Chapter 1

H er kind of beauty makes me fucking feral.

Blonde hair wisps on the wind in sinuous, twining quivers. The fact that she’s outside right now, on night one of my hunt, means she’s not from around here.

All the better.

She’s got her head on a swivel in an unfamiliar town. She doesn’t seem to feel my eyes on her from the shadows.

My breath expels, sounding trapped behind my mask as I keep my eyes on her.

Her front plate says New York State, and I wonder what’s brought the beautiful damsel to Dunhaven.

When she replaces the pump nozzle and waits for her receipt, she shivers against the curl of a cold December wind. Although December in Florida is milder than in any other state, the salty, muggy air chills to the bone .

She growls when the machine tells her it’s out of paper. She turns, hits the fob to lock her car, and heads inside to see the clerk. Little does she know that the most unsafe thing is her, not the belongings inside her vehicle.

The bell tolls as she enters, and I take a moment to crank my engine.

Once she’s on her way, the hunt begins.

I toggle my gearshift back and forth, toying with my sense of calm as I eagerly await her reappearance.

Last year’s girl hailed from the north, too. The kinds of girls who travel this far south alone always surprise me.

It’s either a skewed sense of safety or it’s ignorance. Either one, I find refreshing in prey. However, last year’s girl didn’t last long. I hope that doesn’t happen again this year.

Part of it was my impatience with seeing her bleed and hearing her scream, but the other part was an oversight on my end. Had I checked her vehicle for clues about her, I’d have known she had diabetes and needed insulin.

I’ll be more careful this year.

I’ll take care of this one.

At least until the end.

Her Honda Civic is making great time down the dead straight of County Road 402, and I’m keeping my distance for now. She doesn’t know she’s being followed. How could she?

She can’t know that no one in this area will be out this late, not on a day like today, not during the week leading up to Christmas.

Because it’s when I’m on the prowl.

They don’t know who I am but know I live amongst them. For ten years, I’ve been preying on the town of Dunhaven during Christmas—the one week I hate the most. It’s how I turned my life around and made myself a functional member of their society by limiting my bloodlust.

Whittling it down to its root.

When I was a teenager, I learned so much about myself with the help of a therapist. She called it introspection.

She helped me see that my hate of Christmas was due to what happened to my parents the week before it when I was only ten.

Double homicide will leave a crack in one’s psyche, especially in the ever-growing mind of a child. Hidden away in the hall closet, I witnessed it all: the blood, the thrill, the atrocity.

The murder.

And while it left me a bit fucked up, it also molded me. It turned me into the man I was meant to be .

For years, I thought they’d catch me. After all, they know where I am for this perfect week every December.

But they’ve never come.

I’ve often pondered it, but as of late, I find I don’t give a fuck. They stay out of my way. I don’t kill them. There’s a truce between me and the town of Dunhaven.

I kill those that wander through or don’t heed curfew, and the townsfolk remain safe for another year.

I think all is well that ends well.

When her Civic turns onto Panther Trail, I feel a giddy tightening in my stomach. She’s driving into my trap, and it’s time to play.

I give it a few moments as she rounds the first and only curve in the road before I shift and redline my truck, pressing the gas to the floor as I near the rear of her car.

I can almost smell her fear, nearly taste it on the wind that rips through my open windows.

Her frantic eyes must be in the rearview, but I can’t see them.

I nudge closer, hovering near the back of her car.

She tries to get away, and I get even closer, gripping the wheel with a smirk growing on my lips behind my mask.

Now and again, the woman on the other end of my anger is a local, so the mask comes in handy.

But for her, my lucky little puppet tonight, the mask will only add another layer of fear to the cake I’m cooking for her. The one laced with venom and rage .

When she hits the spikes in the road, she’s going nearly ninety miles per hour, as I’m going eighty-five to keep up.

She swerves, trying her damndest to keep on the road, even when her tires are completely blown out.

Oh, this one has fire.

I like it when they have a bit of nerve.

Even after her best efforts, she loses control and rolls into the ditch before Grimrose House, wheels spinning and engine smoking as she hangs upside down in her seatbelt.

I’ve run many women off the road, but it has never looked that spectacular, and my heart has never beat so rapidly.

