Dark Rapture_A Disturbing Psychological Thriller

by Logan Fox

  The chair.

  She shook free the duffel bag’s strap and dropped her clothes, wet sweatpants, and the cellphone on the floor before flinging open the door again. Her heart did a fucking fantastic job at trying to hammer through her chest as she raced naked across Seth’s bedroom. Another hellish crash came from the door, and something bit into Pearl’s thigh. She cried out, stumbling when she looked down and saw blood.

  A splinter of wood speared into her thigh.

  “Jesus, fuck!” she wailed.

  Pearl grabbed the chair and hauled it across the carpet with her, trying to ignore the way the bathroom door creaked as Seth’s hands slid into the sizeable gash he’d created and tried to rip the wood apart.

  The chair rasped loudly over the carpet. Her breath sounded like a dying person’s. And her thigh? It pulsed with dull fire, sending spasms of agony up her leg with every step.

  Pearl dragged the chair outside, slammed the door shut, and wedged the piece of furniture under the door handle.

  She drew a breath, clutched at her chest at the stab of pain that produced, and fell back with a scream when Seth slammed into the bedroom door.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Pearl dragged herself up, grabbed everything off the floor, and tore through the apartment.

  When her hand closed around the door handle, she fully expected it not to open. The feeling was so intense, so foreboding, that for a moment she couldn’t move.

  Not even when she heard the chair’s legs shuddering over the floor behind her as Seth threw himself at the bedroom door.

  It wasn’t going to open. She was locked inside here, with him. With them. And they were going to fucking kill her. This was how she died. This was—

  Her hand twisted.

  The door didn’t open.

  Pearl let out a blubbering, incoherent cry.

  Keycard.

  “No, no, no!” She slammed her fist against the door.

  A crash from behind, another shudder of slowly relenting wood.

  “Fuck you!” she yelled. “No! This is not how I fucking die!”

  Keycard.

  It was barely a whisper. Pearl whipped her head around, but there was no one close to her. Not yet, anyway. The chair teetered at a hectic angle - inches away from tipping over and letting Seth free. If he didn’t just punch his way though the wood.

  Keycard.

  Pearl swallowed, gave her head a vicious shake, and dropped everything in her hands. The wet sweatpants fell with a splat, the duffel bag with a heavy thud. Her sneakers fell free, tangled in a yellow dress. She dropped to her knees, fingers shaking furiously as she tore away chiffon to gain access to the mouth of the sneaker.

  Her fingers delved inside, her nails tearing at the innersole, trying to lever it up.

  Damn, it was a fucking good hiding place.

  She let out a long breath, closed her eyes, and willed her fingers to stop shaking. After a second, they did.

  Ignoring the crash—shudder of Seth’s furious assault on the door, Pearl slid the keycard out of her shoe. She spun around, finger still tangled in the loathsome yellow dress, and slammed the keycard against the black panel beside the door.

  She couldn’t hear anything over the sound of the door splintering — or, possibly, the chair — behind her.

  Her hand closed over the door handle.

  It turned.

  Pearl snatched the door open and stumbled into the hallway.

  She spun around, a massive breath drawing into her lungs as Seth ricocheted from the wall with a grunt and hurtled down the hallway toward her.

  Fighting a wave of panic that wanted to shatter her bones and leave her flapping like a gutted fish on the floor, Pearl reached inside the apartment and scooped out the duffel bag and dripping slacks. She caught the edge of the door with her fingers and tugged.

  The door slammed shut.

  Seth ran into it with a heavy thud. Pearl stumbled back, lifting her hands to her face, fully expecting the door to swing open and unleash the fury of the man who’d taken over Seth’s beast of a body.

  But nothing happened. Pearl took another step back, lowering her hands. Catching sight of the phone laying where she’d dragged it out of the apartment. Feeling the flutter of chiffon around her wrist.

  She moved like a marionette doll — picked up the phone, tugged down the bag’s zipper, shoved it inside, snatched up the wet slacks, bundled them up and forced them into the bag. Her sneakers were nowhere in sight. For a moment this floored her, and she blinked at the empty carpet, wondering how she could have missed their solidity when she’d been scooping everything out with her.

