My blood turned to ice as I stared.

  The man tilted his head slowly to the side, studying me through the bus window. Then he lifted one gloved hand from the wheel and waved.

  Not casually. Not innocently. It was a slow, deliberate wave. The kind you gave someone when you wanted them to know it was personal.

  I flinched back from the glass like I’d been burned, heart hammering and hands trembling in my lap.

  When I dared to look again… the car was gone.

  2

  Kennedy

  I made it home with my hands still shaking and slid down the back of the door like some clichéd horror movie character. Then I burst out laughing.

  Not because it was particularly funny, but because I’d let myself get all worked up over something so ridiculous, and now I was sitting here like the final girl after a chase scene in a slasher movie.

  I wiped my palms on my jeans and tried to catch my breath.

  I’d just recalled that there was a popular haunted house attraction near the bypass. Some year-round thing with jump scares and chainsaws and whatever. So that guy with the skull mask was probably just some bored employee messing with people for fun. Or maybe he thought someone on the bus would look at him and laugh, and I just happened to be the only one looking.

  It was just a silly moment. Nothing more.

  Still, I was breathless. I stayed by the door for a while, back pressed right up to it, trying to convince myself that the tremble in my hands wasn’t a warning. Just adrenaline with nowhere to go.

  But I knew the truth. My anxiety wasn’t going to get better on its own. Whatever was happening inside me, it wasn’t just leftover trauma anymore. It was creeping into places it didn’t belong. Twisting things.

  Earlier, Dr. King had suggested I keep using the grounding techniques we’d established a while ago, but he’d also mentioned a few online forums. Places where people shared their experiences anonymously. Maybe I wasn’t ready to talk, but I could at least read. See if anything felt familiar.

  I stood, pulled out my laptop, and curled up on the couch, typing slowly at first, like the search bar might judge me somehow.

  Anxiety recovery forum.

  Thread after thread, and nothing quite landed. Then something else popped up. A Reddit post titled: The forums that actually helped me when therapy didn’t.

  I clicked.

  Most of it was what I expected. Basic wellness boards, mindfulness subreddits, the kind of spaces where people traded breathing techniques like recipes. But tucked in near the bottom was one with a name that really stood out.

  Deepest Desires.

  It wasn’t a therapy forum. Not officially, anyway. But the post said it helped people ‘untangle their darker instincts’, and some users had effectively utilized it to explore suppressed sexual dynamics, shame, confusion, and compulsion.

  I almost clicked away, because it wasn’t really what I’d been looking for. But something about the phrasing ‘untangle their darker instincts’ made my stomach tighten.

  “Guess it’s worth a look,” I muttered to myself, clicking on the link.

  I ended up spending the next couple of hours scrolling and reading.

  The site was a real rabbit hole. Part confession booth, part therapy couch, part… something else entirely. People shared everything on it. Desires they were terrified of, and secrets they swore they'd never tell a soul in person.

  It should’ve felt voyeuristic, reading it all. But instead, it felt like I was breathing for the first time in weeks. Maybe even years.

  Some of it was dark. Really dark. But not in the way I expected. Not exhibitionism or shock value. It was just people trying to understand themselves. People who were scared of what lived in their own heads, but brave enough to drag it into the light anyway.

  I was wrong earlier. This site was exactly what I’d been searching for.

  I kept reading, and eventually, I summoned up the courage to click ‘New Post’.

  I stared at the empty box for a long time before I finally began to type, slowly and haltingly. None of the personal details I provided—like age and location—were even remotely accurate, because I didn’t want to risk anyone figuring out who I was, but the feelings I wrote about were all true.

  Posted by: greyveil013

  Age: 27

  Location: Oregon

  Hi everyone. I’ve been holding on to a secret for a very long time, and it’s been driving me mad, so I think I need to put it somewhere to get it off my chest. This seems like a good place for that.

