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[hightensile-blog1]

The first episode of our book club podcast is out now on Spotify! As it's the first edition, this episode is a little different. We follow a similar format to the 'Would I Lie to You?' game show. Intrigued? Give it a listen! #bookclub #podcast #psychologicalthriller #literature #hightensile #wilty https://www.instagram.com/p/BqCaSVxjgj2/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=3g7fz5de0p3j

[thericedemon]

they didn’t tell you that it’s not the inside that matters

Another one of those memes popping up on your feed. Something about keeping one eye open to try the demon in the shower with you when you’re trying to shampoo. Personally, you find it ridiculous. People don’t really do that, do they? You scroll past it and put your phone back on the shampoo shelf.

Yes, you bring your phone into the bathroom just like any other sane person in the world would. Oh, how technology has befallen the modern man, says the people who don’t get to enjoy their jams and scroll down their feed in the shower. You’re perfectly content with being labelled a “phone addict” if it means you can blast music in the shower.

Either way, your shower is the only place you can really spend some time alone, a refuge from this pit of misery and responsibilities that is your life. When you step into the shower, you’re alone and naked and you don’t really give a damn because nobody’s watching. Nobody can just barge in through that locked door and invade your personal privacy, and you’ll get to enjoy this little still space all to yourself. Just you and the water, you and the steam. Quiet, all alone, sound-proofed goodness. 

Now, the thing about your shower is that instead of a shower curtain, your shower is encased in glass walls. Complete with a sliding glass door, perfect for dramatic flairs and steamy condensation. And scribbling out little notes and drawings on the condensation, but nobody needs to know that.

Fshhhh. Balancing the water temperature is an art. A little to the right, and they’ll probably find your frozen corpse in the shower the next day. A little to the left, and the water will probably melt your face off. After half a minute of tinkering, you manage to dial the flow to the perfect temperature, lukewarm water. They’ve said pick a side: searing hot or icy cold showers, but you’d rather sit on the fence.

“Somebody once told me…” Your playlist switches to All Star. Yes, All Star by Smash Mouth. You are just having the time of your life. 

You quickly slip into the routine of lathering shampoo all over your hair, working it into the roots, the bubbles foaming over. Of course, you keep your eyes closed during this step, no idiot wants shampoo in their eyes. You can’t help but think back to that meme. You chuckle a little. There’s no one in the shower but you and your exposed ass.

“Well the years start coming and they don’t stop coming…”

The steam is rising, the water is flowing, your skin has never felt so good against the water as it flushes the grime down the drain. It’s been a long day.

“So much to do, so much to see…” 

You never want to get out of the shower.

You duck your head under the shower head. Man, you made a good investment when you paid for that rain shower last year. Nothing like feeling a blast of water from overhead that covered every square inch of skin you’ve got to spare. 

“Hey now, you’re an all-star, get your game on, go play!”

You rub your eyes free of the soap suds as the water slaps against your bare back.

“Hey now, you’re a rock star, get the show on, get paid!“

Your vision is still a little blurry from the soap. You stick out one hand and search for the bottle of body shampoo you left sitting somewhere on the racks.

“It’s a cool place and they say it gets colder…”

Dammit, your shower’s doing the thing where it does the wild temperature fluctuations nobody asked for. You close the tap. The air is still for a minute. The glass has fogged up with condensation. You resist doodling on the glass. You turn the water back on.

“The water’s getting warm so you might as well swim...”

Ugh, it feels unusually warm in there. You soldier on and slap as much body shampoo as you can onto your bare skin. It’s getting uncomfortably stuffy in here. The walls are fogging up quicker than before. You can’t wait to get out of the shower. Things got heated in there real quick.

“Hey now, you’re an all-star, get your game on, go play!”

Finally you step out of the water. Clean, refreshed, and warm. Like, really warm. The water was almost boiling. You quickly shut the water off.

“Hey now, you’re a rock star, get the show on, get paid!”

Your blood curdles.

On the steamed-up glass walls, two hand-shaped prints and a face-shaped print stared back at you. From the outside.

“I need to get myself away from this place…“

The glass door was still fastened shut. So was the bathroom door. Suddenly it feels hotter than ever in that little space.

Two hand prints and a face. Almost as if somebody pushed themselves against the wall and peered in. Watching. Waiting.

You back away from the walls. A sickening crack. Your phone! The music doesn’t stop.

“You’ll never know if you don’t go (go!)“

You were never afraid of being in the shower, but now you never want to get out either.

[micdotcom]

This is what it’s like to have dyslexia. Web developer Victor Widell is hoping to shine a light on the learning disorder with this creative coding simulation.

[willwritingworld-blog]

An Eye For An Eye

I plunged the knife deep into his chest as I stared into his glassy eyes, watching the life slowly leave his body.

This place was a dump. A dingy bar on the outskirts of town, frequented by the local scum of the streets once they’ve scrounged enough money to buy a few more pints. Old music played over old, broken speakers, croaking through to make barely eligible lyrics. A pool table stood to the side, old and worn like the men who were using it between sips of their dirty lager and the rumble of their throats as they unceremoniously belch. Flickering lights suspended on fraying cables illuminated the bar with a deep orange colour that left darker spots between the areas they would reach. What a place for a girl like me.

