Hey Valentine, by Amanda Cecilia Lang

 

Your eyes snap open.

Yeah, that’s right, asshole, sit up, take a look around, it’s still dark out.

Hate to startle you like this, all alone in your bed. Like that night you woke me.

So what gave me away? The moan of your door, the whisper of my footsteps, my deliberate gaze shivering down your backbone…? For me, it was the tug of your greasy fingers twisting in my hair.

You grunt and go very still, your eyes straining to adjust to the darkness I bring. You can’t quite believe I’m here, can you? Your balls must be crawling, hairy little things shrinking away like a dog tucking tail.

“Who’s there?” you finally whisper.

I lean in, a hiss of icy wind, and use your own line against you:

Hey, Valentine.

“Who the fuck’s there?” You scramble from your mattress. Cum-crusted sheets tangle around your ankles and you crash to the floorboards.

I expel a girlish giggle.

You might not remember my name, but surely you recall the curves of my body. Remember? How you stood above me, licking me over with bedroom eyes, how the candlelight and soft music were all in your head. You didn’t even bring me flowers.

You wobble to your feet. I block the doorway—another trick of yours—and my silhouette fills your escape. Dark velvet hips and breasts, long coltish legs stretching forever into the abyss.

“Here to play?” You chuckle, still clutching your imaginary swagger. You drink me in with a toothy wet grin. You don’t want to escape me.

But you should.

I let the moonlight from the window sharpen the edges of my lust-bitten lips, my shattered teeth and jawbone, my fractured eye socket. I rise up taller, thrust out my chest, and the moon-glow sinks between the curved horns of my ribcage, exposing my pale un-beating heart.

Your grin unhinges, and your swagger drains down your leg, a growing yellow puddle. Words fail you.

But do you remember what you said to me back when I was pretty?

“…You’re hot when you’re scared, you delicious little twat…”

Bet you say that to all the girls. Do you also bash their faces into their headboards?

Stretching my mouth into a banshee’s wail, I lunge toward you.

You shriek and fumble for the bedside lamp.

The light dissolves me.

You stand alone in your yellowed undies, whimpering with laughter.

You think I was nothing but a wet dream.

You think you’re safe inside your bedroom.

But like me you’re wrong.

I’m here, just as you were always there, watching, waiting for your opportunity to make a little romance.  

Hey, Valentine.” I thrust my hand out from the abyss, punch deep into your ribcage and capture your oily, hammering heart. Your horrorstruck eyes practically beg me to continue. You flail, you writhe, you know you want it.

I squeeze until you pop.

When I pull out, you slump to the mattress, spilling blood like cheap wine.

Was it good for you, too?

My ravaged soul sighs. At last.      


   

Amanda’s horror stories have appeared in the anthologies When the Sirens Have Faded, Gothic Blue Book VI: A Krampus Carol (upcoming), and The Year’s Best Hardcore Horror, Volume Six (upcoming). 

“Hey, Valentine” was previously featured on The Other Stories podcast. 

Published 2/11/21

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