10 May Got You Where I Want You
“Got You Where I Want You”
Written by Raz T. Slasher Edited by Craig Groshek Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek Narrated by N/ACopyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).
🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available
⏰ ESTIMATED READING TIME — 11 minutes
Weekend nights in downtown Dayton, Ohio are always chaotic. You’ve got an acting troupe doing Rocky Horror down at the Neon, karaoke at Ned’s, live bands at the Night Owl, and an entire street dedicated to college clubs, dive bars, and cafes. It’s a microcosm made up of every artistic scene, social hierarchy, and economic status, all in the span of a few blocks.
Around here, the gossip is never-ending. Everybody knows you, whether you know them or not. It’s the kind of place where you can just as easily climb the ranks to local godhood or crumble into oblivion—all in the same night. Staying on top isn’t easy, but it has its perks.
It’s easier for the less scrupulous among us. Those like me. From sunset to sunrise, this place is ours, and everyone knows it. We walk among the sheep, and they thank us for it—just for that chance to warm their bleak, miserable lives by the fire of our ineffable glory. They’ll never understand why they crave it, but they do.
Tonight, my feet travel of their own accord down the side of a brick-lined street. I move without thought, trusting them to know the way. There are nightly rituals that must be attended to. Old ghosts that must be remembered and given proper tribute. Palms that need to be greased. Favors that must be granted. Such is the way of the night.
My thoughts turn inward, as they so often do when I’m on autopilot. As I pass my favorite old haunt—the building that once contained the Asylum Nightclub—the most painful memory fights for the spotlight. The memory of her, the one that got away.
I remember so many things about her vividly. I remember her laugh, the smile that made her eyes light up like diamonds, the way her skin felt against mine, and how she tasted… Most importantly, I think about the night we met. Like all the best and worst nights of my life, it all started with a song.
* * * * * *
I glanced up from my Camel Special Light ‘100 and saw her standing there. Her image filtered through the haze of smoke all around me, making her seem almost ethereal. The Flys were blasting from the speakers in the back of the bar. I remember thinking that their song “Got You Where I Want You” would be our song from now on.
“Aww, heyyyyy.”
There I was, sitting in a room packed full of people—most of them I knew, but none of them mattered now. I let my smoke dangle from my bottom lip and stood. I smoothed out my black and green checkered flannel and the Soundgarden tee on display beneath. A quick hand ran through my long, dark hair on the move—a place for everything, and everything in its place.
“Tell me your name.”
Suddenly, I was a shark, swimming my way through the filthy sea of humanity in search of the next big meal that would keep me moving. I glided effortlessly through the throngs of college kids, celebrating the end of finals week, for better or worse. I sailed through the reef of barflies and burnouts vying for my attention and their next fix for whatever addictions plagued them. To them, I was a god; to me, they were nothing.
In one fluid motion, I grabbed two beers from behind the bar and gestured for Nick to put them on my tab. No words needed to pass between us; it was part of the routine. Finally, I circled her small gathering to get my bearings before going in for the kill.
“Maybe just a smile.”
I slid into the recently vacated chair on her left, slipping the beers onto the table in front of us like a magician in reverse. I gave her a wink and a patented grin when she looked over at me, completely in tune with the song that was still chugging along with the rest of the bar. She grinned back and sipped my offering, so trusting.
We were comfortable in that initial silence. It was clear by her actions that she believed she was in control, silently sizing me up as the song played on and I played the game.
“Could we talk for a while?”
“I’m Sam,” I offered.
“I know,” was her only response, aside from the grin that hadn’t left her face since the moment I sat down.
It was the kind of reply that might shake the confidence of a lesser man—a simple move that bespoke the power she believed she held over me. If she knew my name, what else might she know? The game was afoot.
“Interested in another round?” I asked, gingerly tilting my empty towards the bar.
“That depends,” she replied, bright green eyes boring into me like a drill headed for the Earth’s core.
“On?” I asked simply.
“If you can answer three questions correctly, I’m all yours. I’ll buy the next round, and we’ll see where the night takes us.” Her grin turned mischievous as she laid out the rules of our exchange.
“I think you’re smart.”
This was a woman who knew exactly what she wanted in a man and wasn’t interested in wasting time. Rather than flee and run screaming into the night, I doubled down. Strong spirits were made to be broken.
“Shoot,” I replied, matching the intensity of her gaze.
“Question one. The ending of Spielberg’s Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Would you have stayed or gotten on the ship?” There was no hint of humor in her voice when she spoke.
She wasn’t asking if I’d seen the movie so much as implying that not having seen it marked me as inadequate in some way. It was a bold move and a quick way to separate the chaff. I didn’t hesitate in my response.
“I’d be on the ship before they finished making the offer. Neary had it right. Why stick around and go through the normal routine when you could be out there discovering the secrets of the universe and challenging yourself? Complacency is the death of progress.”
I could tell by the look of surprise on her face that I’d caught her off guard. Whatever she’d heard about me, it clearly wasn’t much—or even accurate. She moved on to the next question as quickly as I’d answered the first.
“You sweet thing.”