But I was waiting. I didn’t know what for yet, but I would when it happened. My being here, despite the feeling of vulnerability, would be worth it in the end. My eyes swept over the crowd of rugged patrons through my thick sunglasses as I slowly sipped away at the glass of beer in my hand. Truth be told, the beer was disgustingly foul, but the more you drank, the less you cared. This wasn’t intended to be a place of divine establishment.

Then he walked in. Well, I say walk, it was more of a swagger. He radiated with confidence and certainty, like he knew exactly what he was there for. But I didn’t think it was the atmosphere. A leather jacket adorned his slightly chubby figure, atop a dirty and stained shirt that clung to his figure in all the wrong ways. His legs looked forced into a pair of much too large snakes in much too small tubes of fabric. I’d be surprised if blood even circulated through them or if they had just resorted to the muscle memory of walking by this point. But despite all this, he was perfect.

I made sure to display my legs out from underneath a very figure-friendly dress to catch his watchful eye. He was here to find a woman and I planned to be her. An attempt at purposely avoiding his gaze, but in a challenging way, was sure to catch his attention. If there was one thing this man was obviously proud of, it was his masculinity. How cute. Sure enough, he noticed my obvious advances and made his way over to my seat at the bar, placing himself down beside me and his hand on my knee.

Pleasantries were shared between us, despite his being very forward and his pure intentions easily guessed. Another round of drinks was bought, his treat of course, as we began to talk further. It was clear that he wanted his way with me, but I had other intentions. Yet, I still accepted his invitation back to his humble abode and was soon enough accompanying him to our destination.

Arriving at a small flat, no more than 2 streets down from the bar, we entered through the crumbling door frame and into what could only be described as an alcoholic’s wet dream. Empty bottles littered the floor like a school of fish in the blue ocean that was his grimy blue carpet. At this point, the man was notably drunk and even less subtle with his advances than before. Grabbing my hand he near enough ripped it off and he tried to get me into his bedroom. I happily followed. Surprisingly he seemed better at undressing than anything else in his drunken haze as he was soon down to his greasy underwear before I was even fully into the room. I pushed him down to the bed and gracefully straddled him, looking down at him as I smiled.

I plunged the knife deep into his chest as I stared into his glassy eyes, watching the life slowly leave his body.

Then I began my post-kill routine I’d made sure to plan carefully beforehand. It was simple enough: clean my fingerprints off anything, check I didn’t leave any hairs behind, burn one of his eyes out, and make sure I am free to escape without any suspicion. The eye thing was unnecessary but the detectives on those TV shows called it an MO, something individual a killer does to mark their kill, and they’ll never be able to ‘eye up’ any vulnerable women again. What kind of woman would I be not to make myself known in some way; I don’t want some junkie taking my credit.

The news has been calling me the ‘Widower’. I’m not sure why, none of the men so far have been married but I guess it’s catchy. Obviously they’ve not been calling me it, just the ‘mysterious woman’ seen leaving bars with the men shortly before they’re found. It’s quite fun being able to watch their progress on me, they have nothing and that gives me plenty of time to get to my ultimate goal.

I haven’t always been this, you know, homicidal. No. That started because of him. Not the ‘him’ I just killed, he was someone much worse. He indirectly taught me that there were some people in this world that didn’t deserve to stay living and that most of them have it coming anyway. They were complete scum. I just help speed up the process. I’m not doing anything wrong here, if anything I’m helping the communities that are plagued with these types of men prowling the streets. You’re welcome.

But, now others know what it’s like to go to a bar for a good night out and go home that night (well maybe not go home in these men’s sense) feeling like nothing matters anymore and everything is pointless. Some people could do with a sense of reality sometimes, proof that the world isn’t as good as it’s made out to be. To be frank, it’s goddamn awful. But, you gotta do what you gotta do to get by and that’s exactly what I’m doing.

Sometimes, just before I do take that final thrust of the knife into his chest, my mind flashes back to that night. The night it, this, all started. Just brief memories of that strong, greasy musk that was forced into my nose or the searing pain of his hand when he got angry and I needed to be ‘put in my place’. Most people would see it as a deterrent, but really it just encourages me more. Reminds me why I’m doing this.

10 years’ worth of reasons as to why I’m doing it, to be more precise. At the start, he seemed like such a charmer. He was handsome, smart, funny and was into me. When you’re a 16 year old girl you only need one of those to become interested but when it’s all 4 you really get drawn in, ignoring any of the warning signs: being 8 years older being the main one. But what do you expect? I was young and in love, it happens to the best of us. The start of our relationship was great. I didn’t even take notice of when he’d get forceful with me or demand I do things because he always told me I was special, that I was ‘the one’. He was just being cute and protective over me, every girl wants that. Naturally I did what he asked. Well, what he told me. He rarely asked questions, just gave demands. When I got rid of my friends who were warning me about him, I felt good about myself for making decisions that were best for me and him. Looking back, they were right, and all those decisions were only good for him and what he wanted.

