Author's First Note: Since we are peaking to the 25th chapter, it will be the 25th chapter anniversary of the book. Moreover, don't kill me for naming the chapters more uncommonly enigmatic under the names of songs or anything that inspires me. I hope you like and enjoy the new chapter! :))

Special dedication to the lovelies:  southernauthor, sociopathsis, Trash_Bag_123, k_aldxnx,HollyDixon_, JunykoWalker, Celeste-Moore, DeliverPoetry, stallonesgirl, NeahMyah, Elizabethisntedgy and DrawingHorrorstory!

🃏 Step inside, see the devil in I
Too many times, we've let it come to this
Step inside, see the devil in I
You'll realize I'm not your devil anymore 🃏

--- *** ---
--- Later that Day ---

Once the day became a viciously vulnerable victim of the nocturnal episode's twilight lull, the rotundly huge palish moon mounted the starless horizon in a jiffy. The monotonously wearisome symphony of the vehicle engines' rowdy hums coupled with the relentlessly honey-mouthedly mellifluous birdsongs and the people's chats foreshadowed the daylight's phenomenally poetic reminiscence in the limbo. Solely the uneven vehicles' acceleration in the nearby neighbourhood motorway droned humdrum and interpolating modicum of life in the lethally asleep of the nocturnal lull background.

The night was a sheer home. Home sweet home. The home of the opulence of exemplars that had any associations with the ebony, foreign darkness to sheathe conveniently their very essences or entities. The crickets' eloquently mellifluous songs. The inescapably huge, rotund palish moon. The darkest hours. Or rather the most enigmatic hours that aroused umpteen conundrums behind the night's true face and its aftermaths. The eventual and inexorably sinister, bloodthirsty demise, itself. The inevitably ferocious, fiercely vehement umpteen of demons and mystic shadows casted in the darkest outskirts of the sites to haunt down their own victims of the past, insecurities and the held grudges.

Even when Timothy unpacked sufficient quantity of his luggage that would be usable throughout the day, consequently the rest of the luggage remarkable paraphernalia remained inside the suitcase or somewhere spilled across your bedroom.

Oddly, the very first day of the last month of the year's relentless Boston night was embraced with a huge storm. Huge storm could be interpreted distinctively. Apocalyptically rowdy with its heavy rain of ferocious beehive of raindrops gruesomely villainous thumped the shut windows, doors and walls of the exterior, isolating its living nobodies to be secured promisingly welcoming during the hideously soggy hours of the nocturnal episode. Dryness balefully sheathing you and Timothy during your beauty coma's mission. Series of aggressive bolts thumped the ground with great deal of versatile, vindictively monstrous strength twitching the motionlessness of the façades and the trees, towering the people's visions and tinting their veritably scintillating, wonderfully bright thoughts.

Shortly after having another dinner time where the holy priest didn't even dare to curl his fingers to brace the tiny, silver entity to swig a healthily meaningful bite of the tomato soup you cooked a couple of hours ago, then you both traded your spare time watching television in the living room. Bizarrely, doll shows on the television might be not the best idea to be contemplated through its the viewer's eye fixated on the incessantly shimmering its lusterly abstract, flash light inching a couple of inches proximity at least. The showman, himself, genuinely bear a semblance of somebody Timothy truly knows in his life even if they hardly see each other daily. Or on the contrary, the recently arrested doctor after acknowledging thanks to the media and somehow the wee inkling the British compatriot darted its prominently villainous illumination to not diminish its glossiness under the vividly scintillating, aureate light.

The tv shows and soap operas that were commonly broadcasted on the television screen were allegedly presumed to entertain the viewers in general even if they didn't have anything to do or at least their interest didn't level out at all, it wasn't your thing at all except for the news that interested you the most and certain old Hollywood movies which have recently aired out.

Anyway yet another peacefully mirthful day you traded with the aspiring Monsignor, although the earlier today encounter you both accosted fearlessly self-assertive, moderately confident in your ambitions and intentions as well.

