The Really Evil Voice

The voice. The other voice. The silky voice with the delicate drawl. The really evil voice.

The slobbering beast was one thing, a being easily detestable in every way. But the other could reel you in, give you hope, and make you feel. And then, with brutal sophistication dangle you back to the beast, cursing yourself more than him for having fallen once again for the lies.

Crouching atop the entrance to Gordo’s pit of despair, Cole smiled as he listened. The girls had gone silent, like good little girls. They had learned, and he felt good about that. There was a reason he went into teaching, the joy of molding young minds. He knew what he did to them, how he tortured their souls while Gordo amused himself with their bodies.

And he knew, as well and fully as he knew the standard works of Shakespeare, that they deserved it.

Satisfied and content, Cole stood and moved toward the kitchen. He shuddered, a momentary lapse in his reserved calm, when a heavy-handed knock came upon his door.

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