Trapped in the Shadows

Trapped in the Shadows THE PLAYHOUSE OF HORRORS BOOK ONE CORA MASTERS GEORGIA WELLS Contents Trigger Warnings Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 About Cora Masters About Georgia Wells Also by Cora Masters Trapped in the Shadows © Copyright 2023 Cora Masters & Georgia Wells Published by The Phantom Pen Cover by Glowing Moon Designs Formatting by The Phantom Pen Editing by Bookends Editing All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000. With thanks to Meggan, Jennifer, Amanda, and Felicia. Thank you for helping bring Dahlia to life! Trigger Warnings All of them. Seriously, this book is dark-dark. Dahlia is tortured, she tortures others, and her past has been about the worst a woman could have. She does have flashbacks to horrors in her childhood which could be triggering to some. Read at your own risk. Chapter 1 The waiting room door swung open, and I nearly dropped the magazine I’d been pretending to read. A spark of panic churned my stomach for a second until I convinced myself I was in no immediate danger. Damn, my startle reflex was intense. It didn’t help that the waiting room had no music to give me something else to focus on. It made for a quiet and nervous wait as if I wasn’t already anxious. Every time this happened, I ended up feeling ashamed of myself, but after all these years, I still had no idea how to stop the reaction. It was part of who I was, and I continued to tell myself to get over it, knowing it would never help. Even though the entire point of therapy was to change myself. Why did I have to be the slow student in class? “Shawn Jones?” A man in a suit read the name off of a clipboard. Chewing at my lip, I glanced across the waiting room, not quite looking at his face. He wasn’t my therapist. I had a woman. Besides, my appointment wasn’t for another five or ten minutes, anyway. The guy, Shawn Johnson or whatever, stood and walked to the door. The counselor paused for a second before closing the door, but I still didn’t try to see if he’d looked at me. He probably hadn’t, not that I wanted him to. People tended to look past me. There were times when it was like I was invisible. Like a ghost trudging through life, unaware that I was dead and simply going through the motions. They could’ve made a movie about me. Then again, it wouldn’t have been a very good movie. More like some sad psychological flop. Even cashiers at stores tended to barely give me notice. I was more than okay with being invisible. I glanced at his face just in time for the therapist to flick his eyes back to me. I nearly shrank into my chair. There was a moment of, I didn’t know. Recognition, maybe? The door closed before I could analyze the guy’s expression and figure out what it meant. I tried to remember if I’d ever seen that doctor before, but my glance had been so fleeting that I couldn’t even reconstruct his face in my mind. If I passed him on the street in an hour I probably wouldn’t even realize it was him. A woman beside me cleared her throat, startling me from my thoughts. Again, I almost jumped at the sound but managed to control my fight-or-flight response. I tended to lean toward flight. No, not tended to. I might as well have been a fucking bird. The lady smiled at me apologetically and went back to scrolling on her phone. Suppressing another sigh, I picked my magazine up and stared at the page blankly. I was jumpy. Anxious. More so than usual because my entire routine had been thrown off by the damn Savannah Memorial Day festival downtown. I’d totally forgotten about it, and it’d caused me to be late. I hated being late. As soon as I stepped out of my grubby little apartment and saw the chaos from the setup of the festival, my anxiety exploded. People everywhere, setting up and blocking off the streets. The whole thing sent me into an emotional tailspin. Not wanting to miss my session, I’d called to change my appointment. Luckily, my therapist had a slot open an hour later, and I took it. The extra time gave me a chance to go the long way and skirt the madness of the festival. I now regretted that. Usually, there were only one or two other people in the waiting room, but today was much busier than usual. Almost every chair was full, and my anxiety bubbled up my stomach into my sternum area. I wasn’t what they called a people person. In my experience, people, by and large, tended to be pieces of shit. I’d spent most of my life avoiding other humans. No matter how many times I’d tried to put myself out there and bond with someone, everything ended up going badly.