Radley's Labyrinth for Horny Monsters by Annabelle Hawthorne (highly recommended books .txt) 📕

by the low murmurs of a man. His voice was clinical yet commanding. Nearing the threshold, she paused just short of the frame.

“Are you sure?” the man asked.

“Yes. She is supposed to be at work.” The old woman’s voice was little more than a whisper. “I was planning to sneak in and do some of her laundry for her, poor thing.”

Laundry. Dana’s mind was suddenly confronted with the knowledge that she couldn’t remember the last time she had washed her clothes. Was she really so far gone that she hadn’t noticed her clothes magically washing themselves? Shame burned itself into her cheeks, but she stayed to listen.

“Why are you doing her laundry?”

“Her heart is broken.”

“Ah. The accident.” He said the word as if it were a common occurrence, like measles or chicken pox. “So you can let me in to her apartment to wait.”

“I shouldn’t,” the landlady said.

“But you will.” His voice was relaxed, but Dana detected the hard tone to it. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she suddenly worried that her breath was too loud. What did this guy want?

“I will.” The old woman let out a small moan. “After I do that, will you let me die?”

“What the fuck?” Dana spun around the corner, suddenly compelled to help the kind woman who had been doing her laundry. Her jaw dropped at the sight in the kitchen, and she stumbled back, catching herself on the doorframe.

The old woman was aglow in a soft yellow light, her skin white as chalk, her feet about four inches off the ground. Her head hung loosely to one side, her eyes fixated on nothing in particular.

“Looks like I won’t be waiting, after all.” The man sitting at the kitchen table produced a cigarette from nowhere, tucking it gently between his lips. The cigarette lit itself, and he inhaled deeply, contemplating Dana. He exhaled a large cloud of smoke. “You must be the delivery girl. Grab her for me, would you?” He snapped his fingers, and the landlady fell softly to her feet. Her face tightened as she let out an agonized cry, reaching for Dana as she stumbled forward.

Screaming, Dana made it to her feet and bolted. She didn’t go back where she’d come from—a dark shadow had already slammed the front door closed. Instead, she ran down the hallway behind the kitchen and out the back door. Running up to her car, she saw that the tires had been slashed.

“Damn!” Dana heard the door behind her slam. Without looking back, she raced into the garage before bolting the door behind her. After running across the concrete pad of her garage, she raced up the stairs and frantically tried to call the police on her cell. Strangely, her phone had no signal.

The door to her apartment splintered inward, and the landlady stumbled in, followed by the driver of the town car. They walked with purpose, their blank eyes fixed on her.

“If I bring you to him, he said he’ll let me go,” the landlady explained, stomping up the steps.

Dana looked at the window, wondering if she could jump out of it and land without breaking her leg. She should have run literally anywhere else—she had trapped herself in the garage with nowhere else to go. The driver and her landlady were at the top of the stairs now, moving slowly toward her.

“Leave me alone!” Dana screamed. Turning to look for anything to throw or use as a weapon, she stared in amazement at the large, open wardrobe that was where the clock had been. Painted on the back wall in bright-yellow paint were two words.

Get In

Seeing no other option, Dana jumped inside of the wardrobe and pulled the doors shut. She was tossed about when the wardrobe shook as if someone had picked it up. She heard the wardrobe crash into the landlady first and then a solid mass that Dana suspected was the driver. She cracked open the door to see that the wardrobe had sprouted wooden legs and was running toward the stairs.

“No!” Dana hollered, but the wardrobe scurried down the steps with ease. The doors opened and spat her out, and she landed on her ass right next to Alex’s motorcycle. Scrambling to her feet, she saw that the wardrobe now had different words on the inside.

Look Away. Ride.

“What?” Contemplating the words, she heard movement upstairs. The driver and the landlady were back on their feet, moving toward the steps. Outside the door, Dana heard footsteps, and she turned to look. With a loud bang and clatter, the mostly restored engine of her motorcycle blew itself across the floor of the garage. Turning back around, she saw that a pristine engine had taken its place. The bike roared to life, and Dana jumped on it. The mysterious stranger appeared at the door, a wand clutched in his hand.

The bike’s engine revved and left a streak of rubber on the concrete as it raced forward toward the garage door. Dana screamed, and the bike punched a hole through it, leaving bent steel and broken wood behind. The bike slid around the car parked in the driveway, tires squealing across the concrete. Hair billowing out behind her, Dana chanced a look over her shoulder to see the man from the kitchen step out onto the street, his wand raised.

A garden hose, left unattended in someone’s front yard, stretched itself across the street. Dana turned forward in time for it to strike her in the chest, flipping her upside down, the motorcycle crashing to the pavement. The whole world spun, life moving in slow motion while he approached, the heels of his shoes clicking on the cold, hard asphalt.

“This is going to hurt,” he told her, raising his wand once more. Yellow light gathered around the tip, and Dana’s world turned black.

The river wasn’t terribly deep, and Mike’s feet had briefly touched the bottom after impact. However, it was very fast. It could have been ten seconds or ten