  Anyway, here goes…

  When I was a kid, my father was murdered. I didn’t actually see the murder happen, but I saw him being taken. The man who killed him grabbed him right in front of me and dragged him away. One second he was there, and the next, he was gone.

  For years afterward, I dealt with horrible nightmares, panic attacks, anxiety, and night terrors. I’ve had therapy for those, and it’s really helped a lot. But the thing is, I just can’t be transparent about the other issue that contributes to my bad mental state, and I think that’s really been stalling my progress.

  I’ve tried to talk about it with my therapist, but I just can’t make myself say it, because I’m too ashamed. So that’s why I’m posting it here anonymously instead.

  So anyway… here’s the big bad secret.

  Over the last few years, I’ve started to develop some pretty dark sexual fantasies. Not about the man who killed my father specifically, but killers in general. Brutal, psychopathic men who take and hurt innocent people.

  I feel sick admitting this, even to myself. Also, it scares the shit out of me. Because what does it say about me as a person? What kind of monster fantasizes about stuff like that after seeing a killer kidnap their own parent?

  I know how wrong it is, but it’s still in me anyway, and I don’t understand it, or where it came from. And I feel like I’ve betrayed my father’s memory somehow, just by thinking it.

  It makes me feel like I deserve the nightmares. The paranoia. The constant feeling that something’s wrong with me, rotten deep down where no one can see. Maybe this is who I really am. Maybe I’m just a terrible person.

  Anyway, sorry for the word vomit. I just really needed to get that all out.

  I hovered over the ‘post’ button for a full minute, palms damp. Then I clicked it and slammed the laptop shut.

  A few minutes later, I cracked it open again. And there they were. Responses. All soft and kind.

  Lostherox: You’re not sick. You’re human. This is a trauma response, and it’s more common than you think.

  Timtam77: What you’re describing is actually a documented psychological pattern. It’s like how sexual assault victims sometimes have rape fantasies - not because they want to be harmed, but because their mind is trying to rewrite the narrative and give them control over something that once left them powerless. I realize you weren’t assaulted, but I’m sure you can see the similarities between that and your own case, right?

  Destyne: Yeah, exactly. It doesn’t make you an evil monster. It makes you someone trying to survive something senseless.

  XStephX: Agreed. And you don’t ever have to say this out loud if you’re not ready. That’s what this space is for. We’re all anonymous strangers. There’s no shame here.

  I stared at the screen, throat tight. I still felt sick to my stomach from the shame coursing through me, but for the first time in a long while, I felt a little less alone.

  I typed out another post.

  Thanks so much for your responses. I really appreciate your understanding. I have a question now. Even if I can understand where the fantasies stem from, that doesn’t stop me from feeling terrible about it. So do any of you have any advice about dealing with the shame and guilt?

  I checked the site again fifteen minutes later to find another six responses.

  ShadowLoom: Shame really thrives in silence. So you’ve already chipped away at it by naming it. For me, writing helped. Also, therapy helps too, but only when you can be honest in it. So maybe show your therapist this thread? You said you have trouble saying the words out loud, but letting her/him read them instead could work.

  Timtam77: Please take what I say with a grain of salt, because I’m not a qualified psychotherapist. Just a middle school librarian, haha 😊. But I do have a bit of experience in what you’ve described, so I wanted to suggest something that personally helped me with the shame I used to feel.

  Instead of trying to suppress it (along with your fantasies/urges), you could try to lean into it instead. Accept and embrace it. If and when you’re ready, you could even try to find a trusted person to help you explore the fantasies. Or you could do what I do and write stories (feel free to check my profile if you’re interested in reading a few!).

  Lastly, it’s probably helpful to look up general shame coping techniques that therapists recommend, if you really can’t face the thought of talking to someone in person (or showing them this thread like ShadowLoom suggested before). Not all of the techniques helped me, but we’re all different people, so it’s worth a try for you.

  Whatever you end up doing, make sure you stay safe! Much love from Minnesota.

