Obsession

by Marie Robinson

I pull back so quickly I stumble off of the stool, which clatters to the floor. I’ve twisted enough in his grip that I’m holding his wrist too, my fingers digging in as if to keep him back or pull him closer. He doesn’t let go of my wrist, his green eyes blank and his face settled once more into his impassive mask. In this position, though, I can feel his pulse too. He isn’t as unaffected by this as he’s trying to make me believe. That, more than his threat, sways me.

  “Fine,” I say through a clenched jaw, looking away from him.

  I stay where I am while Malcolm goes to the counter along the far wall, opening various drawers. When he’s back, it’s with a tray filled with sterile equipment and alcohol swabs. At least he’s not risking me getting any of the diseases I’m sure he’s got tucked away in some petri dishes or something.

  We don’t talk while he ties the rubber band around my arm and swabs the joint of my elbow. But when he slides the needle in, nearly painlessly, I huff with interest. “You’re pretty good at this.”

  “I’ve taken thousands of samples,” he says as he swaps out a full vile for a new one. “Any communicable diseases that you’re aware of?”

  My brow furrows. “Huh?”

  He looks up at me through too thick eyelashes, something that could be considered almost smoldering if he wasn’t currently draining blood from me. “Do you have any STIs or HIV/Aids?”

  I blink, shaking my head quickly. “No, none. I’m actually a virgin, so no chance of that happening.”

  He stares at me for a moment, then the vial is full and he’s sliding the needle out and pressing a cotton ball over the puncture site.

  “You’re dismissed for the day,” he says as he gathers the vials and used syringes, pulling off his gloves. “I expect you to return on Wednesday.”

  I don’t bother answering since he’s already got his back to me, and I press the cotton ball hard against my skin to make sure it clots. I walk towards the door, wondering if I can get away with skipping the rest of my duties until dinner. It can’t be too much longer until then.

  “Mary?”

  Malcolm’s voice stops me as I’m reaching for the handle. I look back at him, a silent question on my face.

  “Remember,” his voice is even, “I have no qualms about getting what I want. Mrs. Browning will believe me, even if I say you leapt from the roof and flew to the ground. She’ll certainly believe you offered to suck my cock.”

  My face flushes with anger and humiliation… and perhaps a small percent of interest. Saying nothing, I rip the door open and storm back to my room. I don’t care about dinner, I can’t care. All I can think about is Malcolm’s lips against my ear, his hand holding my wrist, his racing pulse. And, dammit, the idea of sucking his cock.

  Chapter Seven

  Ever since I can remember, I’ve always had the same reoccurring dream. A man holds me tight in his arms, petting my hair, and I feel so cherished, so loved. Then his touch becomes cruel, and everything hurts, but he still continues to murmur his love to me. Sometimes his face, crowned with russet-colored curls, grows so gaunt his cheeks hollow and he looks more like a skull. His eyes will turn bright like a candle flame, and as he stares into my eyes, my skin burns. Other times he stays the same, a kind and gentle face, even as his nails shred the skin from my body.

  It starts again, like it always does. An open door, an inviting room with books and my favorite candies always in the dish on the desk. I never see him until I pop the sweet candy in my mouth and it squirms, tasting of bitter tannins and sour refuse. I try to spit it out, but instead of a strawberry bonbon, centipedes and flies crawl up and over my lips onto my face. I scratch at them, never able to stop them from crawling from within me—all over me.

  His hand brushes them away with an ease I can never manage, and I turn grateful eyes on him. But it is not the same familiar man that I’ve seen my entire life. It’s Nikolai, his blue eyes crinkled with laughter.

  “Mary, Mary, quite contrary,” he whispers as he wraps his gloved hands around me, lifting me to his lap. “There are no such thing as monsters.”

  I want to tell him he’s wrong; that there are monsters. I’ve seen them, I’ve felt their rage. They destroy anyone who comes between them and me. But he’s kissing me and I melt into him. My body writhes with an unfamiliar need, an ache forming between my legs where I sit on Nikolai’s lap.