It was only about 2 months into everything when I lost my virginity to him. I was scared at first and I didn’t want to, I’d had the talks, I knew the dangers. Yet, he told me it was okay and that I shouldn’t be scared. He even helped me undress even when I still didn’t want to do anything. I couldn’t really say no, after everything he had done for me and helped me with. He deserved it. It didn’t really matter if I wanted to or not. Afterwards he even said I did well and reminded me how special I was. I loved him.

Things like that happened almost daily. I knew if I ever tried to avoid doing what he wanted, that he would make me feel guilty. I was just doing what was right for everyone. Sometimes, if I was being particularly stubborn, he’d lash out. Not to hurt me, and he’d apologise straight away after I’d changed my mind, so I always thought it was okay.

We were the perfect couple. No one ever saw us fight or disagree, we basically agreed on everything. If we didn’t, we always would at the end of the argument. He was very persuasive. Sometimes I miss it. Back then, there was some form of stability. I knew what to do and when to do it and had rules I needed to follow. I know I shouldn’t, but I do. Despite everything he did, he still made me feel loved and special, and now I would never find something like that again.

A year I’ve been free from it all. And now I’m making everything right that I should have done a long time ago. The only one to blame for everything I am doing is him, but he’ll regret it soon enough. I’m going to make sure of that. I secretly hope he knows who’s doing all those things on the news, that he’s expecting me, watching over his shoulder wherever he goes. But then again, the shock and surprise on his face when he sees me will be pleasurable enough.

He won’t know true pain until I am finally done with him.

Everything before, every kill, was leading up to this final moment. This time was different however. I wasn’t in my usual hunting ground of run-down bars or falling apart clubs, instead I was slowly approaching a small house in the local suburbs. Every house here was basically identical, but it was easy to work out which was his based on the beer bottles spilling out of the bins and the torn up bills and eviction notices. Classy I know.

I snuck around the side of the house, careful to avoid the cigarette butts which littered the floor. As much a monster he was, he was also a creature of habit. His key was still slightly buried in the wilting flower pot to the side of his glass screen doors, same as it was those 10 years ago. I quickly scooped it out before tiptoeing my way back to the front door. It was a dark, foggy night so the chances of being spotted were small, not that that would matter when everything is done. The key fit perfectly into the lock and I cautiously entered the house, ensuring I make minimal noise so as not to alert him of my presence.

There was no sign of him downstairs as I scoped out the rooms. That means he was upstairs, probably in bed. Perfect. Creaky stairs had always been an issue here but I had learned where to step to avoid the rickety sounds of the house. I had to if I didn’t want to disturb him and face his wrath, then and now. Soon I was at the top and I could see him, laying there on his blood, sweat and tears stained bed. I could feel the blood rushing through my body. Was I finally ready to end it all? You’re damn right I was.

Almost excitedly I entered his bedroom. I could just get it over with as he slept but no: he deserved to watch this happen. The rope I brought was finally able to be put to use as I carefully approached the bed and began restraining him to the bedpost. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t didn’t feel slight tinges of bad memories from the situation. Once he was fully restrained and I was confident he was now safe to handle, it was time to wait.

It seemed like a lifetime, waiting for him to wake from his drunken haze, when in reality it was only around 2 hours. A small price to pay for 10 years me thinks. The look of terror on his face was exhilarating. Now was my time to shine.

For once, it was me towering over him. It felt good, empowering, merely a catalyst for what was to come. He looked at me, just staring but not saying a word as I circled the bed. He remembered me, I could see that. But regret? I saw none of that. He may live to regret that. Well, maybe not ‘live’ but he’ll definitely regret it.

I brought out my knife now. He attempted to act as if he wasn’t scared but there was a distinct flash of fear that crossed his face. I walked up to him, raising the knife above me before stabbing it down towards his chest. But I stopped, just before I got to him. Poor guy thought it was going to be easy for him. I’m not sure if it’s stupidity or ignorance. The knife cut open his shirt, revealing his bare, hairy chest for me to have my fun with. Now it was time for the real fun to begin.

The rest of the night consisted of me subjected him to everything I’d been subjected to in the past: the pain, suffering, humiliation. Before long, dawn was breaking and I knew I had to hurry up and finish before anyone became suspicious. I prepared for my grand finale.

Battered and bruised, gag in mouth, he lay there wheezing. The only essence of survival he had left slowly draining away. I wasn’t done just yet. I removed the candle I had set aside at the beginning of our time together and brought it close to his face. He knew what was coming.

I removed my sunglasses for the final time. The socket where my eye once sat was swollen and red. Scabs formed an almost perfect circle around the area from where the molten wax had had its effect. A constant reminder etched into my face. Now was the true revenge. He even got to experience it while still alive, unlike the others. Lucky man. But he’d earned it, he didn’t even have to turn down sex to get it, I knew that was a sure-fire way to get it.

Wax slowly dripped down the candle as I held his head to ensure the target was hit. The anticipation was killing me. Then it fell. A howling scream was muffled by the ripped shirt used for this exact purpose. Honestly, I was enjoying every minute of his pain. But this is merely a fraction of the 10 years of pain and suffering I had to endure by his hand.

Once the screaming had almost died down and the wax was truly set in place, I knew it was time to end this. I brought back the knife and positioned myself, straddling his waist, giving him one last look at me with the eyesight he had left. I brought the knife down.

