Spin Me Sweet Tales

Chapter One

Ophelia stands with Death looming over her like a dearly eternal friend. She drops her hands to let the blood loss ravish her...

"No," I whisper. "That's not the right word."

In the empty, quiet solitude of my cabin, the only sound is the erratic tap, tap, tap of my index finger against the backspace button on my laptop. I delete the word ravish and replace it with consume, and then I glance over my work once more. I'm highly critical of every word I place on my newest manuscript, my fourth novel readying for publication. Each adjective, noun, preposition, and adverb is under my strict observation.

My eyes, dark as mahogany, glaze over the new sentence, and I test the words on my tongue. "Ophelia stands with Death looming over her like a dearly eternal friend. She drops her hands and lets the blood loss consume her. Her pale flesh turns red with the thick rivulets that trail down her injured stomach, careen across her exposed thighs, and splatter upon her bare feet. A fog takes over her vision, and..."

Again, I'm met with disapproval. My erratic tap, tap, tap fills the room again as I backspace a sentence I approved three days ago but disdain today, and I search my overanxious mind for a greater alternative. Like a lightbulb atop my head, the word emerges, and I amend the previous sentence.

The smallest smile peels over my dry lips and I continue to read the last chapter in my manuscript. "Fog obscures Ophelia's vision, and she can only see Death. Her companion strolls towards her in the darkness and cold uncertainty, and he extends his hand. The war around her screams and rages, but she takes Death's hand and there's only peace. Ophelia looks back at the surrounding carnage, and she bids them a gentle farewell. Then, there isn't fog or fear or uncertainty, there is only Death, and he leads her towards a grander life than one on a battlefield. Ophelia looks at the guardian of the afterlife, and she-"

My words are halted by the steady knocks at my front door. I pause in confusion, then look at the front door. Three days ago, I entered my Airbnb with the belief that I'd be left alone. I met the town sheriff when I first arrived, pot belly and all. He was an obtuse man, with Cheeto stains smeared down his white uniform. The streaks were in the shape of his hands, as if his shirt were his napkin. His smile unnerved me, all crooked teeth with one gold one glinting under the town's restaurant's florescent lights. Yet, his words were the answer I needed to complete my newest masterpiece.

He informed me that this small town in Colorado was home to less than two hundred occupants. The owner of the Airbnb only visits this town on the rarest occasion, and I'd receive the seclusion I desired to finish my manuscript for my agent.

Yet, there's somebody at my front door. I sit in the kitchen of this quaint, one bedroom cabin, and the front door stares back at me less than ten feet away. It'd be easy to answer the door and see who lurks behind, but the hairs on my arms raise and a familiar frigid trickle of fear slithers down my spine. The knocks on the door should be innocent, but I instinctually know better. Danger looms.

When there's a second round of knocks, I flinch, but I rise to my feet.

There isn't much in the kitchen besides the simple groceries I purchased. The owner of the Airbnb filled the cabin only with two sets of silverware, two bowls, two plates, and two cups. There's a single kitchen knife, though, and I move towards it. A million possibilities run through my mind as I process the person at the front door; I remain cautiously optimistic, but I grab the kitchen knife.

I take two steps towards the front door before I hear a second sound in the quiet cabin.

It's the backdoor's lock clicking open, followed by the imperceptible creak of the back door opening. I freeze, my knuckles turning white around the handle of the knife, and I wait to hear feet shuffle into the cabin. There's a second of pause, but then a booted foot hits the squeaky, old hardwood floor. The noise echoes in the silenced cabin, and it warns me that peril is afoot.