  Then another hand is gripping my face, fingers digging into my cheeks, as Victor pulls me from the kiss. He’s scowling, but I know he’s angry at himself, not at me. “You never ask the right questions, Miss Wollstonecraft,” his voice is a harsh growl that sends shivers over me.

  Using a bravery I never knew I had, I look him in the eyes as I speak. “Do you want me, Mr. Frankenstein?”

  He doesn’t answer, but he drags me forward, licking a hot stripe along my cheek. It should be disgusting, but I lean into his touch, his tongue feeling like a brand. “I want to possess you, Mary.”

  Then he’s turning my face and I see Malcolm there, his face so still as to if carved from stone. But his pants strain and he keeps me hypnotized by his gaze as he unzips his slacks and his hard cock is freed.

  Victor’s hands go into my hair and he forces my face towards Malcolm’s cock, the young man looking down at me with a mixture of desire and rage. When my lips wrap around the head, Nikolai’s hands are everywhere as Victor makes me take Malcolm down as far as I can. It should be shameful, letting these three make me feel such desire, but I can’t care. I whimper, the sound making Malcolm hum with satisfaction, and I’m so close to the pleasure I’ve never dared seek out.

  When I reach the precipice, they still. I want to cry out in frustration, but instead I sob out in pain. I thrash against them as their skin turns a scorched black, their fingers leaving ash in their wake even as they tear into my flesh. They’re taking me apart, destroying me. I scream as I feel myself slipping into oblivion, and I look at them for help. But their eyes are not like the other man’s. Their eyes are still the same, even in their demonic flesh. The contempt they look at me with every day is how they look at me now as I burn away under them.

  I bolt upright in my bed, my heart racing. My legs are tangled in the sheets and I struggle against them. The vestiges of the nightmare still cling to me and I’m shaking. This is the first time the dream has ever featured anyone other than the nameless man, the first time any dream has been so… arousing. Shame floods me as I realize my body’s reaction to the dream, despite the inevitable destruction. My panties are soaked and my pussy throbs with a bone-deep ache. I think about soothing it, slipping my fingers beneath the waistband, teasing my clit until I’m crying out. I can’t, though. My skin aches from their burning fingers, as if it had been real—as if someone had poured hot wax over me and now I’m left only with the deep burn.

  Scrubbing at my face with my palms, I try to calm my breathing.

  “Mary.”

  My heart stops as ice flows over me at the sound of my name. My room is dark and I clutch the blankets, my stomach rolling as the hairs on my arms stand. I wait for something—anything—to happen. So much time stretches by that my heart begins to relax, but the chill never leaves me. That aching sense of dread, the one evolved over eons to keep humanity alive, is still there, pulsing in the back of my brain, sending warning flares throughout every single nerve.

  “Mary.”

  It’s louder, closer this time. I slap my hand against the side desk, struggling to turn the lamp on. When the room is flooded with light, I’m too terrified to scream. I can only clamp my hands over my mouth as I curl against the wall.

  The walls are misshapen, as if someone had plastered animal and human body parts everywhere, before whitewashing them. Blood spills from eye sockets and gaping mouths. And I’m not alone. People are crammed into the small space between my furniture, their bodies grotesque and disfigured. Some are no more than skeletons dripping with blood, others are fully dressed, but missing limbs or half of their faces. Every one of them is frighten
ing, a specter from Hell, and every one of them is looking at me, the same candlelight in their eyes from my nightmare.

  “Mary.”

  Their call echoes through me and I don’t hear it as much as feel it shaking my soul. This must be a new nightmare, sent to me from my monsters, trying to draw me out. And it works. I fly from the bed, charging through the bodies the short distance to my door. I can feel myself becoming covered in their ethereal grime as I pass, and I retch. But I don’t stop. I wrench open my door and stumble into the hall. The hall that is filled with the same spirits, who all turn to stare at me, my name spilling from their dammed mouths. I run, hot tears coursing over my cheeks, but I don’t let myself stop. If I stop, my monsters will win.

  I turn the corner and slam into a solid wall. Arms come around me and I shriek, kicking and fighting the grip, until a sharp crack breaks through my terror and my cheek is stinging. I rear back, and I realize my captor is Victor. Not the Victor from my dreams, but the real one, blessedly solid.