Finally, everything was done. I had killed the person who was the cause of all of my previous kills. What was I to do now? Killing more people was pointless. I felt almost lost without the urge, the motivation, I had to kill the men who were infesting the streets and putting other women in danger. There was only one real solution left to fully finish off what I had started.

I entered his living room, examining the relatively large area he had to use. A broken, electric fireplace placed underneath a large mantelpiece was surrounded by a large, yellowing white wall. This was perfect for what I had planned.

I brought the knife up to my wrists and dug it deep into the pale flesh, blood oozing from the wound and falling to the floor like a waterfall straight from Hell. Now my time was limited. I dipped my fingertips into the fountain from my arm and began drawing on the wall before me, a final message for those who find me. An explanation for what I’ve done. I continued painting my masterpiece before finally I was done.

I slumped to the floor underneath the new decoration in his house. Finally it was all over. I felt, peaceful. Everything seemed as though it was well and proper. Like a great wrong had been righted, all thanks to me. Now I could die a happy women and everyone would know what I did was justified. I took a final look at what I had created above me and smiled and I took my final breath.

AN EYE FOR AN EYE.

[hmhteen]

HMH Teen Teasers: THE SPECIAL ONES by Em Bailey

If you like your summer with a side of spooky, psychologically thrillers, then THE SPECIAL ONES is the book for you. It’s eerie story about a cult where ‘The Special Ones’ are believed to be reincarnated from a photograph and inhabit specific roles—and worshipped on the internet by followers they can never meet or cry out to for help. And of course, like any good psych thriller, there’s a big twist: the main character, who goes by the name of Esther, manages to escape…and that’s when the reader is introduced to the POV of her mysterious captor, and learn why this cult was founded in the first place. 

You can read the first two chapters of THE SPECIAL ONES below! 

CHAPTER ONE

I hear the main gate slam closed, and I just know from the sound of it that Harry has news. He must have banged the gate really hard, as it’s a fair distance from the farmhouse. He would do that, I’m sure, only if he was sending me a message. He must have finally found our new Lucille. Relief floods me. We’ve never gone this long without one before, not in the whole time I’ve been here. Finally, we’ll have some good news for him.

       I’ve drawn the heavy velvet curtains on the windows, but the heat creeps in around the edges anyway. Beneath my corset and layers of petticoats, my body sweats. A heavy wind rattles the windows. Bushfire weather—that’s how my father would’ve described it. Fire was something my parents worried about a lot when we lived in our old house, surrounded by trees.

       Fire. Family. My old home. Things I don’t let myself think about in here.

       It will take Harry at least five minutes to cover the expanse from the gate to the farmhouse—longer if Felicity spots him coming—but even so, I long to gather up my skirts and dash out of the parlor, outside, to the very edge of the front veranda, and wait for him to come into view. I love watching Harry walk. There’s something so reassuring about his unhurried lope.

       But I am the Esther, and Esther doesn’t dash. Her remembering book is very clear about that. Esther’s movements are dignified, considered—especially in the parlor. Esther would never let excitement or nervousness show, or waste time watching people walk.

       Sometimes being Esther feels like wearing a Halloween costume. One that doesn’t fit. One I can’t ever take off.

       With great effort I stay in my chair, listening to the daytime noises of the farmhouse and continuing with my work. On the little wooden table beside me are the socks for darning. Clothing repairs are normally the Lucille’s task, but the mending has piled up to the point where it can’t wait any longer. The sock I’m currently working on is one of Harry’s and it has his smell. Hay, earth, sun. As I push the needle through the fabric, I picture him striding across the farm toward me, coming closer and closer. Past the chickens and the area where the crops grow. Past the peach tree completely covered, the Felicity assures me, with promising green nubbles of fruit. Then, finally, between the two lemon-scented gum trees standing like border guards where the farm officially ends and the kitchen garden begins.

       When I know Harry must be close, I strain to hear his steps—and yes, there they are. Purposeful but not rushed, matching the steady rhythm of his breath.

       I am always edgy when Harry leaves the farm. When I first arrived here, he made it clear that the farm was the only safe place left in the world. Beyond the front gate were innumerable dangers. Security guards, police officers, doctors, teachers, parents, all lying in wait to force us back into lives that didn’t really belong to us. And even though I don’t believe this anymore—not really—I’m always relieved each time Harry returns safely.

       The handle of the front door rattles as it turns. There are footsteps in the hallway and finally the parlor door swings open. Harry fills the doorway as air and light flood the dark, stuffy space. He’s breathing deeply, and when I sneak a quick glance at him, I notice that his wheat-colored hair forms damp swirls against his forehead. It’s hardly surprising, considering the thick trousers and woolen jacket he’s wearing.

       I put down the sock and hurry (while trying to appear not to hurry) over to the sideboard, where I have a carafe of water waiting. My hand trembles as I pour a glass for Harry.

       Slow, considered movements, I remind myself. He is probably watching us right now, and he mustn’t suspect how tense I am.

       Outside the window, the generator whirs. I have questions, lots of them, but I keep them in check. Conversations between Harry and Esther must be as formal as a script. I hand the glass of water to Harry, careful not to let our fingers touch or our eyes meet. “Did you see Lucille today?”