  Lostherox: Seconding what Timtam said! The way you’ve repressed your sexuality for so long (because of all the shame you feel over it) could have resulted in at least some of the anxiety-related problems you mentioned. Can’t run and hide from yourself forever, right?

  Also: maybe google something called ‘hybristophilia’. Not sure if it applies to you or not, because I don’t know you personally, but it sounds like it could? Looking into that and what triggers it might help somewhat.

  Novalee: Yup yup yup hybristophilia was my exact thought too! But even if that’s the root cause of your fantasies, it’s like you said, Greyveil013 – knowing what caused it doesn’t exactly make the shame disappear. So I agree with what Timtam said too. Try to embrace your fantasies and explore them instead of shoving them away.

  Obviously not suggesting you go and hook up with a real-life serial killer, or anything like that. Always be safe! But yeah, I really think exploring your fantasies could help you deal with the shame. It really is an absolute scourge on your mental state, and it might never go away, but it can definitely lessen.

  Velvet_Thread: Shame often lies to you. It tells you you’re broken when you’re actually adapting. If your thoughts were hurting other people, that would be one thing… but they’re just thoughts. Let them be. Don’t fight them so hard. You’re not defined by them.

  FlorenceAtNight: You’re carrying guilt that doesn’t belong to you. You didn’t choose what happened to your father. You didn’t choose how your brain coped with it. But you are choosing to look at it with honesty. I think that’s brave. Keep doing that. It will help. Avoidance never helped anyone!

  Curiosity tugged at me, and I clicked on Timtam77’s username. There was a short bio: Trauma survivor. Writer of morally gray filth. Fan of scream queens, knives, and complicated catharsis.

  And beneath that: links.

  I hesitated, then clicked the one labeled ‘My Scream-Inspired Fics (NSFW AF)’.

  My pulse raced as I scrolled through the summaries of the stories. Some were short, teasing, just a line or two. Some were tagged with warnings. Others had huge comment sections with replies like ‘this is sick and I fucking love it’ or ‘why is this actually so hot?’

  I finally opened one called ‘The Masked One’; a story told from the perspective of a girl being stalked and toyed with by a Ghostface-type killer.

  I started reading… and then I couldn’t stop. It was twisted and erotic in the most horrifying, pulse-spiking way.

  My breath went shallow, and something coiled low in my belly, hot and sick and unbearable. My legs tensed. My skin prickled. Then the familiar old voice in my head started up. What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you enjoying this?

  Then I remembered what Timtam77 said. Lean into it. Accept and embrace it.

  So I didn’t close the tab or force myself to stop. Instead, I leaned into it and let the shame wash over me like hot rain. Let the arousal settle into my skin instead of shoving it down and pretending it wasn’t there.

  It didn’t make the guilt vanish, but it loosened its grip a little.

  I kept reading.

  She hears him before she sees him. A soft, deliberate breath through the modulator. Somewhere behind her. Or above.

  “I know you’re awake, sweetheart,” the voice purrs through the darkness. “You always hold your breath when you’re scared.”

  She doesn’t move. Can’t. The blanket is a useless shield, but she clutches it anyway, heart hammering like it wants out of her chest.

  A floorboard creaks. Then fingers—gloved, confident—wrap around her ankle and drag her away.

  She gasps, thrashes, but he’s so much faster. So much stronger. Her body flips easily, dragged down the bed, pinned by the weight of his. The cold press of plastic kisses her cheek as he leans in, mask to skin.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t love this, baby girl,” he whispers. “Your body’s been telling me otherwise for days.”

  A hand slips under her shirt, slow and possessive. She hates him. She wants him to stop. She also wants him to keep going.

  My pulse was racing faster now. When the masked man grabbed the girl’s ankle in the story, I felt like it was actually happening to me. Shame was still rocketing up my spine, but arousal was chasing it, and I was too slow to stop either of them.

  By the time the masked man’s hand slid down the girl’s underwear, my own hand was hovering at the waistband of my jeans, fingers trembling.

