Authors: Ania Ahlborn
The Pretty Ones (19 page)
Half-naked, she stumbled out of her bedroom and across the rough planks of the living room into the kitchenette. Her fingers fell onto the handle of the biggest knife in the block, the same type of knife that had been used on Harriet Lamont. She drew it out, the metal hissing against wood. Staring at the blade, she choked on her sobs.
If Barrett was dead, she didn't want to live.
If Barrett was dead, it meant she was crazy.
If Barrett was dead, she had to be dead too.
She pointed the blade toward herself, taking the handle in both hands.
“Barrett?” She whispered it into the empty space of their home. “Tell me it isn't true.”
When no reply came, she clamped down her teeth and roughly drew the blade across her skin. The flesh of her abdomen parted like a hungry mouth just before she dropped the knife and cried out in pain. It skittered across the floor, slid beneath the stove and out of sight. She screamed as blood gushed from her self-inflicted wound. Her hands pressed against the gaping cut, smearing her own blood over the blood of Harriet Lamont and her dead daughter.
The door rattled on its hinges.
“I saw you,” she wept. “You were there.”
Someone was kicking at it, trying to force it open. It groaned against each of its three locks.
“You were there!” she cried, curling up on the kitchen floor. “It was you!”
The door flew open with such force that it slammed against the adjacent wall. Nell's tear-warped gaze drifted to a few pairs of dingy high-tops. They gathered around her, their owners chattering in incoherent sentences, yelling at each other, a pair of feet running out of the apartment as quickly as they had come in. But Nell didn't care. She wanted to bleed out. If Barrett wasn't there to save her, she didn't want to be saved at all.
“Hey, girl, don't worry.” A Puerto Rican boy with a kind face knelt over her. “I've got you. We're gonna get you some help.”
Nell turned her head away.
Not him, not my angel, my love, my baby boy . . .
That's what her mother had screamed.
My baby boy.
It was then that she saw himânot all of him, just his shoulder and shoe.
Barrett was there, standing in Nell's room.
A gasp escaped her throat.
“Was it that guy?” the boy asked.
Nell's eyes jumped to the boy's face, certain that he had spotted Barrett peeking out from behind the bedroom door. But the kid's attention was fixed on her. He was distracted by Nell's wound, not quite deep enough to kill. Barrett was too smart to be seen, too clever to be found.
“Hey, was it him?” the kid asked. “You know, the killer? Was it that psycho Son of Sam? You think it was him that did this to you?”
Nell gave him a blank look, then turned her attention back to the bedroom.
“Yes,” she whispered. “It was him.”
It was all him.
He
had killed the girls. Had killed Lamont. Had tried to kill her in the end.
Barrett's eyes flashed.
He was grinning.
You should have dyed your hair,
he thought.
She could hear him inside her head now. It had worked. Lamont's death had brought them closer together. Closer than ever.
And it took all of Nell's strength not to bellow out a laugh.
Because everything was going to be okay now.
Everything was going to be okay.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Every now and again, a writer reads a book that plants the seed of a concept in his brain that refuses to go away. It's one of those moments when, after reading the final page, one thinks, “Damn, I wish
I
had written that.” That being said, this novella is my ode to Robert Bloch, who inspired many with his masterwork,
Psycho
. I wasn't the first to be influenced by Bloch's fantastic work, and I most certainly won't be the last.
Endless thanks go to my editor, Ed Schlesinger, who encouraged me to watch
Saturday Night Fever
again for the first time in ages and told me stories about the nightmare that was 1970s New York City. I'll never, ever mention that you know the exact date
Star Wars
came out off the top of your head.
To my rock-star literary agent, David Hale Smith, whom I can no longer keep geographical track of, thanks for continuing to be my champion.
And, of course, to my always-supportive husband, Will, who claims I give him “street cred,” which, admittedly, makes me feel a little bit gangsta.
But, as always, my sincerest gratitude goes to you, my readers. It's hard for an author to sound genuine after so many thanks, but seriously, thank you. Without you, this whole writing thing would be little more than me screaming stories into the wind.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ANIA AHLBORN
is the bestselling author of the horror thrillers
Within These Walls
,
The Bird Eater
,
The Shuddering
,
The Neighbors
,
and
Seed
,
which has been optioned for film. Born in Ciechanów, Poland, she lives in Portland, Oregon, with her husband and their dog. Visit
www.aniaahlborn.com
or follow the author on Facebook and Twitter.
FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR:
authors.simonandschuster.com/Ania-Ahlborn
MEET THE AUTHORS, WATCH VIDEOS AND MORE AT
ALSO AVAILABLE BY ANIA AHLBORN
Within These Walls
The Bird Eater
The Shuddering
The Neighbors
Seed
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Ania Ahlborn
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First Pocket Star Books ebook edition July 2015
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ISBN 978-1-4767-8376-5