“What’s the answer to the ultimate question of the meaning of life, the universe, and everything?” A smugness radiated from her now at the query—a smugness that was clearly not deserved.
“42, but that’s not the complete answer. The complete answer would require a proper question. Something like how many roads must a man walk or something equally subversive.” I’d had that answer sitting in my back pocket for years.
I was a little disappointed by that. No self-respecting connoisseur of popular culture would ever get that wrong. What sort of guys had she dated before that something like this had become necessary? Perhaps I’d made a mistake this evening—rare, but not impossible. I was about to say “so long, and thanks for all the fish” when she hit me with the next and final question.
“Tell me your sign.”
“Favored class and why?” Her eyes narrowed as those words fell from her ruby lips.
That was a loaded question. You can almost ascertain someone’s entire personality by looking at their Dungeons and Dragons characters. If I said cleric, it meant that I was a caretaker. A rogue meant I was shady; a fighter or barbarian made me a meathead; a general magic user made me a bookworm—the list goes on and on. This question took even less time for me to answer than the others. There were few things I was as sure about in life as this.
“Bard. They’re the most versatile of all the classes. They can become whatever a party needs in any situation. As jacks-of-all-trades, they dip into every class. They’re confident, creative, and excel at overcoming all odds. Whether they’re building up their comrades or tearing down the enemy, they do it in style,” I said with a calm and collected demeanor, as if I were stating some fact that everyone inherently just knew and agreed with.
She took my hand in hers and gripped it tightly, then pulled me in to press her lips roughly against mine. In mid-kiss, she crawled into my lap and wrapped her arms around me. Despite the strong taste of cheap beer and cleverly named cocktails, it was pleasant enough. When we came up for air, she pressed her forehead against mine and whispered gently.
“Fuck the drinks. Marry me?”
“I’m dyin’ here.”
* * * * * *
She’d taken me as much by surprise as I had taken her that night. In one instant, we had both become what we thought the other desired most—two chameleons latching on to one another and going plaid. We ditched all pretenses and made the obligatory sophomoric sojourn to her place. Ten minutes later, I was in like Flynn.
For days, weeks, and even months, we went on that way. We met at a different club or bar every weekend and fell in love all over again. She was a different woman every time we met, and I became her perfect companion. Each night, she asked me to marry her. We’d rush back to her place and fuck until she passed out from sheer exhaustion.
Come morning, I’d be gone, along with her memory of me. It was a dangerous game; I knew that even then. Be it her personality, taste, or very being, I was hooked beyond reason.
I’d become little more than the addicts I reviled—desperate for my next fix.
I glance up from my thoughts to the old, dusty, broken windows. If I could see myself—truly see myself—what would I see now? Would I see what so many others have seen: a demon lurking behind the eyes of a silver-tongued angel?
My hands instinctively wrap the high-collared trench—my proverbial armor—tighter around my body. Whether it was to hide old wounds or cover the place where my heart once beat, it made no difference.
I’d lost myself to reverie once again, tuning out the sounds of yuppies and anarchists fighting it out behind the low walls that separated private parking lots from the street. I focused now on happier times—all 1 year, 7 months, 4 days, 9 hours, and 27 seconds worth of them.
We were destined to end in tragedy, she and I. A story like ours wasn’t meant for happy endings. I fooled myself well enough toward the end, and perhaps she did as well to some degree. However, when the inevitable end finally arrived, she recognized it long before I was willing to.
* * * * * *
I glanced up from my Camel Special Light ‘100 and saw her standing there. Her image filtered through the haze of smoke all around me, making her seem almost ethereal. She looked exactly as she had the first night we’d met.
The Flys were blasting from the speakers in the back of the bar. I’d slipped the DJ a crisp fifty-dollar bill when I made my request. Their song, “Got You Where I Want You,” was still our song after all.
“Aww, heyyyyy.”
There I was, sitting in a room packed full of people I still cared nothing for. I let my smoke dangle from my bottom lip and stood. I smoothed out my black and green checkered flannel. The Soundgarden tee was on display once again. A quick hand ran through my long, dark hair on the move—a place for everything, and everything still in its place.
“Tell me your name.”
I plunged back into the filthy sea of humanity, no longer interested in the pomp and pageantry. I glided effortlessly through the throngs of college kids, barflies, and burnouts, affording them not so much as a glance. My time was far too expensive now.
In mutual silence, I grabbed two beers from behind the bar and gestured for Nick to put them on my tab. The routine remained the same. Finally, I circled her small gathering to get my bearings, paying them as little attention as I ever had, less if it were possible.
“Maybe just a smile.”
I slid into the recently vacated chair on her left, slipping the beers onto the table in front of us with all the usual aplomb. I watched her stoically at first, feeling something shift between us. When her eyes met mine, it was not accompanied by her usual smile. She left the beer unattended and turned to really look at me. For the first time, I felt almost uncomfortable beneath her gaze.
“Could we talk for a while?”
“I’m Sam,” I offered playfully—my attempt to fan our flickering flame.
“I know,” was her only response, aside from the emotionless void within her dark eyes.
Her reply shook my confidence to the core—an alien feeling, I must admit. It was a simple move that bespoke the power she held over me now. She knew my name, and so much more.