  “No, I can’t do this,” I muttered, finally letting the shame win out again. I yanked my hand away from my pants and closed the laptop.

  I waited a beat and took a deep breath. Then I opened it again, unable to resist.

  The story hadn’t gone anywhere, and neither had the heat burning low inside me. My heart was still racing, too, and my mouth had gone dry. I pressed the heel of my palm hard against it, like I could smother the desperate need if I physically pushed it down.

  Nope. I couldn’t. I liked it way too much.

  I curled my knees to my chest and buried my face in them, trying to ignore the insistent throb between my thighs. This was ridiculous. I shouldn’t be feeling like this. Not from something like that. But my body clearly didn’t care about shouldn’t, because I was already soaked.

  A shaky breath escaped my lips as I slid my hand beneath the waistband of my pants. I hesitated, just for a second, before my fingers slipped under the lace of my underwear and found the slick heat waiting for them.

  God.

  I let out a broken gasp and leaned back against the pillows, legs parting instinctively. My middle finger circled my clit, slow and trembling, and images from the story flared behind my closed eyes.

  This time, I wasn’t just reading Timtam’s story. I was in it.

  I was the one pinned to the wall by the masked killer, his gloved hand wrapped tightly around my throat as he told me how sweet I tasted and how good I looked begging him not to hurt me… only to moan when he did. He didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down. He knew exactly what I needed, even if I was too afraid to admit it. Even if I was still pretending I hated it.

  His knife scraped down my chest, the threat of it a dark tease. Then he shoved my panties to the side, not even bothering to take them off as he fucked me against the cold wall, brutal and unrelenting.

  “You love being used by the villain, don’t you, baby girl?” he snarled against my ear. “You love knowing he could kill you, but he won’t. Not yet. Not until he’s ruined you.”

  I whimpered as my fingers worked faster, chasing the edge. Shame surged up again, hot and punishing, but I didn’t push it away this time. I let it live in me; let it twist into pleasure.

  When I came, it was sudden and violent, a wave crashing through me so hard I had to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from screaming and freaking out my neighbors.

  I lay there for a moment, dazed and panting, one arm thrown over my eyes. Then I finally sat up and closed my laptop. My heart was still racing, and my skin was still tingling, but the shame hadn’t settled quite as deep this time. It was still there, but something was a little different now.

  Maybe it was the way Timtam77 had framed her advice. Maybe it was the fact that I knew I wasn’t alone now; that there were a lot of people out there who truly got it. People who didn’t recoil from my story or judge me for it.

  I still wasn’t fixed, if that was even possible, but for the first time in what seemed like forever, I felt a flicker of relief.

  I glanced at the clock. 9:03 PM.

  Shit. Freya.

  I grabbed my phone and hit dial on FaceTime, and she picked up right away. “Ken! I was just about to call you,” she said, excitement bubbling in her voice. “I’ve got some amazing news about the show!”

  I straightened up, trying to match her energy even though a knot was tightening in my stomach. “That’s awesome,” I said, forcing a smile. “But… I was actually calling because I might have some bad news about it. So I guess we’re balancing each other out.”

  “Okay, you go first, then. Get the bad news out of the way.”

  “I got an email from a detective called Malachi Sieger. He wants me to see him on Monday to discuss our podcast.”

  “Sieger… that name sounds really familiar,” Freya mused. “Did he work on your dad’s case?”

  “No, apparently he’s new in town.”

  “Oh! I know why the name’s so familiar. Remember my parents’ old house on Monterrey Drive?”

  “Yup.”

  “The old couple who lived next door were called the Siegers,” she said. She paused, letting out a short sigh. “God, I always felt so sorry for them.”

  “How come?”

  “Their daughter and her husband died in some sort of accident years ago, and she was their only child. I’ve always thought it’s so sad to outlive your own kid,” she said. She blew out another sigh and went on. “Anyway, sorry for the totally morbid tangent. This detective… did he say anything else in the email? Like, why he wants to talk about the podcast?”