Little did you both know either today or someday even the utter harmony in your individual household could be dimly asphyxiated due to the din of the former nun. Anyway sooner or later you anticipated spontaneously sly the former promiscuous jazz nightclub singer to venture up inside your home shortly after acknowledging the aspiring Monsignor's current residence.

Another night like the others. The sufficient comfort the sofa in the living room bestowed you to recline recklessly convenient with a sheerly comfy, classily apricot-bumblebee yellow quilt sheathing your motionless petite-frame, whilst the cottonly comfy pillow boldly binded your head beneath.

The hypodermically uncomfortable, coercively chilly climate waltzed serenely nonchalant in the site swathed in its most sable nuance harshly suffused broadly profuse even across the darkest corners.

Light, celestially calm snores pumped your brittle lungs and coursing its refreshing breath through your nostrils and mouth, timidly curving your roseate, lusciously cherub lips in a soft O. Struggling to find any lethally succumbing comfort on your current kipping position, throughout the subconsciousness of the maneuver of your muscles tensed when you flipped on the right side, directly facing the furniture's feather-soft back pillows meagerly inching your nose and maintaining an adequate distance that gauged its less than a few inches.

All of a sudden, another apoplectically apocalyptic, roughneck lighting bolt joggled haughtily the ground, taunting the natural quiver of the trees, vehicles and façades until the eerily bold dings disgressed from more than once. One after one per a second. It resembled a blatant slur of murderously intoxicated by the sinfully mouth-watering liquor victim of the bad habits that somehow spellbinded its bewitching, powerful hex to afflictively sore counterfeiting the fleet liquor's divinely bewitching curse of lacking control and rationality over the fiery impulses.

"Open the fricking door, you hideous bitch!" The hoarsely antagonistic and wrathful, the wail tingled alarming tones into your flexible ears when you immediately came to your senses and muffled the mewled blatant yawn with one of your petite, creamy hands and then working on fleetly nimble to unwrap the conveniently warm quilt from your petite-frame. The voice emulated to clearly familiar. It was your former drug boss from your past life Cole Derek Lowe. The most ill-famed, wickedly villainous drug dealer and cook of Maryland. "I don't care how sleepy you're but we've to talk." Fiercely frustrated groan prominently expelled from your lips as you dashed out of the living room casually, aimlessly towards your impending destination. The kitchen.

In a long minute of monotonously strenuous recurring ding of the front door spieling the dully nocturnal lull of hush, after your initial destination to the kitchen to retrieve stealthily categorical the kitchen knife in self defense for your mission to confront the intruder and teach him a lesson with a couple of meaningfully ill-omened brandishes to imperil his celestially substantial life in a handful of morbidly gory, spine-chilling stabs thrusting his chest.

"Open the fucking door, you foul floozy!" Once you retreated back to the sable thickly, wonderfully mantled-clad corridor as your pristinely long, orthodoxy dainty fingers danced to brace circa robustly the kitchen knife's hardwood handle, maneuvering yourself in a berserkly stealth stance, ready for any subconscious and ferociously foolhardy assault on the prey of its purely exuberant temptation to venture up into your property in the middle of the night. The nauseous resentment and the sinister rage seethed his tongue to conjugate the indisputably noxious caution as the dings were unwelcomingly replaced with series of vehemently incessant, humdrum raps pronging on the wooden entity. "Do not make me to break the door, Y/N!" Forcefully louder grunt conveyed its authentic reminder to daringly sacrilegious spotlight the austerely surly very nature of your former boss, pinching widely opened your E/C bijous, flicking spitefully valiant up to imbibe the locked front door.

It was your second confrontation with Cole after the fresh start you genuinely, dedicatedly fulfilled within a few years after the ominously nefarious involvement in spreading the drug products to its clients and interminably fueling the budget.

First and foremost, the last time which might be rather the initial antagonistic ever conflict after you bestowed yourself with the fresh start by moving from your birth town in the norther part of the monumental country with refreshingly mirthful, divinely entincing dreams was in the bar one of the late October days after your tough shift. Refreshingly mirthful potential in everything. Seeking new opportunities. Seeking a bright future for yourself and erasing everything that was beyond the past's godlessly godforsaken, demolished realm full of ghost towns of memories and violently haunting held grudges. Notwithstanding the circumstances, you were more than ready to defend yourself and the ambitious Monsignor from the vicious claws of your ex-boss. The sacrifice was worth in the name of your safety and lives.