  Run.

  Pearl turned and ran.

  Fumbling the strap of the duffel bag over her shoulder, Pearl tore the yellow dress from the tangle around her wrist.

  Half-running, half-stumbling, she raced down the hall to Ethan’s door, tugging the dress over her head.

  “Ethan!” God, but that word was a shaking, hoarse thing. Seth’s fingers, her screams, exhaustion — they’d stolen her voice.

  She let out another weak, tremulous “Ethan!” and began banging on the door.

  The silence behind her was too ominous. Why wasn’t Seth crashing into the door? They didn’t seem to put up much of a fight, if the two—

  Keycard.

  His keycard.

  Seth was looking for his keycard.

  Pearl’s eyes swung back to Ethan’s door. She lifted her hand, staring in wonder at the keycard she held. She couldn’t remember keeping her grip on it. Couldn’t remember jostling it in her hands as she’d wrestled into the dress, as she’d shoved things into the duffel bag. But here it was — clutched between white-knuckled fingers.

  She swiped it over the panel beside Ethan’s door. Heard the tiny sound of the lock disengaging.

  Pushing her way inside, Pearl scanned the lounge and kitchenette. Empty.

  She hurried into the bedroom.

  Empty.

  The bathroom.

  Empty.

  He wasn’t here.

  Why the fuck wasn’t he here?

  9

  Mr. Morrison

  Pearl ran for the stairs. Well, hobbled, really. The pain that had been distant, if terrible, before had now returned with an army of agony bringing up the rear. Her leg burned as if she’d set it on fire and there was a strange, throbbing numbness spreading from her thigh muscle. She snatched up the medical bag Ethan had left on the corner of his bed at the insistence of that faint, disembodied voice that had taken up residence in her mind before leaving.

  Whose voice was that? Murderer Pearl? Or Super Pearl?

  Perhaps a little of both.

  There had only been silence when she left Ethan’s apartment. Maybe Seth wasn’t looking for his keys. Maybe he’d knocked himself out when he made a run at the door. Was he lying in a pool of his own blood, slowly succumbing to death’s cold, clinging embrace?

  She fucking hoped so.

  Because, although she still called him Seth, she somehow knew that man was gone forever. Someone — something — else had replaced him.

  Forcing the thought from her mind, Pearl ran down two steps and put her back against the wall, closing her eyes as a wave of pain coursed through her. She was starting to feel giddy — she smiled at the word, even though it felt more like a grimace.

  Flipping open the first aid kit, Pearl dragged out a bundle of bandages. She lifted the edge of her skirt, hissing at the sight of the inch of wood sticking out from her leg. It wasn’t long, but it was wide — almost an inch across — and lodged securely, as a tentative tug at the thing proved a second later.

  Biting on her lip to suppress a moan of pain, Pearl put her head against the wall. She was supposed to be running, not parking off here doing sweet fuck-all, hoping everything would just go ahead and resolve itself already so she could get back to living a normal life.

  Did she pull the splinter out? Or was she supposed to leave it in? Why the fuck didn’t they t
each you these things in school?

  She let out a low laugh, rolling the back of her head against the wall. Like she’d have paid attention back then.

  Okay, pulling it out seemed sensible, right now. After all, it was interfering with her muscle, perhaps doing more damage with every step. Once it was out, she could tie a bandage around her thigh to stop the bleeding.

  Pearl drew a deep breath, bit down hard on the inside of her bottom lip, and tugged at the splinter. It gave, but barely. And the pain that small tug produced was ridiculously disproportionate to what it should’ve been. A wave of nausea rolled over her, and she had to press her hands against the wall to prevent herself from tumbling down the stairs.

  Why hadn’t she stayed in Ethan’s room? He would have to come back, eventually. Maybe there was a way to lock it using her keycard. She could turn around, go inside—

  Footsteps came from below.

  Ethan?

