Page 29 of Demonic Delights

“Really good actually,” I lie enthusiastically, my smile widening to maniacal proportions. “I got a new idea. A new direction, you could say.”

I have nothing of the sort yet, just a vague feeling that I might soon. The same way I can smell rain in the air sometimes before it comes, I’m sensing that I’m close to an idea. One I’ll enjoy writing.

“Oh, really?” Goodwoman Stubbs beams at me. “Isn’t that nice! So, what is it?”

I’d like to know as well, I think, as I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, “It’s kind of a twisted love story about the dark side of ambition.”

“Ooooh, isn’t that intriguing!”

There’s nothing sincere about her excitement. I’m sure she’s never read anything I’ve written, nor is she ever going to. She just wants to be supportive. Again.

“It’s about a girl who gets accepted to her dream university,” I say without thinking. “But its most renowned professor becomes obsessed with her.”

Her eyes widen, and her smile falters, and just like that, I’m having fun talking to her for the first time ever.

“He makes her do extra work and is harder on her than on any of the other students in the name of realising her full potential.”

Goodwoman Stubbs frowns and clears her throat, likely readying herself to interrupt me politely, to stop me from telling her anymore.

I don’t let her.

“She is so unwilling to give up on her dreams that she doesn’t quit even when he pushes her past her breaking point.”

It’s hard not to beam from ear to ear, the way I’m savouring her expression.

“But that’s horrible!” she protests.

“It is,” I concede. “He goes from someone she’s greatly admired to the monster of her nightmares. But! What if he does teach her to fight in a way she didn’t know how before? Forges an aggression in her to go with her ambition, and that ultimately enables her to fulfil her dreams in a way she couldn’t otherwise?” Shivers run through me, and I trail off because I’m suddenly interested in where the story goes more than I am in irking Goodwoman Stubbs.

The loose skin on her neck flaps as she swallows heavily. She clears her throat uncomfortably. “What brings you here today then?”

I’m so absorbed in watching her creased neck—and thinking that I will have to kill myself at thirty-five to avoid her fate—that it takes me a moment to react.

“Oh, I just need to grab something from Silas’s office,” I respond, brightly, pretending not to notice her discomposure, and as if there were nothing odd at all about my going into Silas’s office in his absence.

I don’t wait for her to respond, marching past her and pushing the door open, knowing that it would be unlocked. I shut it behind me resolutely with a bang, to signal to her that I do not wish to be disturbed.

I lean back against the door with my eyes closed. I don’t even have to be looking at the snug oak-panelled nook to be flooded by memories. The smell of polished wood alone is enough to take me back in time. I vividly recall the feel of those panels against my bare back and the way the desk’s rounded edge pressed against my crotch when Silas bent me over it. That scent alone, rich, warm, and upper-class in its character, is enough to make me relive the feeling of holding the whole world in the palm of my hand.

I snap my eyes open. Then I reach to flick the switch, and the ceiling light fixture comes to life. At first glance, time has stood still in Silas’s office. I haven’t been here in years, but everything looks the same, down to the square bamboo pencil holder on his desk or the arrangement of books on his shelves. I go through his desk drawers before turning my attention to the freestanding wardrobe, where I know he keeps his gym bag. Grabbing the round wooden doorknobs, I wrench both the wings of its door open with a loud creak of the unoiled hinges.

My breath shortens, and blood rushes through my ears, deafeningly loud, as I try to process what it is I’m seeing.

“Oh shit,” I mutter to myself.

I take a step closer and carefully pull at the black chiffon veil, light as a breath and yielding to my efforts without any resistance.

I had my superstitions, true, but I wasn’t expecting to actually find anything suggesting they may be more than just products of my under-stimulated brain and overactive imagination.

But what possible reason could there be to put an ancient, ominous-looking mirror in a fucking wardrobe other than to hide it?

I am mesmerised by the glare of the three-dimensional skull on the top of the frame. Its gaze should be vacant, yet it feels anything but, its deceptive depth speaking to me in a language I feel a few would understand. Whilst on the subject of languages a few would understand, I notice for the first time the inscription weaving through the ornate frame. But before I can inspect it closer, my own reflection captures my attention.

In the mirror, I look ... the way I look in my mind’s eyes. The way I would like to look.

Confident. Attractive. Eternally young.

My hair richer, my skin smoother, and my eyes shining with the verve I only ever used to see in them in this very office when freshly fucked.