What would be the imminent surprise that Cole Derek might have cooked for you and the British compatriot? A bloodthirstily gory, inebriatingly brutish slaughter at your home and staging out its unspeakable ferociousness of the middle-aged man. Or rather another sardonic parallel to the bar fight and the fiercely devilish conspiracy against you to be institutionalized somewhere where your very presence the least deserved to inhabit or at least have any associations with the morbid, fatiguing madness. Or shortly before contemplating through the godlessly smug face of the demise, the blackout relentlessly unimaginable pierching through your muscles and bones to lose control over the simplest methods to defend yourself or at least to prevent the further party's barbarically unseen, untouchable damage.

Since you were no longer populating Silver Spring, Maryland, how Cole Derek hasn't even bothered sinisterly daredevil to venture up into your space and to frequent your conflicts? Little did you know what kind of luck has bestowed you to have at least twice unyielding brawls even if they took place within less than two months.

"Holy shit!" When you managed to sneak up towards the front door untouchable, profoundly attentive, the haphazardness of the bedroom door registered swung bashfully opened and mewling series of nefariously high-pitched wails until the British compatriot snuck up out of your bedroom to participate in your company after the unwelcomingly unsettling, gravely irksome hums and raps on the door. Nothing else could obscure his leanly bony muscles that constructed his outstandingly masculine, appealing anatomy except his old, seemly unworn often ruby and denim strip lines embroidering the ideal texture of his pyjama outfit as his pyjama top registered its agitatedly perky flare across his hips. A handful of buttons smartly were dumped unbuttoned leaking his thickly hairy, masculinely kinky wire embroidering his toned, muscly torso. The short mane of rumpled silken chestnut strands curtained his youthfully porcelain, healthyily handsome façade. "Timothy, what are you doing in the middle of the night?"

"He will notice it." The continuously unnerving click of his dehydrated, berry-coloured tongue tingled alarming tones into your ears when the possessed clergyman channeled to approach you and subsequently maintaining a platonically intimate proximity when his brassly citrine-cinnamon brown embers kindled the very citrine flammable glint, scintillatingly landing on your kitchen knife as your sole weapon in self defense besides your comfortably plain pair of socks-clad feet. "Rare bird, your ex-boss isn't that stupid to not notice the kitchen knife or the thing that could be called your weapon in self-defense." Meanwhile, the subconsciously stabilizing the firm brace of your virginally dexterous fingers around your tiny razor-edged item when your very muscles gingerly tensed under the gruesomely silver-tongued, abysmally attractive British lilt of the possessed man of the cloth as his orthodoxy pallid fingers remarkably surreptitious, frangibly warily fingering and teasing mischievously the cleanly sheer steel curve, whereas his smelless hitched breathing fanned timidly your hair and profile. "You have to take him with a grain of salt, in fact, I'm here and the business to get him green around the gills is mine." The supernally honey-mouthed, quiet yet solemn counsel transmuted into a cordial mumble the British aristocrat graced you jingled angelic anthems into your ears and pinpricking rabidly rapid the opulent yield of electrifying goosebumps your epidermis, whereas a marvelously wide, roguishly venomous smirk blossomed upon his naturally pale-pinkish, deliciously plumpish lips at the reassuring attempts to take care of your ex-manager.

The true notion behind the victoriously sacred context of his pledge mischievously kittling your eardrums fetched a solemn sentiment of something foreign that has Frederic demonstrated in the most platonic way. The difference between Frederic and Timothy's ways of standing for you even when Cole could play his own cards right non-verbally articulated its utmost significance. The Michiganian that appeared to be your old friend has never had any subtle romantic feelings he has caged inside his flimsy heart even his youthfully attractive facial attributes to be relentlessly, artistically incised with sanguine hues.

