Rain hammered over the roofs as neon light spilled through the city. The hours of work had long ended, but in a tall five-story building within the heart of the city, a figure sat before a lighted monitor, her fingers hitting the keyboard as though she were caught between a battle of words and inspiration.
Her eyes squinted behind her thick glasses, and her hair was held back in a loose ponytail. Around her was quietness, the type that made voices echo and rooms tremble, but the figure seemed to enjoy every bit of the sound of the buttons and her silent breathing.
A few minutes passed before her fingers rested on the keyboard. "Finally," she yawned, closing the draft. For weeks, she had been working on this opening chapter, and finally she could begin picturing the next ones.
Willa Hart was her name, a dutiful horror-ghost writer, an introverted nerd, and a die-hard bookworm. Everyone had long left, but as always, she was the work bee closing and calling it a day.
Willa rolled up the sleeves of her pink shirt, displaying the crystal watch on her wrist. The time was just a little past midnight, but to her, it was early. Usually, she left the office no earlier than two a.m.
Gathering her belongings, she strolled out of the huge building like the queen of the night. Outside, she hailed a cab and watched the blurring city lights through the window as droplets of rain splattered all over. When the car turned the corner into her street, a wave of exhaustion spread across her limbs, and her lips curved with anticipation for her soft mattress.
"Thank you," she whispered as the car halted, and she found her way out.
The neighborhood was silent like a graveyard, with the eerie cries of crickets creaking in the corners and cats howling in the distance. Willa sprinted into the elevator, her eyes widening with fear and her fingers clutching her bag firmly for support.
As a horror writer, one would think she was accustomed to such surroundings and may have even enjoyed them, but that was far from the truth.
Willa hated everything about ghosts and haunted houses, and even the sight of too much blood drove her insane. The horror genre felt like a gift; she was so good at it and had written over thirty bestselling novels, but in reality, her fears had been portrayed in every character she created.
As the elevator dinged, she sighed in relief and rushed out. She quickly searched her bag for her key, but as her hand touched the doorknob, the door creaked open.
"Not again," Willa lamented under her breath.
She shared a two-bedroom apartment with her younger sister, Amira Hart, but she took care of the bills and every other thing. The apartment wasn't as quiet as she had expected; rustles came from upstairs, but she assumed it was her sister.
"I don't know how many times I'll have to remind this girl to always lock the door after her," Willa sighed, turning the keys and holding the doorknob one last time before walking toward her room.
This wasn't the first time. On the contrary, Willa had returned home many times to find the door open. Amira had a habit of ignoring important details, and with the rising rate of crime, she still didn't seem to take security seriously.
What if I were a thief… a murderer… or worse, a serial killer? The thought made Willa's body crawl, but bringing it up with Amira wasn't an option, not when she would just turn around and play it off like it was no big deal.
Willa was too exhausted to eat or check what was in the kitchen. She dropped her bag, keys, and coat on the couch and walked toward her room, but her steps halted as groans came from the other direction.
Willa wanted to dismiss the noise, but then, what if something was wrong with Amira? With that thought alone, she rushed toward her sister's room, and the closer she got, the clearer the voices became.
"Yeah… cum for me, baby," a masculine voice echoed, followed by the whimpers and cries of a female.
Willa's body stiffened, her breath hitched. It was Amira. But then, the voice of the man sounded awfully familiar.
"Baby… can I ride you?" Amira slurred.
"Oh yes… Willa would never ask me such a thing. And even when I tell her, she confines me to the regular missionary style," the masculine voice complained.
Willa stood by the door, her hands trembling as she reached for the doorknob, but she couldn't bring herself to push it. They say trust is a fundamental unit of a relationship, and all she wanted was to trust her sister and boyfriend in this case. But the more she thought about it, the more her mind wrapped around the decision of pushing the door.
"Yeah… like that," the masculine moans leaked through the walls.
Willa's fingers trembled as she pushed the door open.
A split second, and everything changed. Fair skin, riding, moans, and ass creaks all stared back at her face. A little too cliché to be reality, but then it was.
"Amira…" Cain moaned a name that wasn't hers.
Willa couldn't scream. Her mouth opened, but no words reached her lips.
It was nothing short of the perfect betrayal, the kind she had crafted out in words and fed to her fans, but today, the full-course meal was served to her.
Without thinking, Willa dashed out. The eerily haunting atmosphere of the elevator was gone as she rushed down the streets, her feet bare as the rain drenched her.
Two years of her life, gone, flushed down the toilet like a piece of shit.
Now she believed the words of those who had warned her. A colleague once said Cain's eyes never left Amira, that his fingers always found excuses to touch her, but stupidly, she had defended them both and justified their actions. And now, this was the outcome.
Willa's lips curled as laughter spilled out, and tears streamed down her face.
"Maybe I deserved it," she whispered. "I should have seen it coming," she argued.
But a car horn blared.
Willa turned, her body stiffening, her mind racing, and the headlights screeched.
A swift second, and she was hit with unimaginable speed and tossed to the corner, her back slammed against the hard tar, and a crack echoed. Maybe it was her head, leg, or arms, but Willa felt nothing. Her vision blurred, mouth opened, breathing as much air as she could, but something wasn't right… she felt still; her hands, legs…nothing worked at her command. Willa's mind folded, her lips quivered as fear ripped through her.
"No…no," she murmured, her voice raspy and inaudible.
She gasped, warm liquid pouring from her head, her vision blurring as her head tilted toward the road. Regret drowned her. She had written too many deaths, both staged and unwilling to know; the end was close.
But what Willa regretted the most was not going home early tonight to find her boyfriend, Cain, humping her sister. It was keeping her hard-earned job and losing her boyfriend's heart because she had no personal time. It wasn't even dating the heartless jerk who took two years of her life, spent her money, and stomped on her heart.
Her biggest regret at that moment was that she ran out of her own apartment because she couldn't stand one more second of their sexcapade.
Or else she wouldn't have dashed into the road, with a car crashing into her.
Darkness hovered around her, and her clock stopped ticking…
It was over.
Yet she couldn't even die as fancy as the deaths she had granted the characters in her novels.