Page 5 of Shadowface

Defeated, I place my computer on the edge of my bed and grab my phone and message my mother and ask how she’s doing. She doesn’t respond—she never responds to me right away. She’s been devastated, and in her mind, I abandoned her to come to school here. Leaving her after my father’s body gave out on him.

Cardiac arrest in his early forties. It was quick and dirty. One minute he was here, the next, he was comatose on life support. I haven’t really had a chance to process it.

I pull up the photo of the Shadowface victim and stare at it. I squint, trying to get a view of the eyes behind the burlap mask, trying to imagine them cut out.

I inspect the photo closer and let out a huge breath to release all the tension rising in me. She’s been delicately placed on the bed, her arms tied up behind her head, her breasts perky and on display. It’s like whoever was behind these photos took pride in making sure she looked perfect. And although her face is covered, I can imagine the serene look in her eyes before she died.

Like she was about to be fucked.

It’s the hair falling in gentle waves over her breasts that catches my attention the most, her ivory skin so smooth and tight.

It’s like looking in a mirror.

A spindly sensation shoots down my spine, landing between my legs with a pleasurable intensity.

My breath lengthens as I lift the hem of the sweater dress I’m still wearing from earlier and look at the similar white panties I have on, and heat pools in my core. I slip my hand beneath my panties and press down on my clit, moving my fingers in a gentle circle as a slight cool wind blows through my open windows.

It’s a coincidence—it has to be. White lace bras and panties are timeless.

It’s not him. It’s not my nameless monster. This photo is from twenty-two years ago, when the copycat killer slaughtered those women. I wasn’t even born when it happened.

I think back to two years ago…to the last night my monster came to me when I was in my senior year of high school. It was rare I saw him, even though he was a constant presence in my mind. The silly teenage me actually fell in love with him—or at least, I thought I did.

He is a ghost. A man I only saw in my dreams, and even then, it was only a couple of times a year. I’m not even sure he was real.

The pressure builds in my core as I think about him, then it starts to burn. Despite the fresh air coming in through my open window, the room grows hot.

Ping.

I snap myself back to the present and pull my hand from between my legs as if someone just caught me in the act. My pulse is racing, my fist curling the blankets beneath me.

What am I doing? Dreaming of a masked man fucking his victims.

Shadowface never indicated he had sex with those girls. Why would I even think that? That was never what it was about for Shadowface. He killed them for sport, and because he could. And I have no clue why my natural response is to get off on it.

Overwhelmed by disgust, I quickly adjust myself and strain my eyes to locate the origin of the noise on my computer. I notice a red circle on the chat group in my online class forum.

Someone sent me a message.

Dr. Garcia strongly suggested we form study groups, and I anticipated studying with Dani, so I’m surprised I have an unread message in our classroom chat group.

I pull the computer to my lap and lay my head back.

I created a fake username earlier. The professor told us we can remain anonymous if we choose to. In fact, she encouraged it due to the personal nature of the course.

I click on the message and my eyes narrow when I see the display name.

SF: Hi there.

I hover the mouse over the name.

Oh, for crying out loud. Subtle.

Fuck. It’s as if he knew. Like he was watching me through that screen and smelled my arousal. I pause for a second before answering.

Bikiniqueen: Hi

SF: Want to study with me?