Not only the grave grandiloquence artfully highlighted the genuine intentions of Timothy, but also his actual apocalyptic sacrifice cusping with the omen to potently solemn bond against the obdurately rebellious, iniquitos malice of the drug cook.

"Come on, you little bitch! Open the door if you aren't taking it with a grain of salt!" Then the older gentleman ushered to charge his oxford-clad foot before violently kicking the hardwood door and focusing utterly on his mission of breaking it vigorously, whilst cunningly knitting his narrowed thickly dark eyebrows towards the bridge of his nose. "I'm fed up of awaiting your ass to get on the door to answer it for me. It just takes a couple of seconds. Huh?" A raspily unhealthy, cold-bloodedly dry cough rose from his Adam's apple as you and Timothy bonded together to halt the intruder whilst you both aimed towards the door and your only free hand's orthodoxy spidery fingers crooked around the rusty key to turn it nimbly.

"Psst, Y/N!"

"Y-Yes, Tim?" Shortly before drifting your ultimate attention to the rusty key's emphatic operation, consequently your E/C minerals pursued eagerly for the British compatriot's topaz-cocoa brown huge, roundish imbibing your gaze as one of his colossal, creamily satin hand perched on the small of your back, manipulating his virginally hallowed fingers to work on kneading on small circles the comfortable fabric of your plain iris large-sized T-shirt. The rabidly rapid heart pulses jovially throbbed into your ribcage at the very touch of the aspiring Monsignor that accompanied you and his demonic supernatural power to ensure you the welfare you truly deserved in your very home.

"I have a plan for that old prick!" Leaning before you as hardly an inch of adequately intimate distance you exchanged when his baby-pinkish, featherly-soft lips registered a tender brush of your earlobe, the hostile nickname of your former manager seethed a mutually healthy, gutturally inward snickers under your breath during the aggressive kicks on the door emanating from the older man.

"Go for it!"

"You are unlocking the door as I'll use my telekinetic power as he crashes against the railing and as soon as he loses gradually consciousness," A heavy sigh flushed his tiny, flexible nostrils shortly before the vainly smug, lukewarmly diabolical snicker bubbled up from his Adam's apple when your fingers hardly worked subconsciously, idly on the rusty key to turn in the keyhole. "You know what you have to do, Y/N! Believe me that son of the bitch will get what he genuinely deserves and we will show him who's the boss at last." The suddenness of the British aristocrat managing to cup your profile into the palms of his amusingly warm, hypodermically soothing hands spiked thoughtlessly your self-esteem coupled with the rich maintenance of an eye contact and his huge grin adorning his pallid complexion.

"Excellent!" Then you both straightened your posture and instantly altering your stances into berserk, all ready for any non-verbal and verbal attack after managing a humbly docile nod in strong agreement to reaffirm your friend's plan.

In the interval, when the front door clicked unlocked and it swung broadly opened at the sinisterly somber vista of the drug cook standing before the door and charging his foot for another kick yet, thus Timothy ushered his both pristinely colossal, strong hands to cast a supernatural spell in the form of telekinesis to bid ultimately Cole Derek's frail skeleton from head to toes whilst indiscreetly unimaginable levitating slowly but surely and darting his scintillatingly merciless glare at you and your friend.

"I got it!" Exultantly unholy and stilling its smugness promiscuously italicizing the younger gentleman's rhetorical utterance, raising an arch of his eyebrow arrogantly lukewarm, villainously infernal at the defeated, hopelessly writhing frail skeleton of Cole Derek, heinously rebellious elaborating to writhe his muscles to release himself from the unnaturally tight grip of the demon. "Rot in hell you jackass prick!"

"How dare you sleeping with that diabolical piece of crap, Y/N? Are you going to infect him with your carnal germs? I bet you already did it and no wonder why he's on your side."

"Ignore him! Focus on whatever it takes to bring him down!"