“Interested in another round?” I asked, gingerly tilting my empty towards the bar.
“That depends,” she replied, dark green eyes boring into me like a drill headed for the Earth’s core.
“On?” I asked simply.
“If you can answer three questions correctly, I’m all yours. I’ll buy the next round, and we’ll see where the night takes us.” Her tone promised something far worse otherwise, as she laid out the rules of our exchange.
This was a woman who knew exactly what she wanted in a man and wasn’t interested in wasting time. Rather than flee and run screaming into the night—like every fiber in my being now demanded—I played the odds.
“Shoot,” I replied, unwisely matching the intensity of her gaze.
“Question one. How long have you known?” There was no hint of humor in her voice when she spoke.
She wasn’t asking if I knew her secret so much as implying that not knowing it marked me as inadequate in some way. She held me in high regard, and she was right to do so. I was nothing if not acutely perceptive. I didn’t hesitate in my response.
“From the moment I first laid eyes on you. I’d heard some rumors, but I’d put little stock in them up until then. I just figured I’d stick around, go through the normal routine, and see what shook loose. Perhaps my complacency killed a little more than my progress this time around.”
I could tell by the brief flash of surprise on her face that I’d caught her off guard once again. Whatever she thought she knew, it clearly wasn’t enough. She moved on to the next question as quickly as I’d answered the first.
“You sweet thing.”
“Why the game?” A gnawing fear filled me at the query—a fear that was well deserved, all things considered.
“It wasn’t a game to me, Amina. A curiosity at first, maybe, but never a game. After all this time, you’re still not asking the right questions,” I revealed reluctantly.
I was a little disappointed by that. Did she know me so little after all? The things we shared. The passion. Was it love? I wasn’t sure, but she acted as if it meant nothing. Perhaps I’d made a mistake this evening—rare, but not impossible. I was about to say my goodbyes and never darken her doorstep again when she hit me with the next and final question.
“Tell me your name.”
“Are you in love with me?” Her eyes narrowed as those words fell from her ruby lips, daring me to answer. Daring me to bare my soul—if creatures like me ever had one to begin with.
It was a loaded question. In some way or another, all the questions she had asked me tonight were. If I said no, it marked me as callous. It meant I had been taking advantage of her, and that couldn’t be further from the truth. If I said yes, it made me a sucker—a sucker to think someone as magical as her could ever truly love something like me. A sucker to think we could ever ride off into the sunset without the world around us burning to ash. If I said nothing at all… Somehow, I knew that would be the worst option of all.
“Ninety-nine times before tonight, I have met and fallen in love with just as many different versions of you. I know you now, better than I will ever know myself. Am I in love with you now? I think it’s more than that. It’s some unknowable thing that love cannot begin to describe,” I explained. This question took even less time for me to answer than the others. There were few things I was as sure about in life—or death—as this.
She took my hand in hers and gripped it tightly, then pulled me in to press her lips roughly against mine. The blood on her lips was still fresh. In mid-kiss, she crawled into my lap and wrapped her arms around me so tightly I couldn’t breathe. Despite the strong taste of iron and cloying death, she pulled away as my lips turned blue—pressing her forehead against mine—and whispered gently.
“Marry me?” she whispered cruelly.
“I’m dyin’ here.”
* * * * * *
I nearly died that night—not easy for someone like me to admit. Just before I passed out from the lack of oxygen, I felt her fangs enter forcefully into the flesh of my throat. I managed to press the button hidden in the sleeve of my flannel. A wooden stake, carved from an old white oak, exited my sleeve from a heavily modified spring gauntlet with a fifty-pound draw weight. It was enough force to drop a grizzly bear.
Her fangs tore my throat as she recoiled from the sound. We made brief eye contact in the split second before her body jerked back from the impact. It split the entire left side of her clavicle into pieces, and an oaken shard forced its way into her heart at an angle. It wasn’t a perfect shot, but the damage was done.
She screamed loud enough to crack the club’s windows and burst through the door before my body hit the ground. I couldn’t help but laugh inside as I considered her final words to me—drowning in my own blood and seizing from shock as I lost consciousness.
I was just as surprised as the coroner when I unzipped the body bag from the inside hours later and sat up on the table. I knew immediately what she had done—what her plan had been all along. My thoughts were suddenly marred by guilt and the grief of losing her. My own fear of death had robbed me of an eternity with her.
Not much has changed for me since then, aside from my appetite. I keep the same hours, I hunt mostly the same prey, and now and then there’s one less pickpocket or murderer on the streets. It’s not the life I expected, but it’s the one I deserved for my betrayal.
Every now and then, I still hear our song. For a while, I ran from it—unable to face an eternity without her. Eventually, it became a part of me, a mantra of sorts. I even find myself humming it from time to time while I set about my nightly endeavors.
“Ahoooooo…”
🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available
Written by Raz T. Slasher Edited by Craig Groshek Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek Narrated by N/A🔔 More stories from author: Raz T. Slasher
Publisher's Notes: N/A Author's Notes: N/AMore Stories from Author Raz T. Slasher:
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Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).