  Her heart gave a frantic thump against her breastbone. She pushed herself away from the wall, hobbling down a step and leaning forward. The way the Fox Pit’s stairs curved, whoever was coming up would still have several steps to go before she could see them. Absently clutching the duffel bag to her stomach, Pearl waited with a rabbit-quick pulse for the person to arrive.

  Whoever it was, they weren’t in a hurry.

  Those steps were measured and slow. Not cautious… just…

  Owen.

  The name slammed into her mind a second before the man’s dark head bobbed into view. And, as if he had telepathic powers and had heard Pearl’s panicked guess, his head tipped up.

  The lustrous fabric of his suit caught light in soft, sullen shimmers. Charcoal. Slim cut. She recognized those gleaming pinstripes. It was the same suit he’d worn the night she’d met him at the Plaza. His tie was off. The first button on his pale shirt undone.

  Pearl fell back with a strangled gasp.

  Had he seen her?

  She spun around, hurtling up the stairs as she grimaced through the agony that produced. She was halfway up the last level of the Fox Pit when reason broke down her door of panic, shining a flashlight in her eyes and demanding to know what the fuck she thought she was doing.

  Pearl froze.

  Why was she running? Owen could help her. She could tell him about Seth. He could take her somewhere safe—

  The disembodied sound of a whip crack obliterated the thought. Pearl squeezed her eyes shut. Owen’s five wounds pulsed fire through her. It was as if her body, upon seeing the hunter, thought Pearl needed a reminder of just how caring and protective that predator was.

  Heart clanging in her throat, Pearl risked another quick peek around the corner. The landing was empty. Where was he? She put her hand out, not trusting her legs to keep her at the needed angle.

  Red.

  So much red. Bright. Shining.

  Pearl blinked, turning her head.

  Her hand was caked with blood. Some dry, most not. Even as her fingertips pressed against the smooth clay, she knew what she would see.

  Streaks of red like a demonic kid’s attempt at finger painting. It stained the wall where she’d used her hand for balance — a neon red line leading straight to her.

  X marks the spot.

  “Fuck,” Pearl whispered under her breath.

  Owen might not have seen her, but there was no way he could’ve missed the blood.

  She heard footsteps. Still measured, but moving faster now. Pearl gritted her teeth and went up the stairs as fast as her leg would allow. As she was about to clear the landing, a voice from above brought her up short.

  “—had the fucking nerve to tell me he didn’t have a clue what I was on about,” Tanner said, speaking in a careless rush of words. Was he high? Or drunk? Probably both.

  “About that…” came Caden’s quiet murmur.

  “I mean, did he hit his head on the way back in, or something? Who the fuck doesn’t remember beating someone into a fucking coma? I mean, I’ve had my fair share of blackouts, but that—”

  “Tanner.”

  The voices had been drawing closer, but now they paused. Pearl sank down two steps, glancing over her shoulder. The sound of footsteps ascending behind her stopped, too. Had Owen heard the voices, too? Or was he investigating the stain she’d left on the wall a few feet away.

  If so, why was he hesitating?

  “What?” Tanner sniffed loudly. “Fuck…” Tanner drew out the word as the direction of his voice changed. “You got that look on your face, Caden. Don’t tell me—”

  “Let’s… discuss this later. We shouldn’t—”

  “Jarred can wait. That man has the patience of a fucking rock.”

  “Not here, where anyone—”

  “Out with it.” Tanner’s voice dropped to a low growl.

  Pearl — despite the crawling of her skin, the throbbing in her leg, and the furious banging of her heart — climbed up a step and peeked around the corner, into the landing.

  The two men had come to a halt several feet away. Caden turned and put his back against the wall, lifting a foot behind him and a hand to his eyes. He slid his fingers under his glasses, rubbing his eyes as Tanner slapped a hand on the wall beside his shoulder and leaned in.

  “Why do I have a feeling I’m not going to like what you’re going to say next?”

  “Because you’re not.” Caden glanced down either end of the corridor, and Pearl barely got her head back in time before he turned in her direction.