  The spirits have disappeared, but I can feel them there, just beyond the edge of the world. I begin to shake so violently I feel Victor hold me to him tighter as my knees give out from under me. His eyes are wide and then he’s scooping me into his arms, taking long strides down the hall. I bury my fingers in his shirt, hiding against him, uncaring that he’s seeing this weakness, that I’m drenching his shirt in hot, wet grief and fear.

  He kicks a door open and a light flickers on over us. It’s not as bright as Malcolm’s lab, but it’s still bright enough I shy away from it. He sets me down on a cold metal table and has to pry my fingers from his shirt. He takes my face in both of his hands, his thumbs pushing up my eyelids as he looks closely at me. Then he’s taking my pulse before stepping away from me. I feel his loss like knives slicing through my fingertips and I grab his wrist, desperate. He looks at me, his dark amber eyes wary. I probably look insane to him. I feel insane.

  “Don’t leave me,” I say, my voice shaking, but I force the words out. “If you leave, they’ll come back. They’re still there, waiting for me.”

  He looks towards the door. “Who?”

  “The ghosts that haunt this place. I know I sound crazy, but it’s true. I can see them, and they want something from me. I was running from them.”

  “Mary, you’re in shock.”

  I shake my head, I have to make him understand. “No, I’m not—well, I might be, but I’m being serious, Victor. Ever since I died, ever since I came back, I can see them. I can feel them.”

  He stops trying to pull away, coming close enough that his waist is pressed into the table. He lifts my chin with two demanding fingers, making me look him in the eye. He’s searching for something, and I don’t let myself blink. I want to pour myself out to someone, anyone. Or I’m going to burst, and go crazy—properly this time.

  “Can you walk?”

  I chew on my lip, and I notice how his gaze lingers on the action. The memory of him from my dream slams into me and I shiver with anticipation, thankful it’s hidden by the shivers which still wrack my body. “I think so.”

  He helps me off of the table, but instead of going to the door, he goes to the wall between two cabinets, three lab aprons hanging from the hooks. He presses something, then I’m gasping as the wall swings open towards us. Victor tugs me into the dark passage, closing the door behind us and trapping us in the dark narrow passage.

  “What?” It’s all I can ask.

  “Passages between the walls,” he explains quietly, tugging me deeper into the darkness. There’s no light here, none at all, and I grip his hand harder. “Most houses this old have some. There are hidden doors, some of them I doubt even Mrs. Browning knows about.”

  If I strain, I can almost hear the people on the other side of the walls. Someone was laughing, a faucet running, and—I’m grateful for the dark when we pass a rhythmic thump against the wall coupled with low moans.

  “Where are you taking me?” I keep my voice as quiet as his.

  Victor doesn’t answer immediately, turning us down a passage that becomes even more narrow. He stops, and tugs me in front of him until my back is pressed against his chest, and his arm wraps around my waist, his hand splayed out over my stomach. His touch sends electricity through me, and my breath quickens. My eyes flutter closed as his fingers stretch out, his pinky finger brushing against the waistband of my pajama shorts. I want to grab his wrist, to wrench him away or to keep him from going further. Fear races through me again, but this time it’s mixed with a need I’m wholly unfamiliar with. He shifts behind me and that need doubles as I feel his own interest against me where I’m cradled against him. He moves, his face lowering as his other arm presses against the wall in front of us. I hear a quiet click and light begins to appear, outlining a door.

  “My room.”

  Chapter Eight

  To say that Victor’s room is more comfortable than mine would be much too simplified. I have a glorified closet whereas his room is a private chateau. A four-poster bed is the dominating force of the room and it could easily fit four people sleeping comfortably. There’s a true stone fireplace, the hearth carved out of the same dark wood that lined the halls.

  A couch and two armchairs are plush and inviting, and his wardrobe looks nearly as long as my room. It’s immaculate and screams wealth and dignity. The only thing that isn’t perfectly tidy is the large desk pushed against the wall, a modern office chair pushed against it.

  Notes and papers are strewn across the desk so haphazardly I wonder how he can keep track of his assignments. Books are discarded on the floor, and the ones with bright-colored markers between the pages are stacked in a physics-defying tower on the top of the desk.

