Trick or Treat [Halloween Vault 3D]

Off The Record

Maraya Kiplski, the name had been on my mind for weeks now. A murder mystery writer (who wrote from years of close experience), her latest book had already joined her other five on the International bestseller list, yet, except for her name, nothing much was known about her.

Every reporter was looking to get an exclusive. But as it happened, unexpectedly, she picked me.

Late Saturday night, I got a call, "I want to see you." Her husky, deep, almost sultry voice demanded, and after casually introducing herself, she texted me her address and told me to come alone.

My destination, as it turned out, was not her home as I had expected, but an abandoned warehouse. Entering, I found her standing in a dimly lit space, with just one revolving chair placed in the middle of it.

Draped in a red flowing evening gown that hugged her in all the right places, she looked gorgeous: dressed to kill. 

"Arthur." I cleared my throat and held out my hand, introducing myself, but she ignored my hand and captured my chapped lips with her moist ones, briefly before leaning away.

"I know." She smiled, gesturing me to sit on the chair; I obliged and took out the recorder.

She was at my side in an instant, "No." She stated, prying the recorder off my hand, "What I am about to tell you is off the record."

As soon as the words left her, my head started spinning, "P...pardon?" I got the syllable out with much difficulty; I felt my throat constrict. Panicking, I tried to stand, but found that I couldn't move, at all.

"Relax, the more you fight, the faster the drug will act." She said offhandedly, removing a thin film from over her lips and running her lips over them; pulling out a transparent sheet from a bag, she stated casually, "I hate being sloppy." and started covering the area around me meticulously, with practiced hands!

Finishing up, she approached me with a double-edged knife. "It won't hurt...I mean, it will, but you won't be able to feel it."

My mind in turmoil, I tried to reason with her, "Aren't you afraid of getting caught?"

"Arthur Milkin, freelance reporter, 35, single, live alone." She paused, "No one will miss you, darling."

"Why me?" I croaked, feeling wetness on my cheek and under my ass.

"Tch. Tch. Tch." Her gaze landed on my lap; she shook her head disapprovingly, "I had high hopes for you, darling. But you turned out to be just like the others. Won't you give me something else? Don't you want your reactions to be immortalized, hm?" She demanded, crouching in front of me; her eyes twinkled as they met mine, "Beautiful! I guess you were not a complete waste." She smirked, "I know exactly where to put them! Arthur, looks like your eyes will get an exclusive, after all. Too bad, it will be, off the record."