Seven

“Thank you for meeting me, Mr. Wilde. You have no idea how much this means to me.” The young woman in front of me chirped as she shook my hand like I was the president. “I’ve always dreamed of becoming a writer, and you’re my biggest inspiration.”

“It’s always a pleasure to meet one of my readers.” That part was true. My readers were the root of my success; I owed them everything. “I’m certain that one day you’ll be a great writer, and I’ll be proud to read one of your books.”

Moments like this left me ecstatic, proof that my work left a mark.

For me, being a writer was never just pouring art on paper. Writers were therapists of a sort; their words could hold more medicine than any drug. Words were metaphors for dreams. They could be fine wine, soft music, a shelter in the worst of storms. They could weave love, bring a cleansing rain of hope, and they could be so sublime as to last till the end of time.

Believing the pen mightier than any sword, I had vowed to write only what helped people see light at the end of the tunnel.

A knock on my door broke my train of thought.

“Bring them in. I’m not worn out yet,” I said with a slight smile.

A minute later, another young woman entered. The instant she stepped inside, the light above us flickered. Darkness swept the room for a heartbeat, and when it returned, something felt different, though I couldn’t put my finger on it.

Brushing the thought aside, I rose to meet my guest. “Sorry about that. My long hours in here must be taking a toll on the bulbs.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She grinned, showing perfect teeth, and came forward with an outstretched hand. “Mr. Wilde, it’s such a pleasure to meet you. I’m Jezebeth. You can call me Beth.”

A chill slid over me as our hands touched. Maybe the air conditioner was too low.

“The pleasure’s all mine.” I smiled and gestured to a chair. “So, how can I help you, Beth? Want to discuss the new book, or maybe get a signature?”

Her hazel eyes lit up. She shook her head, almost trembling with excitement. “Neither. I actually have an idea for you, for your next bestseller. I guarantee it.”

I blinked. No one had ever come to me with an idea before. “I’m all ears,” I said, flashing a grin.

One corner of her mouth curled in a smirk as she tucked a strand of cinnamon hair behind her ear and leaned across the desk. Her perfume's scent was overpowering. It had a strong, herbal smell, but I couldn't place what it reminded me of.

“Have you ever watched the movie Seven?” she asked in almost a whisper.

The question caught me off guard, but I shrugged. “Yes, it’s a classic. A serial killer targeting people who embody the seven deadly sins.”

She clapped her hands like a child in a candy store, beaming. “Exactly.” Then the smile vanished. Seriousness settled over her features as she continued. “My idea is about a demon who escapes the depths of hell to wreak havoc on the mortal world. An unlucky human crosses its path, and for amusement, the demon turns that human into its puppet. The soul is possessed, and the only way to win it back is to kill seven people, each representing one of the seven virtues.”

My brow furrowed. “The seven virtues?”

“They’re the opposites of the seven sins,” she said evenly. “Humility against pride. Kindness against envy. Abstinence against gluttony. Chastity against lust. Patience against anger. Liberality against greed. And diligence against sloth.”

I leaned back, thinking. The concept was undeniably striking. “That’s a brilliant idea,” I said. “And don’t worry, your name will be right next to mine if I ever use it.”

Her eyes narrowed, lips flattening into a thin line. “You’re so humble, Mr. Wilde.”

I smiled at the compliment. “What I do might be good, but other people do great things too. Humility isn’t about feeling low; it’s about lifting others up to the same level in your heart and mind.”

She shook her head, eyes fixed on the floor. “What I’m about to do aches my heart. You are a good man, Jonathan Wilde. An epitome of humility.”

My mind stuttered for a second before a gasp escaped my lips. Cold washed over me, and the air seemed to vanish from my lungs.

My eyes were as wide as they could be as I watched her features change. Her irises turned to pools of black. Her mouth stretched impossibly wide, revealing rows of dagger-like teeth. Her nails elongated into claws that could shred flesh to ribbons.

The realization slammed into me. What she had told me wasn’t a story.

And in that moment, I understood—I was about to become one of the seven victims.