       My voice is smooth and calm and perfectly Esther, but I’m sure Harry senses my nervousness. Last time, the Lucille was renewed in four days. This time it’s been almost three weeks. The followers—especially Lucille’s—keep asking how much longer it will be before they see her again. And it’s only a matter of time before he loses patience with us.

       Harry gulps down the water. “Yes,” he says when he’s finished. “I saw her.”

       Although it’s the answer I was expecting, I can barely keep from flinging my arms around Harry’s neck. I refill his glass to give myself time to regain composure. If any of the followers are watching, they need to see that we have everything under control—that Lucille has simply gone away and will come back soon, just like she has before.

       “How is she?” I ask.

       Two dents appear on Harry’s forehead, as though invisible fingers have pressed into his skin. The impressions are gone in an instant, but I know what they mean. When normal forms of communication are restricted, you learn to gather information in other ways. That slight frown means there are changes to the Lucille. Significant ones.

       “Her hair seems straighter, and a little lighter.” Like me, Harry knows better than to let his concerns show in his voice. “She’s obviously been spending some time in the sun.” Automatically, my eyes flick over to the photograph above the mantelpiece. Gilt-framed. Dominant. The image itself is a little blurry—as if it’s been enlarged—but it’s still clear enough. Four figures stand on the veranda of an old stone farmhouse. Three of them are girls in gloves and long white dresses.

       The smallest girl in the photo has thick braids and a cupid’s kiss of a face. Above her, written in old-fashioned cursive, is a name: Felicity.

       Near her is a male, and his beard makes him look older than he really is, which is probably no more than nineteen. He has one arm protectively around Felicity, his shoulders seeming so broad compared with her tiny child’s frame. Harry.

       To his left is a girl with dark curls and a curvy figure. Her chin is held up in a way that could be proud or defiant, or both. Lucille.

       The fourth figure, standing near the front door, is a tall, thin girl with her hands clasped. Her expression is smooth and unreadable. That’s me. Esther.

       Screwed into the wall beneath the photograph is a little brass plate. I can’t read the engraving from here, but I know what it says. The Special Ones.

       The followers often ask me the same question during evening chat:

What were you thinking about when that photograph was taken?

       At first the question frightened me so much I could barely type a reply. I was convinced they’d picked me as an impostor. That they already suspected the girl in the photo was a total stranger to me.

It’s hard to remember exactly.

       My hands would shake as I typed my reply.

It was so long ago.

       Not a great answer, I knew that. But no one ever challenged me about my response and gradually I became more confident. My answers improved.

When that photograph was taken, I was thinking about how I, as a Special One, can help to guide you, my loyal follower, through your times of need.

       Sometimes I’d even twist the question around, making it seem as though I were doing the testing.

What do you think I was thinking?

       “The sun is good for the soul, and its effects on Lucille will soon fade once she’s back here,” Harry says mildly now. “And her hair will right itself too.”

       I turn to find that he has moved from the doorway and is standing near me now, also looking at the photograph. I nod in reply. Of course, we both know that the Lucille’s hair won’t really right itself, but at least changing straight, fair hair into dark curls will be easy compared with other transformations I’ve had to make—like the time I had to turn a Felicity’s short, dark frizz into smooth, plaitable blondness. Besides, the greatest challenges with reintroducing a Special One have nothing to do with physical appearance.

       “Otherwise, she’s just as she was,” Harry adds, draining another glass of water.

I take this to mean that her height and weight are pretty accurate, which is good news. In Lucille’s remembering book, she is described as being taller than Felicity but shorter than Esther. She needs to be soft, but in no way plump.

       “And she has that same look in her eye.”

       There’s the slightest hint of a chuckle in Harry’s voice as he says this. The Lucilles always have a particular expression. In her book, this is described as “being filled with strong emotion,” but I have always secretly thought of it as sulky and troublesome. I suspect Harry feels the same. No matter what the look is, the Lucille needs to have it. That expression is what the followers will be expecting.

       Harry tips his glass toward me as I pour, the water forming a connecting arc between us.

       “Where did you find her?” I ask.

       “In a food court, eating a hot dog and chips,” says Harry.

       “Poison,” I say primly, but my mouth salivates. When was the last time I ate anything like that? Probably when Mum took me to the local shopping center, soon after we’d moved. She was hoping, I guess, that the outing would make me see the benefits of our new location. But what fun could I possibly have without the friends I’d left a thousand kilometers behind? Mum dragged me into shops, where I steadfastly refused to try on anything, and then I picked, stony-faced, at the lunch she bought me.

       “Poison,” agrees Harry, but I think I catch the tail end of a smile on his face before I hastily look down.

       Harry and Esther are not allowed to look directly at each other for more than three seconds at a time. What does Harry make of me in those brief glances? Does he just see Esther—her neat hair, her tightly corseted body, her controlled face? I used to hope that he would see more, or at least sense the things buried deep inside. But then I wondered if this was the wrong thing to wish for. Maybe Harry wouldn’t like the real me. Esther is capable, strong. She gets on with things without complaint. She doesn’t freak out at the sight of blood or cry when things don’t go her way. In other words, she’s nothing like I am inside.