I pass her, slowing and downshifting as I turn my truck around. The diesel engine hums, the turbo whistling as I pick up speed and crawl back towards her wreck site.

Once I pass her again, I throw the truck into reverse and look over my shoulder out the back window, reversing as I whistle a Christmas tune. Thrill is humming through my skin like a wild animal who knows it’s about to be released.

When I get out and don gloves, her screams cascade through the air on the salty breeze. Closing my eyes, I let them serenade me.

It’s six days until Christmas, and my present has come early this year.

I can’t deny how excited I am .

Working the winch off the back of my tow truck, I hook it to her rear tow hooks, listening to her beg for help. Beg for me to free her.

My whistling never ceases. It’s what’s going to keep me present. It’s going to keep me on task.

Don’t want another fuck up like two years ago, when I got so excited about hunting that I accidentally killed the girl in the first two hours.

No. This one deserves my time.

I ignore her pleas and sniveling cries and get back into the truck, pressing the gas and towing her slowly from the ditch, still upside down.

The sound of the roof grating over asphalt drowns her screams as I turn into the drive to the right of me that leads up to Grimrose House, her car’s metal pleading with me to stop, to flip it back on its blown tires for relief. But I don’t.

I continue to tow the car through the haphazardly cut trails I’ve towed many vehicles on, deep in the woods behind the house. Florida’s mix of palms, palmettos, and oaks blend for a beautiful Everglade effect the deeper I tug her car behind me.

My whistling has moved on to the First Noel, and I let it soothe my soul. Even if it was the song blasting through the speakers as a neighbor slit my mother’s throat.

Trauma has a way of comforting us. And mine? Mine wraps a thick blanket over me and protects me whenever needed, even if its fibers are prickly .

I pull her car to a stop next to a hollowed-out shell of a Toyota Camry I’ve burnt to nothing but a frame.

Ashley Wilson, I think that was her name. The car was a Godawful color of yellow that no one should ever drive around in. If you ask me, I did the world a service getting her off the road.

Donning my gloves again, I remove the car from the cables, using the electric winch to draw them back.

Her sobs continue, reminding me she’s still alive. Even though I might have to tend to some of her injuries before I play, I’m thrilled to have found a girl so quickly.

After all, it’s only midnight on day one of my hunt.

Usually, it takes longer than this to drum up some fun.

Christmas came early this year.

Tossing my gloves into the truck, I turn off the engine.

My boots sound on the cold ground as I approach the driver-side window and drop onto a knee.

Leaning over, I come face to face with my lovely new toy.

“Please, don’t hurt me,” she begs, her soft voice full of rasp and promise— a promise to be my good little girl if I’ll only set her free.

It’s something I can work with.

Yes, she’ll do just fine.

“Let’s get you out of there,” I say, my deep voice sounding muffled behind my mask .

Pulling my blade out, I work it through her seatbelt that’s keeping her dangling upside down.

“There we are, puppet,” I coo, hefting her out of the window.

I slowly stand her on her feet, holding onto her to keep her steady.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” I ask her.

She seems to assess inwardly, moving this joint or that before she shakes her head. “N—No, I don’t think so.”

“Good. That means you’ll be able to run.” Glee leaks into my voice as I step back from her.

“Wait, W—What?”

She’s perfect. Her breasts are large and spill out of her V-cut T-shirt. Her stomach is far from flat, showing a healthy appetite. All I can think about are my teeth sinking into its lush skin. Her curves are winding, unlike the road outside of Grimrose House. She’s short, far smaller than my six-foot frame.

“If you’re unharmed,” I start, reminding myself why I’m here, “you’ll be able to run.”

She looks at the tow truck and then back at her upturned car, likely putting pieces together in her adrenaline-riddled brain.

“You ran me off the road,” she accuses, and I grin, even though she can’t see it.

“Did I?” I toy with her.

“Why would you do this? Just let me go, please. I won’t tell anyone. ”

I lick my lips, stepping closer. As I loom over her, her vanilla, candied scent wafts up my nose and thickens my cock with blood. “Puppet, I told you to fucking run. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Her swallow is audible as she sidesteps me and dashes off to my right, headed right toward the road.

Good. One with a sense of direction.

I fucking love it when they’re smart.