  He nudges me inside, his hand sliding across my stomach to catch my wrist in his hands once more. He leads me until I’m in front of the cold fireplace, and I drop into one of the chairs. The thick green cushions are as comfortable as they look, and I’m sorely tempted to steal one to sleep on it. It’d be better than my sad excuse for a bed.

  “Can I let go of you?”

  If the ghosts were waiting for me, I couldn’t tell, so I nod shyly. When his hand leaves me, I rub my wrist where I can still feel the heat of his skin. Papers ruffle, drawers slide open and closed, and I hear the crisp sound of a can opening. A moment later, he’s pushing a cold soda into my hands and I’m staring at it stupidly.

  “I’d offer you something harder, but I doubt you’d appreciate it.” There’s an unfamiliar warmth in his voice and I find myself unable to move as he sits in the chair across from me. He’s got a legal notebook and pen in his hand, watching me with a vague curiosity.

  “Thanks,” I mutter, and take a sip of the carbonated beverage. It bites at the back of my throat, my eyes stinging, but the sugary taste bolsters me. I take another one, fight back the burp I can feel building. I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one night.

  “So, tell me about these ghosts.”

  He looks like a nosy therapist instead of a seventeen-year-old boy genius. But a therapist who makes no effort to hide their bias. There’s a fierce curiosity as he looks at me. No, he’s studying me like one of his many experiments. I shrug a shoulder.

  “Not much to tell, honestly.”

  “I doubt that, seeing as they sent you running into my arms.”

  My face flushes and I can’t deny it. I roll the can between my hands, watching the bent tab spinning in a, imperfect circle, trying to think what words won’t make me sound like I need to be booked into inpatient therapy.

  “Almost a month ago, my mother and I were in a car accident.” The words burn in my chest, the painful ache reaching towards the surface from where I buried it so deeply. “We were running from... something.”

  “Very specific,” he drawls and I roll my eyes.

  “We were always on the run. I’ve always been hunted by monsters,” I say, refusing to look at him and see the skepticism in his eyes. “They’d caught up with us again, so we were t
rying to leave town when our car slid off the bridge. The last thing I remember is seeing her struggle to unhook my seatbelt, even though the car was entirely submerged.”

  I could hear him taking notes, but I was losing myself to the confession. This was the first time I’ve spoken of the entire thing.

  “I woke up to people surrounding me. They were convinced I was dead. I guess someone did CPR on both of us, but...”

  He doesn’t press me. I press the heels of my palms against my eyes, desperate to shove the pain away. I’m not safe from my monsters, not yet. I know, as I knew so many times before, that they are getting closer. They found my scent and it was only a matter of time before they found me here at Crowsrest. I take a deep breath and dash the tears away from my eyes, swallowing the lump in my throat.

  “By the time I got to the hospital, I realized that not everyone around me was... real,” I say slowly, finally looking at Victor. His pen was laid against the pad of paper and he watched me instead. “I told the doctors, but they told me it wasn’t real and pumped me full of drugs. When I woke up again, the ghosts were gone. I believed the doctors.”

  “What changed?”

  I snort, a quiet, breathy sound more than anything else. What had changed? Was it me, or was it something that I’ve always had but now could finally use? “I was at the city morgue with a sheriff. I had to identify my mom. We didn’t have money for the funeral arrangements, but they told me she’d prearranged everything. When I was leaving, that’s when I noticed a little girl next to a little boy in the hallway. The dad was there, holding the boy’s hand, and he looked broken. I realized the little girl, the twin of the boy, was dead. After that, I noticed them everywhere.”

  “Hence your question about the soul after death.”

  “Yup,” I pop the word out. “Right in one, Mr. Frankenstein.”

  He doesn’t answer for a while and I’m grateful. The soda he gave me did help, but the high of the terror I’d felt is making me crash. If it weren’t for the beverage, I doubt I’d still be awake. The last thing I need is him dragging my unconscious body to my room, or worse, to Mrs. Browning. The thought of going to my room terrifies me though. What if they are still there, waiting for me?