Melody

Chapter 3: Hell to Pay

Peter's POV

I’d been bracing for it since the moment she brought the book into the room, her eyes alight with the joy of discovery. I knew Annie Wales would reach the end of Melody’s Twist eventually. And when she did, there would be hell to pay.

The storm had been brewing all day. Annie’s usual cheerfulness, that unsettling, syrupy sweetness, was missing when she brought in my breakfast. She barely spoke, her movements stiff and robotic as she placed the tray on the bedside table.

I could feel her anger radiating from her like heat from a furnace, though she hadn’t said a word about the book.

By midday, I could hear her pacing in another room, her heavy footsteps pounding against the floorboards. She muttered to herself occasionally, her voice too low to make out the words, but the tone was unmistakableㅡrage, bubbling just below the surface.

When she finally stormed into my room, the book clutched in her hands, I knew the moment had come. Her face was flushed, her eyes wild, and her usually neat hair was disheveled, as if she’d been pulling at it.

“How could you?” she hissed, holding up the book like it was a piece of evidence in a trial.

I didn’t answer. What could I say?

“How could you do this to her?” she screamed, her voice cracking. “Melody! Melody Caldwell, the love of my life, the light of my worldㅡand you killed her! You buried her alive in that godforsaken crypt, and you let her die!”

Her voice rose with each word until she was practically shrieking. I flinched, the sound like nails scraping across my nerves.

“Annie,” I began, trying to keep my voice calm, “it wasn’t personal. It was the natural conclusion of her story.”

“The natural conclusion?” she spat, her face contorted with fury. “You’re a murderer, Peter Stewart! You killed Melody! You killed her as surely as if you’d plunged a knife into her heart!”

She hurled the book at me, and I ducked instinctively, though the movement sent a jolt of pain through my broken legs. The book hit the wall with a dull thud and fell to the floor, its pages splayed open like a broken bird.

Annie stood there, her chest heaving, her hands clenched into fists. For a moment, I thought she might hit me.

“I trusted you,” she said, her voice trembling. “I believed in you. And you betrayed me. So you gonna pay for it.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy and accusatory, before she turned and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

---

The hours that followed were some of the longest of my life. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of Annie moving through the house. Cabinets slammed, glass shattered, and furniture was dragged across the floor.

She was in a rage, and I was her target.

When the noises finally stopped, silence filled the house, oppressive and unnerving. I called out for her, but there was no response. My throat was dry, my body aching, and the Anodyne was wearing off.

By the second day, I realized she wasn’t coming back.

My stomach growled loudly, a painful reminder that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast the day she exploded. My mouth was parched, and the pain in my legs had become unbearable. Without the Anodyne, the agony was a constant, unrelenting presence.

I tried to distract myself by assessing my injuries. With trembling hands, I lifted the blankets and looked at my legs for the first time.

What I saw made me sick.

Both legs were swollen and misshapen, the skin mottled with purple and yellow bruises. My left ankle was twisted at an unnatural angle, and my right leg had been crudely splinted with what looked like pieces of wood and duct tape.

The sight was horrifying, but it was the smell that nearly made me vomitㅡa sour, rancid odor that hinted at infection.

The reality of my situation hit me like a freight train. I wasn’t just injuredㅡI was broken. My legs were destroyed, and I was trapped in this house with a woman who was becoming increasingly unstable.

I had to face the facts: if Annie didn’t kill me outright, my injuriesㅡor my growing dependency on Anodyneㅡmight do the job for her.

By the third day, desperation set in. My body was weak from hunger and dehydration, and every movement was a struggle. I lay in bed, my mind racing as I tried to come up with a plan.

Could I crawl to the door? Try to find water or food in the kitchen? The thought of moving sent a wave of nausea through me, but I knew I couldn’t stay here.

I looked around the room, searching for anything that might help me. My gaze fell on the empty water glass on the bedside table. I picked it up, my hands trembling, and peered inside. There was a tiny droplet of water clinging to the bottom.

It wasn’t much, but it was something. I tilted the glass to my lips, savoring the drop as if it were the finest wine.

As the day dragged on, my thoughts grew darker. I thought about my car crash, about the icy road and the blinding snow. I thought about the manuscript I’d burned, the one that was supposed to be my ticket to a new life.

And I thought about Melody.

Melody Caldwell, the fictional character I’d created and grown to despise, had been the misery I was feeling nowㅡthis suffocating, all-encompassing despair.

---

When Annie finally returned, it was as if she had never left. She walked into the room carrying a tray of foodㅡsoup and a glass of waterㅡher expression calm and pleasant, as though the past three days hadn’t happened.

“Good morning, Peter,” she said brightly, setting the tray down. “I made you some chicken soup. It’s good for the soul, you know.”

I stared at her, too weak to respond.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she said, her tone playful. “I know I’ve been a little… distant. But I needed time to think. To process.”

She sat down in the chair beside the bed and smiled at me, her eyes shining with a strange, unsettling intensity.

“I’ve decided,” she said, “that I can forgive you. But only if you make it right.”

“Make it… right?” I croaked, my voice barely audible.

“Yes, Peter,” she said, her smile widening. “You’re going to bring Melody back.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut.

“But she’s dead,” I said weakly. “I can’t—”

“You can!” she snapped, her cheerful facade cracking. “You’re a damn writer, Peter. You can do anything. You’ll write a new book, a better book, and you’ll bring her back to me.”

I stared at her, too stunned to respond.

“Eat your soup,” she said, her tone softening again. “You’re going to need your strength.”

As she left the room, I realized the true depth of my predicament. Annie Wales wasn’t just a fanㅡshe was my captor, my tormentor, and, if I wasn’t careful, my executioner.

And now, she wanted me to resurrect Melody.