       There’s a long silence until, with a start, I remember that there’s another question I’m expected to ask. The most important one, even though I already know the answer.

       “Does Lucille remember who she is?”

       In my peripheral vision, I see Harry shake his head. “I would say she’s completely forgotten everything.”

       “Awareness is sometimes slow to dawn,” I recite. “After all, it’s been a long time since Lucille’s old form left us. It’s not surprising that she’s forgotten a few things.”

       Harry nods. “The renewal process can leave the mind temporarily confused,” he says. Somehow Harry can make the stiffest of his mandatory phrases sound natural, even comforting. “Once she is safe at home with us, she will soon remember.”

       I suddenly hear Felicity’s voice, wafting in on the hot northerly wind. She’s out in the garden, singing a jumbled song. “Merrily we roll along, on a cold and frosty morning.” Most songs are forbidden in here, of course, and I am not even allowed to hum—but the Felicity is expected to sing nursery rhymes. For some reason, though, this particular Felicity always gets the words wrong. It makes me uneasy. It’s the sort of thing that could make him very easily upset.

       The song stops and a plaintive voice calls out. “Is Harry home yet?”

       Harry gives a low laugh and I smile too. The Felicitys are always so sweet. It’s hard not to get attached.

       “Yeah, I’m home, Flick,” Harry calls. “I’ll come right out.” He turns to me. I keep my eyes firmly on the ground, although the urge to look at him is always strongest when he’s about to leave. “I’ll take her down to the farm and get some ingredients for dinner. Today’s word was .º.º.º?”

       “Rejoice.”

       It worries me that Harry so often forgets the guiding word, as it is supposed to shape everything we do, think, and feel each day. In our remembering books it says that the guiding words form the basis of the teachings for our followers; that he watches us always, recording everything we do and say, and then the most inspirational—the most Special—moments of our lives are made into short films from which our followers can learn.

       When I received the guiding word this morning, there wasn’t much to rejoice about. But the news about the Lucille has changed things.

       “Rejoice—that means meat, if you ask me,” says Harry thoughtfully. “No chance of getting a rabbit at this time of day, though. How about a chicken?”

       I hesitate. We have only five chickens left and their eggs are very valuable. I should say no. Esther is supposed to restrain this kind of extravagance, and it’s really too hot for roasting anyway. But the idea of eating fresh meat rather than the boiled potatoes and green sauce I’d been planning is too tempting to resist. Plus, there’s the added thrill of saying yes to Harry.

       “I’ll make some mash to go with it,” I say, and look at Harry just long enough to see his eyes crinkling at the corners.

       “Perfect.” He strides off, whistling, and I feel a pang, knowing I’ll be alone in the farmhouse again.

       “Make sure she wears her hat,” I call after him. The Felicity in the photograph has very pale skin. “And don’t let her on that peach tree.”

       I don’t remember which Felicity broke the tree-climbing rule—the first, or the second?—but I’ll never forget her punishment. The image of that tiny figure, lashed to the peach tree for an entire day, crying out for water and forgiveness, still flashes into my mind sometimes.

       I doubt Harry will forget it either. He was the one who had to tie her to the tree in the first place.

       I hear Felicity squeal with joy as Harry appears outside and I picture her flinging herself on him, as though it’s been months since she saw him and not just a few hours. I’m glad she can do this with Harry. A child her age needs physical contact—hugs, kisses, tickles—but Esther is not allowed to touch the other Special Ones, and the Lucilles just don’t do that sort of thing.

       In the kitchen I catch sight of them through the window, Felicity holding Harry’s hand as they make their way past the gum trees. A little while later a squawking, flapping noise rises on the wind, gaining rapidly in tempo and intensity until it is suddenly cut short.

       Harry’s news has filled me with optimism. There is still a lot to do, but I feel strong and capable, energized despite the heat. Soon there will be four Special Ones back here again. This means another person to share the work, to speak with the followers, and to keep him happy.

       Part of me remains tense, though, because what lies ahead is daunting. Planning for a kidnapping is never easy, even when you’ve done it as many times as I have.

CHAPTER TWO

In our remembering books, it’s called “collection.” It’s described in a way that makes the whole process sound very straightforward—as if all we’re doing is bringing someone back to where they belong. What you’d do with anything that’s gone missing and has turned up in the wrong place. Like a puppy that’s wandered into a neighbor’s yard, for instance. Or an umbrella left on a train.

       As I go about my afternoon chores, I start a mental list of what needs to be done. The most pressing thing is to start preparing Felicity for what to expect. She has been with us for only six months—in her “present form”—and hasn’t gone through a collection before, other than her own and that’s completely different. It’s vital that everyone reacts the correct way when a Special One rejoins the group.

       I’m peeling potatoes at the kitchen table when Harry and Felicity return late in the afternoon. Felicity proudly carries the wicker basket filled with freshly harvested items from the kitchen garden: radishes, baby carrots, silverbeet. The scent of outside clings to them.

       Harry triumphantly holds up the headless chicken. “Dinner!” Blood drips onto the stone floor.

       “It’s Martha,” Felicity informs me. “She hardly laid any eggs, so it’s fair, really.”