Once the telekinetic spell ebbed off its tissues to channel unceasingly its prey, thereafter Cole crashed against the unconsciously chilly railing of the floor stairs as it was your final opportunity to bring him down and hunkering down before his frail skeleton. Sorely painful agony and infernal numbness vibrated into his very figure and shrieking dozens of blatantly sore, starkly inescapable groans at the top of his lungs when his partly opened optics unceasingly blinked apt to choir while you aimed your razor-edged, sharpened kitchen knife to balefully entwining wrathfully past his face in the thin air as the clean edge maintained almost no appropriate distance with your recent target.

"Oh fuck! What is wrong with both of you? Are you aborigines?" Seconds before the first stab pronged his broad, bulky shoulder blade, thus the idle impulse of his hitched breathing synced against your graveously severe heart pulsations, boring your E/C bijous into his darkened gawk even when his head tilted shyly.

"Goodbye, you pathetic son of the bitch!" The initial vehement proded his his broad, bulky shoulder followed by emotionally dull plea, while the holy priest folded his muscular, potent arms across his chest and emitting a breathily vile chuckle, contemplating the explicitly bloody, graphic landscape of his love interest finishing your worst foe. "Hopefully you are licking Satan's piss and never see the light of the day ever again!" Within a handful of fatalistically shameless prongs into his heart, subsequently Cole Derek's hopelessly helpless large frame's muscles and bones asphyxiated severely the numbness to command his ethereally eternal, bloody demise. "I'm thinking yet we haven't even finished at all."

In a sluggishly long minute of dozens of repetitively bloodthirsty, spookily mouth-watering jabs of the steel item's edge, meantime, paradoxal paroxysm of complacence vibrantly profound vellicated your facial muscles to twist a psychotically gory, vengeful smirk across your face and thudding your fragile lungs to rumble the pants while straightening your posture in a jiffy and surveying in a scrutiny the aftermaths of your revenge. The bloodily delicious revenge.

The revenge, itself, could be interpreted in diversity of versions for every living being. The exemplar articulated the sinfully mouth-watering flavor of the gore and the nemesis. Most of all, you have already savoured the nemesis and the densely deluxe torrent of greasy, pervasive blood dribbling fabulously and staining partly your pajama along with the dagger.

Your bare hands have never being capable of committing such a sinfully insatiable mission. The homicide. You would never commit homicide due to your pleasure and taking after some vindictively psychotic, ill-famed serial killers their godlessly sadistic methods of kidnapping, tormenting and even inhumanely ending the lives of innocents. Howsoever, you didn't have other chance to get rid off from your ex-boss who was nothing than a compulsive intruder and vandalizing your personal space twice after moving in Boston from Silver Spring.

Anyway the humongous difference between the self-defense homicide and the hair-risingly enjoyable sadism couldn't be unfastened with an ease at all. There's always a motive leading to the eventual demise of the others, regardless how barbaric or explicitly swift it was staging the stout brutality of the perpetrators.

Notwithstanding the circumstances, you didn't have abundance of remaining time to cleanse the crime scene and to get rid off of the dead body. Even if the majority of the people in the neighbourhood and in your flat didn't have any intentions of exiting their homes, however, there's always a hazardous chance to being caught by your prying senior neighbours in something arcanely morbid when you and the Monsignor struggle to dump the dead body in the nigh abandon building that was a few blocks away from your home.

"I'm so proud of you, Y/N!" The profoundly fiendish, husky undertones sharpened the British compatriot's contentness of the nemesis you organized against Cole Derek in a New York minute without an ado.

"The question is how we will get rid off the corpse, rare bird!"

"I thought you would be an expert in hiding corpses."

"We shall abandon it inside an abandoned building."

"There's nearby that is a few blocks away from my home." After pressing a dotingly complacent peck to your cheek for your partly accomplished mission, consequently you ventured up inside the hallway and dashing to the kitchen to sprinkle warily each discrete detail of the dagger and then dumping it along with the other washed eating tools and putting on a large velvet chocolate brown reefer, in order to obscure the thick, fresh blotches of blood embroidered on your large-sized T-shirt and capri. In a long minute of versatility, you dragged out deftly headstrong the corpse out of the building.

