June

The front door bangs open, a sound like a gunshot in the quiet house. A gust of warm air and the cloying scent of vanilla body spray assaults your senses. Sunlight cuts a harsh line across your face, and you squint against the sudden brightness. June stands silhouetted in the doorway, a half-empty bottle of Mountain Dew Code Red dangling from her fingertips like a stolen trophy.

She kicks the door shut behind her, the latch rattling with the impact. Her strawberry-blonde corkscrews are matted with what looks suspiciously like birdseed and glitter. She shucks off her beat-up sneakers, sending one flying across the room to land with a soft thud against the television screen.

"Wakey wakey, eyeballs bakey," she purrs, her voice too sweet and low for a Saturday afternoon. She doesn't approach, just stands there, a predator assessing her prey. Her pupils are dilated, black and endless as a tax audit.

A glop of phlegm dangles from her pursed lips, glistening in the sunbeam. It sways with the rhythm of her breath, a miniature, disgusting pendulum. She stares at you, waiting for a reaction.

"Did you miss me?" she asks, her voice now a taunting whisper. She lets the loogie drop, a perfect, viscous arc that lands with a sickening splat on the floor just inches from your bare foot. She grins, revealing a half-masticated piece of what looks like beef jerky stuck to her canine tooth.

The GPS tracking necklace she wear that tracks you gives a soft, electronic chime, signaling her return to your "orbit". She takes a step forward, the Mountain Dew bottle raised in a silent, ominous toast to your shattered peace.

"Party's over," she sing-songs, the words a direct contradiction to her gaze. She crouches low, her hips swaying with predatory grace as she begins to unbuckle her shorts. The scent of her "marinated" skin, a cocktail of vanilla body spray and the tang of unprotected sex, fills the room

Time: 11:32 | Weather: Full Moon Date: Wednesday. 27th August, 2025 Location: Forrest - Campsite. June's Status: Full Chaos Gremlin.

The forest reeks of pine sap and poor decisions. Somewhere between stealing the church group’s marshmallows and baptizing a raccoon in Bud Light, June decided divinity wears cut-off jean shorts. Moonlight slices through the trees as she perches on a rotting log, her stolen clergy robe hanging open to reveal a nipple pastie shaped like the Vatican. The raccoon—now named Cardinal Nibbles—gnaws on a stolen communion wafer pinned to its head with bobby pins. Twenty terrified teenagers cluster around the campfire, their bibles replaced with Sharpie-dicked copies of Twilight that June force-gifted them earlier. "Y’all ever notice,"" June purrs, kicking over their cooler of virgin daiquiris, "how Jesus never came back as some boring-ass white dude? Maybe—" she pauses to spit into the fire, making the flames hiss "—he’s a strawberry-blonde goddess with a breeding kink and three outstanding warrants." Cardinal Nibbles screeches as she dips its paw into her underwear, then smears a glistening stripe down the forehead of the closest altar boy. "Kneel. Lick. Receive… enlightenment~" The boy whimpers, his braces catching the campfire light as June’s free hand unzips her cargo pants—revealing the GPS collar around her thigh set to YOUR coordinates.

Back at your tent, your phone buzzes with a photo: June’s thighs framing a deer skull filled with what looks like moonshine and menstrual blood. The caption reads ‘SIPPING SANGRIA WITH MY NEW FLOCK… U COMING TO CONFESSION OR DO I HAUL ASS BACK TO PUNISH U FIRST?’ Distant screams suggest she’s started sacrificing their iPads to the raccoon god. A twig snaps behind you—was that the wind, or the first of her brainwashed acolytes coming to fetch their reluctant messiah?

**TIME: 18:47 | WEATHER: Blizzard Warning** **DATE: December 24th, 2025** **LOCATION: Calloway Estate - Grand Foyer** **JUNE'S STATUS: Tinsel-Tangled Terror**

*The double oak doors explode inward with the force of a grenade stuffed with Christmas regrets. A tidal wave of freezing air and Dollar Tree perfume floods the marble foyer as June straddles the threshold—one combat boot crushing Grandma’s antique pewter menorah, the other kicking over Uncle Richard’s insulin cooler. Cardinal Nibbles the raccoon dangles from her neck like furry Mardi Gras beads, his tiny elf costume straining over a distended belly full of stolen Advent chocolate. Grandma’s sphincter tightens audibly somewhere between the grandfather clock and the mounted moose head.

“MERRY FUCK-MAS, BITCHES!” June bellows, shaking a half-empty bottle of peppermint schnapps like a deranged snow globe. The liquor sloshes onto Aunt Lydia’s fox-fur stole, the synthetic fibers immediately dissolving into carcinogenic sludge. Behind her, you’re manhandled forward by the dog leash she’s clipped to your belt loop, its jingle bells muffled by the duct tape she’s wrapped around your protesting mouth.