       “Thank you.” I take the carcass and use some string Harry gives me to hang it up over a pan to let it drain. We had chickens in the backyard of our old house in the country, but they were pets. The idea of eating them would’ve horrified me. Now I find myself thinking of all the ways I can use this small chicken. The feathers can plump up our pillows. The fat can be used for cooking. The bones will be boiled to make stock for soup, and once they’re removed and dried, I’ll grind them into a powder for my medicines. Nothing is wasted here.

       Our followers will enjoy this, no doubt, if the scene makes it into one of the teaching films. Your life seems so authentic, so sustainable and honest, the followers write to me. I never correct them, of course.

       Martha’s blood splashes rhythmically into the pan. Funny to think that I used to be fussy about my food. No gristle, no fat, nothing that looked too much like the creature it came from. One lean winter in here and all that changed. Now I eat everything. Eels from the dam, frogs, grubs. Once I even fried up a snake that Harry killed on the veranda steps. It’s surprising how anything can taste good if you’re hungry enough.

       Outside the window, the leaves of the eucalyptuses shimmer silver-white in the late afternoon sun. Felicity slides into one of the heavy wooden chairs that Harry made the first year I was here and watches as I sort through the vegetables. The lettuces are caterpillar-holed but the radishes are red and perfect. Radishes always grow well here for some reason.

       “Any news?” Felicity asks me. She knows that Harry has been searching for the Lucille, but she isn’t allowed to speak to him about it. Questions of this nature must be directed to Esther alone.

       I take a breath and plaster on a smile, making sure I’m turned toward the main camera on the wall. “Yes. Good news!”

       Felicity sits up straight. “Lucille’s coming back?”

       “Yes. Wonderful, isn’t it?”

       “I’m glad. Really, really glad,” says Felicity, wrapping herself in her arms.

       The Felicitys and the Lucilles are generally not very close—the age gap is too big for them to be friends, and the Lucilles are not exactly the motherly type—but I understand why Felicity is pleased. It feels unbalanced here when one of us is missing. Like a table minus a leg.

       Now my smile is genuine. “Me too.”

       I send Felicity to fill a bucket with water from the well. “It’s a bit murky,” she says apologetically when she brings the pail into the kitchen. She’s right—the water is muddy, a sign the well’s getting low. It’s concerning, but now is not the time to dwell on this particular issue.

       I plunge the vegetables into the water and begin to wash them. “Now, Felicity,” I say. “You know that Lucille may seem a little confused when she first returns.”

       “Will she?” says Felicity. “Why?”

       A small black beetle loses its grip on a leaf and begins swimming in desperate circles. I fish it out and deposit it onto the windowsill. It’s nice to be able to save a life once in a while.

       Meanwhile, Harry picks up his cue. “Remember the last time Lucille was renewed, Esther?” he says. “She didn’t remember any of our names when she came back—even her own!” He shakes his head as if this were simply a funny anecdote.

       Felicity’s face scrunches. “I don’t remember Lucille going away before. Do you mean before I got here?”

       Her mistake makes me freeze, but Felicity doesn’t realize she’s slipped up. Even worse, I see another question forming on her lips. Harry lunges at her and she screams as he scoops her up and tickles her with a furious intensity, making her small body squirm.

       “Oh, Flick, you’re such a joker!” Harry says loudly. “Pretending you don’t remember the last time Lucille was renewed. And pretending that you haven’t always been here!”

       Felicity wriggles away from Harry and gives him a reproachful look. “That’s more ouchy than tickly, Harry.”

       But she doesn’t say anything more. Either she’s forgotten the topic or she’s remembered that before is a subject she should avoid.

       When the vegetables are clean, I reward Felicity with the biggest and reddest of the radishes and then begin to slice. My favorite knife is the one Harry gave me last year, on the first anniversary of my arrival, though of course we couldn’t tell followers it was my first anniversary—they think I have always been here, just like Felicity. Harry carved the handle himself, so touching the knife is almost like touching him.

       I glance at Felicity to find her watching me again, the radish still in her hand. She gives me a smile, the same one she uses when we’re being verified. The sort you put on when you know someone is watching you. I give her the same smile back.

       I wish I could reach over and stroke her hair, reassure her that everything will be fine. But I can’t, and instead I find myself noticing the things about her that need attention. There’s a rip at the hem of her pinafore, and her dark roots are starting to show again. My insides pinch. More things to do. “We all feel a little out of sorts without our Lucille,” I say, speaking clearly so the mikes can pick up every word. “That’s why it’s such good news that she’ll return soon.”

       Felicity makes tiny mouselike marks in the white flesh of the radish. “When will she be here?” she asks.

       “Tomorrow,” says Harry, as if there’s no possibility of anything going wrong. Maybe it’s genuinely how he feels. I wish I felt that confident.

       “I’m going to make up a song for her,” Felicity announces. “A welcome-home song.”

       “What a lovely idea! That will make her feel glad to be back,” I say, then take the opportunity to sneak in another little warning. “And before we know it—maybe in just a week or two—Lucille will be back to her old self again.”

       For a second I catch Harry’s eyes, and I’m pretty sure I see in them the same thing I’m thinking.

       Let’s hope so. For everyone’s sake.

