locked, and suddenly th

g for the knife I’d brought upstairs

y room, my hands trembling as I close the

sun, something shines fr

kn