I met a lovely bright and dear, and kept her as my own; when I claimed her for myself and tried to place her on a shelf she took her hand and slit herself and left me all alone.
I am angry, and I am hurt. After all I have done for her, she wishes to hide from me? I admit I may have expressed a sort of wantonness with the man; I'd thought she may take delight in watching me work, perhaps even join, especially as that person so clearly wished to do her harm. It's possible that she will take more time, that I must devour her slowly so our intimacy becomes a natural progression. I must say that I feel a sort of amusement with myself in spite of her reaction; I have always been excitable, so it is no wonder I rushed to experiment with the man, insensible of her state.
But oh! One setback--one rash move--cannot ruin our fledgling affair, the culmination of my careful preparations. For I could not hold back entirely! No, I have been desperate to know her, to repay her caresses, to whisper across her exterior, to traverse her facade and its every crevice and take what I wish to take—more than the fingers or palms she used to offer me. How stimulating it has been to discover the areas I could never quite know in my confining brick and mortar—the tiny chambers in a half-pinwheel around the hole of her ear, the winsome and nuanced swellings of the bone that sweeps horizontal beneath her neck, the absolutely arousing soft flesh beneath her chin, and the places beneath her decor—so warm and tender! I can take a taste of whatever I'd like, wherever I wish, because she will be forever with me, and she is subject to my appetites. I will offer her anything she would like, so long as she abides within me, satisfies my cravings. To feel on her outside what I am sure is at work in her inside is utterly intoxicating, and as much as I adore free reign of her exterior, I even more anticipate the fascination of probing her insides. I will not dissect her as I've done the others. If I desire to keep her, I will have to find other ways, be more discreet, for I've seen how the others abandon their buildings when they are too sorely pressed, and I do not think I'd ever wish her to abandon hers; no, I want her to enjoy the discovery with me, to be partners in this pursuit (willing or, if necessary, otherwise). She will surely come to value our togetherness, though I know it may take time.
My momentary recreation with that unforeseen plaything will have to be put aside; I can't leave her for too long. As I've said, she has hidden herself, or at least tried to hide herself. I must go to her. It is not as if she could ever truly hide, here—I know every part of myself, feel every tickle.
Ah, yes, she did not wander far. My poor lovely thing, in your sanguine gossamer spiral on my floors, skin as white as porcelain--but, no! She reminds me of another moment, another such creature, frail as the bare branches of a winter tree. I cannot--cannot recall without sinking into such dismay . . .
Oh, if I'd known you would leave me, that they would take you from me, that he would let them--if I'd foreseen, I might not have stolen the thing from you. I never wished to punish you so--I wanted only to feel your touch, to know you knew of me, to watch you raise your lips and offer me that glimpse of what lay beyond. And I--I could not change it, not after it'd been done--
But . . . I . . . I lose myself. It is not her, the first, after all; it is the girl, my girl. And she has not let flow her blood but is surrounded by her gown. She does not move, but I surmise she is overwrought after what she has witnessed. Had I known it would be so difficult for her I--well, it matters not. I shall work to rouse her . . . I shall enjoy it . . . see how I slip across her supports, up and up and up across her hidden places, her belly and chest, and she does not stir, but she must know I am here--I shall go further, across her shoulders and the succulent throat and oh, I cannot bear the euphoria! To even think of peeking inside . . . but why does she not move? Why does she allow me such access? . . . She sleeps. I have seen her sleep many times--it is how I showed her myself, wasn't it, before I could actually bring her to me? It was how we spent time with one another . . . Should I be concerned? I--I know not why I should be, and yet I am ill at ease, for if she sleeps, now, of what does she dream? It cannot possibly be me . . . what brings her toward itself?
Well, she is here, and she must wake at last, mustn't she? So I perhaps have more time to play--
Wait!--I . . . what is it that I feel? That I know? Not the girl, no, not her, but . . . I must return. Room after room after hallway and stair and attic and closet and cellar and pantry and . . . and . . .
Into myself, my solid, unassuming self. What is it that draws me back here? My lights are on, someone has made a mess of things, but there is no one to speak of, except a stranger, an strange old woman there in the living room--
No! I do know her . . . she is . . .
But . . . how? And . . . why? She is old, now, so, so old, yet I see beneath the costume of age; it is her, indeed! She has returned to me, and I see her standing in the light, her eyes accusing, her arms cradling the . . . no--do not blame me for what you did! It was you . . . ! There is moisture on her wrinkled old face. That skin I was once in despair to touch--those once-red nails--and oh! Those teeth! She was everything, my first . . . she is old, now, but she has always been, and she will always be, as will I.
I am overwhelmed, fraught with I do not know what. I am utterly lost and defeated . . . but I cannot be. I have my darling. I know not what to--what to make of this. She is old, now, and I could not dare wish to behave now as I wished to behave then. I--I must get back to the girl.
A light--bright and pure, so shining, so alluring . . . she holds it in her hand. Why? And why would she--
Ah . . . I understand it, now. So be it, though I should have chosen a better time. I will not quail. When they arrive, I shall burn so hot and bright none will dare come near.
YOU ARE READING
Hilltop House
HorrorHilltop House always remembered its first, how closely it watched them, how much they meant to it . . . and what it did to them. But Hilltop House has yet to find another like its first, until 𝘴𝘩𝘦 moves in. Cora is angry, and weird, and entirely...