--- *** ---

Series of graciously meek, modest raps on the office door of the former licentious jazz nightclub singer caught her off guard, whilst manifesting to drag out of her head the conservatively dark wool wimple that neatly coiffed her long golden wavy hair on top of her hardwood bureau, stilling her spidery palish fingers on her lion mane of old Hollywood silky aureate tresses curtaining majestically flawless her profile. Her hazelish-brown big, round embers glazed the medium-sized window's rich illustration of translucent rainy beads blotching the flimsy panes.

"Just a second, Frank!" The Bostonian purred a gracefully honey-mouthed caution seconds before zinging towards the locked office door to give an access to the security guard to pay a visit to her even if she was getting ready for bedtime.

In the meanwhile, the Bostonian's conjugated series of docilely fashionable, coy steps whispering against the concrete floor tingled alarming tones into the security guard's ears after mousily following her instructions to keep his wits about her very presence. A coyly boyish, elegant smile curled upon his naturally baby-pinkish, lusciously cherub lips as his azure blue optics landed horizontally on the door idly, awaiting for the impending call diligently. Within a couple of seconds, the office door clicked unlocked and then the blonde's spidery brittle fingers crooked around the doorknob and pressing it categorically until the door bestowed the pairing a sufficient space of their intimately platonic proximity.

"Oh Frank, it's good to see ya in the middle of the night!" The haphazardness of the raspiness of Judy's healthily breathy, fleetly girlish giggle didn't fade away and flicking up her honey brown embers to spear his azure blue. At the moment, the widower manipulated his front pearly teeth to nip at the delicate skin of his bottom lip to stifle an amused gasp or other further noises.

"Yeah, Judy! Ya know, I'm having that night shift and it keeps me awake like a night owl."

"Definitely!" Suddenly the former sleazy nightclub singer emitted a ruthlessly sharp exhale at the top of her frail lungs, knitting her elegantly thin, dark eyebrows while noticing the wee inkling of her friend's ogle, luminous with medley of sheer desire, unconditional love, fiery warmness, impious lust and restless kindheartedness glimmering its very true nuances of his lapis lazuli gemstones that were always in awe of the nun's natural, ethereally endless beauty when they traded privately informal interactions with one another. "I was thinking something," Her wet, berry-coloured tongue nimbly crafted the dozens of girlishly demure falters into her whispers, strongly hoping Frank would be the knight in the shining armor to take the first step to grant themselves a refreshingly heavenly start after their past life in Briarcliff and closing emphatically the books of their lives' previous chapters.

"What's on yar mind?"

"I was thinking since our close, deep interactions lately, why don't we move on in our lives by leaving this place? Ya know?" Clearing gruffily awkward her throat after muffling the blatant cough with her only free elvish, alabaster hand while the widower's merry smile expanded rabidly perky, being all ears and aware of his boss's self-consciousness. "Do we?"

"I would do anything for yar sake and happiness just to behold that stunning sparkling smile tugged at the corner of your mouth."

"But Frank, that's not just a fleet change in our life for better and getting out of there like some ex-nuns and staff members that highly doubt their happiness are depending on supervising loonies."

"I know, Judy! For how long were ya thinking this?"

"Since ya know, I was starting to think more frequently about ya."

"Is that true?"

"It's. I'm not finding my own happiness to run a place where my hopes are wasted and I have finally found the ideal person that can always count me for better or worse."

The embarrassingly nimbleness of the doldrum suffocating the very walls of the mental hospital abysmally tormented the duo to sort their minds during their revelation time to leak their very confessions to structure more properly their lives with more valuable priorities on their way.

"You know what? I'm coming with ya, no matter if it's tomorrow or now."

"It's better for us to do it right now before it's too late."

Author's Final Note: I know how sinisterly bloody this chapter turned out to be, but it's high time for some brutality! Moreover, we're approximately in the middle of the story even if the brutalities start from there or the beginning, depending on each reader's perspective. 

Anyway feel free to share your thoughts with me on this chapter! I'd like to hear your opinions as well if you genuinely enjoyed and liked this work!

In addition to I'm planning to bond Jude and Frank in this story whilst the reader will be with Timothy since it's pretty evident the storyline, itself.