God and Monsters

Chapter 5

At one point in our lives, we're all afraid to die. For some, it happens the first moment we fully understand what death means-before depression, anxiety, and other mental health issues arise. For others, it's before they've found something to believe in-whether it's God or something else that's spiritual. And there are those who flounder through life, terrified of the day they take their last breath. I think for some, they aren't so much scared of death itself, but rather, how they're going to die.
So, how am I going to die?
Will it be painful? Will I suffer? Will I be terrified?

Gigi felt all those things when she was murdered by a man she trusted, and likely cared deeply for. When she started having an affair with her stalker, Ronaldo, it not only destroyed her marriage, but it took her life. Only not by her stalker or husband like one would expect, but by her husband's best friend, Frank Seinburg.

For so long, I was convinced I'd have a similar demise at the hands of my own stalker. Instead, I gave in to her dark perusals, and found myself loving her instead.
I tried so hard to run from her, and now all I want to do is run to her.

During the rest of the car ride, I stayed silent. At least, verbally-my teeth chattered the entire way and eventually, one of the men got annoyed and turned up the heat. An imperceptible amount of time passes before we come to a stop, dread settling deeply in my gut. I steel my spine and wait as both men exit the van, the doors slamming in tandem. Then, the door to my left slides open, inviting an icy breeze in. A rough, calloused hand wraps around my arm and tugs. It feels like the Grim Reaper is holding on to me, escorting me to my death.

"Ow," I cry out, on the verge of screaming from how bad it hurts to move. He ignores me and barks, "Let's go."
That's Rick's voice.

His grip on my arm is unnecessarily tight as he drags me out of the vehicle. As if a woman who was just in a bad car accident and riddled with injuries is going to overpower him and get away. I don't even know where the fuck we are. A gust of freezing wind blows, sending another wave of goosebumps across my body. My teeth start chattering again, the cold becoming nearly unbearable. The black sack is ripped off my head, and I flinch from the harsh light. It's dreary outside, but since I haven't seen daylight in quite a while it has made my eyes sensitive. Squinting, my gaze immediately jumps to the monstrosity towering before me. Rick splays his arm out towards the two-story colonial home, presenting the house to me as if I'm at a five-star restaurant, and he's pulling the lid off my tray to reveal the best meal I'll ever have. I've never been anywhere so fancy, but from the videos I've seen on the internet, it looks like a bunch of baby portions of foam and sticks wrapped in meat.
So-not appealing.
The house isn't as run-down as I would have thought, but still not in the best shape. Vines of moss are running up the cracked white paneling, reminding me a little of Parks Manor. Just not as... pretty. It's discolored with boarded windows, a sagging porch and-is that duct tape?

"Looks... inviting," I murmur.
Glancing around, I note that we're out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by dense woods. It looks like they just plopped a random house in the middle of a forest. A dirt driveway trails off through a thicket of trees, and I suspect that's the only way in or out. Unless I want to take my chances out in the wild.

"Let's go, it's fucking freezing," Rick orders, dragging me after him. Rio walks ahead of us, shooting an indecipherable look over his shoulder before he leads me into the house straight out of Courage the Cowardly Dog. Only double the size.

But I imagine the shit that happens in this house is full of horrors much worse than that purple dog ever experienced. Adrenaline and fear swirl in my stomach, and although there is a heavy weight low in my gut, it's not the warm heady feeling I'm used to. This is dread.
It spikes higher when Rick hauls me through the entryway and pushes me forward. While the air is stale and musty, it doesn't resemble a meth lab as I had expected. This home looks like it comes straight from the 1800s, with an abundance of woodwork, outdated wallpaper, and odd nooks and crannies that make zero sense. I'm standing in a massive living room with brown, cracked leather couches, threadbare floral rugs, and crooked paintings on the walls. The TV is shoved into a corner, Tom & Jerry playing on low and a drooping cobweb hanging above it.
Grime is caked into the cracks, and every surface is coated in dust. The deep brown hardwood floor is wonky and uneven and creaks from the slightest shift of weight. I imagine if this place was haunted like Parks Manor, no ghost could walk by undetected. To the left is a dining area, paraphernalia everywhere. Crushed beer cans, needles, and crack pipes litter the table, along with a circular mirror, a small mound of cocaine on it. Hesitantly, I walk farther into the house, the pit of dread growing wider and wider, like a shark's mouth right before it ravages its prey. It's hard to breathe in here. It smells faintly of mildew and the entire house is wrapped in bad juju like a scratchy wool coat. It's thick, uncomfortable, and suffocating.