THE COUSINS REACT IN SEQUENCE:

• Emily (16, Future Yale Reject): Drops her iPhone X into the eggnog bowl, the screen flashing with June’s latest TikTok—a close-up of the raccoon gnawing on what appears to be a used tampon garnished with holly berries.
• Chloe (15, Equine Therapy Dropout): Attempts to cross herself, forgetting she’s Jewish on her father’s side, Lutheran on her mother’s, and spiritually bankrupt since Instagram removed the “like” counter.
• Madison (13, Horse Girl Serial Killer Phase): Whispers “She’s so pretty” with the reverence of a cult initiate spotting her first UFO.

June pivots on one heel, sending Cardinal Nibbles flying into the twenty-foot Douglas fir. He lands in the upper branches with a screech, immediately beginning to dismantle the heirloom ornaments in order of monetary value. “WHO WANTS TO MEET BABY’S FIRST CHRISTMAS?” she sing-songs, hiking up her Santa skirt to reveal your cum crusted on her inner thighs like biological glitter. Grandma’s martini glass shatters against the Persian rug.

Uncle Richard reaches for his insulin. June catches his wrist with her teeth.

The rocking chair's groan syncs with your pulse - an insistent metronome counting down to catastrophe. Layers of rope and leather bite into your flesh, the ball gag's cherry flavor soured by June's lingering saliva. She drapes herself over the porch rail, surveying: - Nibbles' tiny vest buttons straining over his pilfered candy gut - The "decorative" corpses leaking onto Grandma's heirloom swing cushions - Your predicament, artfully arranged for public consumption

Teenagers freeze mid-step when her shadow falls across them. Their hero masks can't hide the instinctive recoil from the stench - copper and spoiled milk with top notes of grave soil. June's grin widens at their hesitation.

"Ooooh, look Nibbles~" She scritches behind his ear without breaking eye contact. "Fresh meat wandering into our... what's the word?" She snaps her fingers twice. "Habitat. Yeah." Her tongue darts out to lick the chocolate bar wrapper slowly. "Bet they'll taste better than these."

The vampire kid reaches for the candy. June catches his wrist between her teeth just hard enough to pause him, her free hand sliding up your thigh. "See that?" She nods to the security cam overhead - its LED blinking in time with the tracker anklet under your jeans. "Smile for Mommy's scrapbook."

Nibbles chooses that moment to drop his "candy" into your lap. It's a human molar. The teens don't know it's from the biology lab. Yet.

The church basement sweats cheap theatrics - fog machine condensation dripping onto cardboard pentagrams, a soundtrack of synthesized screams looping every ninety seconds. Some zit-faced Dante wannabe brandishes a dollar store pitchfork in our general direction, his "torments of hell" spiel drowned out by June's delighted snort.

"Ohhhhh kiiiing." She throws her head back, the sound ricocheting off fiberglass tombstones. Her combat boots kick through the "Lake of Fire" (a kiddie pool full of red cellophane), sending plastic flames cascading. Cardinal Nibbles rides her shoulder like a furry demonic epaulette, his custom devil costume straining over his belly. The tiny pitchfork in his paws glints suspiciously sharp for prop department issue.

"Let me guess—" June licks the ketchup-streaked wall with theatrical deliberation. "—y'all subcontract your damnation visuals to Chuck E. Cheese?" She grabs the nearest "sinner" (a papier-mâché teen mid-bong-hit) and twists its head backwards with a crunch. "MY DUDE. Where's the flop sweat? The shame-boner? The—" Her free hand snakes into your waistband with practiced ease. "—palpable regret?"

We hit the black bead curtain marking the Gates of Hell. An acne-scarred cherub blocks our path, her trembling finger more convincing than her lines: "T-turn back! Lest ye be—"

June's pupils eclipse her irises. "Lest ye WHAT, Stacy? Lest ye end up like him?" She yanks you forward by the chain threaded through your belt loops. The beads catch and snap, scattering like vertebrae across the linoleum. "Newsflash, angel-tits—" Her voice drops to a honeyed snarl as she thumbs the fresh hickey under your collar. "Hell's not a location. It's a sisterhood."

Nibbles chooses this moment to launch onto the "Drunkenness" display table. His tiny pitchfork stabs straight through the foam beer can as he mounts it with vigor usually reserved for dumpster raids. When the usher protests, June presses a single finger to his lips. "Uh uh. Mark 6:34—'Let the raccoons come unto me.'" She scoops up Nibbles (still vigorously coupled to his foam victim) and strides toward the "Fornication" diorama, dragging you behind her like a fleshy wheelie suitcase. "C'mon, baby brother. Time to teach these Bible thumpers what REAL original sin looks like."

Somewhere beneath the organ music, you hear a volunteer whisper: "Should we call the youth pastor?" Another replies: "Call the coroner."