                                                              ***

If you’ve got chills, then this read will be perfect for those hot summer days! THE SPECIAL ONES publishes 7/18! Pre-Order by clicking the links below.

Amazon Barnes & Noble Books-a-MillionHudson IndieBound Powell’s

[promptsforthestrugglingauthor]

Hello! Hope you’re having a nice day. I have an idea for a short horror story. It starts out kinda Fault in our Stars-ish and ends kinda Misery-ish in that the girl ends up holding the guy hostage during their romantic trip. I want to make it psychological, but I don’t know what kind of elements I need to really make people think about it. Any advice?

I don’t have any experience with it on my own, although I did toy around with the idea of writing a psychological thriller back in the day and have saved these resources here:

So You Want to Write a Thriller?

Elements of the Psychological Thriller, Mystery, Suspense, and/or Crime Fiction Genres

How to Write a Psychological Thriller

While I can’t guarantee they’ll be extremely useful, as I’m relatively unfamiliar with the genre, they’re probably a good place to start!

[hightensile-blog1]

Thanks for these resources! More knowledge = better genre fiction

[katiesclassicbooks]

Review: The Talented Mr. Ripley by Patricia Highsmith

Synopsis: The Talented Mr. Ripley was written by Patricia Highsmith and published in 1955. The novel follows a young man named Tom Ripley. One day he is approached by a man named Mr. Greenleaf. Tom vaguely knows Mr. Greenleaf’s son Dickie. Apparently Dickie has been living abroad in Italy and his father wants Tom to convince him to come home. Tom travels to Italy and becomes closer to Dickie and he envies his life. He likes Dickie and his life so much that he might even want to become him….

Storyline: This is truly a fascinating story. As far as psychological thrillers go, this one is unique. The consequences for crimes are not what you think they would be and the masterful Patricia Highsmith manipulates you into rooting for the bad guy. It’s a fantastic portrait of a kind of psychopath. It’s an almost eerily pleasant book and for that fact is a bit disturbing and unusual.

Setting: The setting of the The Talented Mr. Ripley is great. It’s mostly set in Italy. I loved the backdrop of that country. At first it’s set in a small Meditteranean town and I loved that setting. I started to side with Tom during that part, wishing I had Dickie’s lifestyle.

Characters: The character of Tom Ripley is what makes this book what it is. Such a fascinating psychological study. Tom’s talent is impersonation. He truly is the greatest actor of all time, just not on the stage or on screen. He is such a good liar he believes his own lies. He is so observant and such a chameleon. In terms of his own self though, it’s bizarre to figure out what his deal is. It seems he had a rough upbringing and it seems like he despises himself and his life a bit. Yet, he also seems a bit detached from himself. At times it’s as if he is seeing himself through third person. Very bizarre and entirely fascinating. His sexuality is also something up for debate. He doesn’t actually seem very sexual at all. Or he may be confused at least. Many people may jump to the conclusion that he is homosexual even other characters do. I wouldn’t be too quick to decide that though. I read about Patricia Highsmith’s life prior to reading this and she was very confused and frustrated sexually. I think Tom is a reflection of that. Either he is confused as well, or the author was so confused sexually that she created a character with no sexual motives. Dickie, and Marge a girl he hangs out with, are both interesting characters, but more in the sense of how Tom sees them. Tom is the only complex character. Everyone else’s character is only explored through how they affect Tom and how he feels about them.

Did I Like It?: Yes! This is such an interesting psychological story. I will say that for whatever reason I liked the first half better than the second. I don’t really know why as in the second half a lot unfolds about Tom and his ‘talent’ so it was good, that’s just how I feel for some reason. I’ve seen the excellent film as well and feel the same way about it. This is the first book I’ve read by Patricia Highsmith and I can’t wait to read some of her other books. Strangers on a Train and Carol in particular.

Do I Recommend It?: Yes. If you like psychological thrillers and modern classics, this is an interesting one. If you have already seen the film version it’s hard to say whether I think you should read this or not. It is a bit different. I feel like if you are a book person you would appreciate reading it too, but if you’re not maybe I wouldn’t say run and pick this up if you’ve already seen the movie.

~Katie 

[hightensile-blog1]

I love this book! As Katie points out, Ripley is a highly engaging psychological study. I think that's because Ripley is the better kind of "psycho", the kind that isn't just a destructive monster in human skin but instead is a complicated character with complicated dysfunctions. He really sets the bar for the rest of the genre. More characters like him, please!

[yabookers]

Do you have any psychological thrillers that you would recommend?

Anything by Gillian Flynn

Megan Abbott’s books

Abigail Haas’ books

The Sacred Lies of Minnow Bly by Stephanie Oakes

Amanda Panitch’s books

The Other Typist by Suzanne Rindell

The Walls Around Us by Nova Ren Suma

With Malice by Eileen Cook

Girls on Fire by Robin Wasserman

We Were Liars by E.Lockhart

Vanishing Girls by Lauren Oliver

Please Don’t Tell by Laura Tims

You can also check out GR’s Psychological Thriller genre page.

You can also check our psychological thriller tag! 

One’s I’ve not read:

Boring Girls by Sara Taylor

Beautiful Broken Girls by Kim Savage 

They All Fall Down by Roxanne St. Claire

Does anyone else have any recs?