  She was prostrate on the stairs now, draped awkwardly across several steps with her thigh dripping blood onto the step beneath it. Should she go down another step or two? She hadn’t heard a sound from Owen — had he descended silently, or was he waiting, like her, for Tanner and Caden to move on?

  He obviously didn’t realize that they were headed in this direction.

  Or that he had trapped Pearl between him and the Fox Pit owners.

  Or had he?

  “About Seth,” Caden said.

  Pearl’s ears pricked up at the name. Despite the fact that her skin felt as if it had decided to run away from home, she propped her elbow up a step and drew herself forward, again peeking around the corner.

  Caden stared straight ahead. Tanner was turned away from the landing — from her — arm still up as if preventing Caden from moving forward until he was satisfied.

  “He’s been seeing a psychotherapist once a week.”

  “Because he beat up Henry?”

  “Because… he has a mental disorder.” Caden let out a long sigh. “I really shouldn’t be disclosing—”

  “The fuck you shouldn’t.” Tanner’s hand slapped against the wall. Caden, surprisingly, didn’t flinch. He just turned those stark blue eyes to Tanner, face deadpan and mouth a thin line. “That should’ve been the first fucking thing you told me.” Tanner’s voice rose in pitch. “Hey, Tanner? Got this new guy. He’s a bit fucked in the head. I thought we could get him started straight away.”

  “His therapist assured me that—”

  “He wouldn’t go around almost killing people?” Tanner cut in. He let out a low laugh, shaking his head. Caden pursed his lips, taking a visible breath. He still wore the same grey shirt and dark slacks as earlier, if a little more rumpled. Tanner’s faded red shirt and cargo pants seemed overly bright in comparison.

  “I should’ve known,” Tanner murmured. “You always find a way to fuck up—”

  Caden pushed away from the wall, stabbing a finger into Tanner’s shoulder so hard the man took a step back.

  “Me? You’re the one that told me to find the cheapest help short of slave labor. In fact, I recall you stating that if I could find two out-of-luck Mexicans to do the job, you’d blow me under the table at our next investors’s meeting.”

  Tanner let out a sharp laugh, slapping his hand over Caden’s pec. “That does sound like something I’d say,” he said, words warbling with mirth.

  “So don’t get pissed off because I hired someone whose only
downfall seemed to be the fact that he had some undisclosed mental condition that required therapy once a week and some medication.”

  “Medication? What medication?”

  “Did I mention undisclosed?”

  Tanner snorted. “Undisclosed? Seriously?”

  “His therapist wouldn’t say.” Caden stiffened, folding his arms over his chest.

  “I’m sure you could’ve found some way to pry that info from him.”

  “She wasn’t my type.”

  Tanner’s hand was still on Caden’s chest. Pearl could see his grip tighten, fingers denting into the soft fabric of Caden’s shirt.

  “So you’re telling me we have a fucking psycho working for us? You didn’t think that was pertinent information, Caden?”

  “Don’t you ever get tired of calling the kettle black?”

  There was a protracted silence. Pearl hunkered down, eyes widening as the air filled with an almost palpable friction.

  A chafing sound came from behind. Pearl whipped her head around, barely managing to swallow a scream.

  Owen stood four steps down from her, hands limp at his side, head slightly cocked to the side. His green eyes caught the light, glowing as he studied her.

  “I told you,” came Tanner’s tight voice, “I’m not crazy.”

  “And yet you refuse to see a psychiatrist!” came Caden’s furious whisper in return. “Fucking fox women? The chairman of a company can’t go around telling people he sees fox women!”

  Pearl’s breath was coming too fast. It tore through her open mouth, drying her tongue until it felt like a desiccated slug.

  Owen rose another step, and then lifted one foot up, settling the sole of his shiny, obsidian oxford an inch away from Pearl’s dripping leg. She shifted, trying to move away from him, but stopped when she realized that in another inch, she’d be moving into Caden’s field of view.

  The man bent his knee. He leaned forward and rested his lower arms across his thigh. A smile flickered on his lips becoming one-sided as he cocked his head the other way.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” Owen murmured barely loud enough for her to hear. “This is quite a pickle you’ve gotten yourself into.”