I'm happy to bring you the next excerpt from Gail Bridges erotic horror, Inn on the Edge.
Let's jump right in!
***The story so far: newlyweds Angie and Josh have checked into the Inn, but by the next morning they've decided the place is too strange and the owner, a perverted old man, makes them uncomfortable. They make a break for the door, but they're stopped short.***
“Now, now,” the old man crooned, “Angela. Joshua. What seems to be the problem here?”
“We…uh, want to leave,” I said.
“We do,” echoed Josh. He cleared his throat.
The old man’s hand brushed up and down my arm. I frowned and moved out of his reach. “You don’t really want to go, do you? You’ve only just arrived.” He sounded hurt.
I stared at him, frowning.
“Come now, join us for breakfast.” The old man tried to take my hand. I brushed it away. “At least stay for breakfast.”
“Josh,” I said, “let’s go.”
We skirted around the old man, threaded our way past couches and end tables and Persian carpets and a grand piano. We passed the lectern. We crossed the last few feet of the lobby. We held tight to each other’s hands, our eyes on the door.
But again the old man stood in front of us, blocking the way.
Impossible! He’d been behind us!
I gaped, blinking, clinging to Josh. How had this ancient, decrepit man managed to beat us to the door? How? How had he passed around Josh and me, to stand in front of us, without us noticing?
Suddenly I was frightened. Very frightened.
Josh took a deep breath. “Let us pass, old man.”
“No.”
Josh moved to the side, to go around, but the old man blocked his path.
They stared at each other.
“Move,” said Josh.
“No.”
I stepped forward. “Let us out!”
The old man looked down at me. “Again, no.”
Josh and I were a united force. We held hands and faced him. “Angie and I are leaving,” Josh said, “and there’s nothing you can do about it. Get out of our way.”
The old man gestured to the door. “Try. If you insist.”
Josh rushed forward and tugged on the handle. The door didn’t open. Fuming, he swung around to face the old man. “It’s fucking locked!”
“Must you use such tasteless language, Joshua Taylor?”
I pulled at the door, but of course I did no better than Josh had.
“You locked us in our room last night!” accused Josh, pointing his finger at the old man. “Admit it! That door was not stuck. And now you’ve locked us in the building. I will not be locked in. Let us go. Unlock the door.”
The old man didn’t unlock the door. Instead, he reached out and laid a cold hand on my arm, and on Josh’s. We flinched, cried out, shuddered, but we just stood there, frozen, and let him trail his long fingers softly up and down our arms, patting, caressing, soothing. He touched us both, but it was me he stared at. It was me his eyes roamed over. Me he licked his lips for. Me who received the extra attention. Me.
“Better?” the old man asked, leaning close, so close that his robe brushed my leg, so close that I smelled his peculiar cinnamon scent again.
I blinked.
I was better. He was right.
Gail Bridges Bio:
I have three grown children. I live in Seattle, Washington with my husband and our five cats.
In the past I have worked in a variety of different artistic media. I have a BFA in painting from the University of Washington, and for over fifteen years I made award-winning Fine Art Jewelry (silver and handmade ceramics) and sold my work at local and regional Fine Art and Craft shows. My business, Vivid Arts, flourished – but always, I felt driven to write. Two years ago, no longer able to deny the writing muse, I took an open-ended sabbatical from my art shows. Since then, I’ve written two novels and a number of published and unpublished short stories.
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