The endearment makes her recoil, but she doesn’t try to get out of my grip.
“I’mnotgoing to disappear.Iwillbe five minutes.Less than.”When she starts to puff up in agitation, I say, “You know I know all the ways this could play out.I’m not doing this to whip out my dick”—Stu—“or to prove anything”—damn it, John.“I’m going to look and come back.”
She’s been with me through the in-depth analysis of countless slashers.Yeah, she covered her eyes a lot or left the room, but she knows Iknowmy shit, and that’s why I say, “I just need to make sure I don’t make the same mistakes every other blonde who’s ever walked down a dark path toward an unseen danger has made.”
I manage to get enough confidence into the statement that Lauriedoesn’t reach for me when I take a step back and turn toward the dark corridor.
“And if youdon’tcome back?”Jennifer murmurs.
“I will.”It’s a promise, a loophole in rule eight because I don’t actuallysaythe taboo statement.
“If—” Laurie says, and the hitch that follows the word tempts me to look back at her.It doesn’t matter what comes after the “if,” because anything other than me coming back in five minutes will be unacceptable to my best friend.So she doesn’t finish the statement.Her face just gets tight, and she pins me with a warning look.“I’m going to besofucking mad at you.”
I nod as I turn back to the hallway, fully determined to avoid her wrath.
“Five minutes,” I say again.A promise not just to them but to myself.I move toward the hallway that swallowed John, slowing my steps when the path turns into an L once I pass the bar.Laurie and I sketched this side of the building onto the map and then covered it with question marks because we couldn’t remember what lay in the hallways behind the bar.The dramatic irony doesn’t escape me.It does nothing to stop the skin of my arms breaking out into goose bumps.
John walked straight ahead, and I make to go that way, until a sound echoes from the other direction.It stops me in my tracks.This sound is… different.It’s nothing like what we heard before because, if we had, John wouldn’t have followed it.Not when the thud of a punch mixed with a juicy squelch resounds from a corridor farther down the hallway.
Shit.
I look back over my shoulder, but it doesn’t seem like Laurie and Jennifer can hear it.They’re just standing there in their newly formed duo, arms crossed, trying to avoid watching my departure.We’ve watched too many people walk away and not come back.
Even though every fiber of my being is telling me not to, telling me to turn back, I turn right and walk deeper into the darkness.It has nothing to do with morbid curiosity.
Maybe seeing tonight through the lens of a slasher has progressed further than a coping mechanism, because there’s a part of me that wants—needs—to see the threat so I can compare it against all the Big Bads I’ve seen and figure out what we’re up against.Who we’re up against.Part of following the format is deciding to become a part of the story, playing an active role, and I don’t think we can avoid the monster for the whole night.
My bare feet are silent against the carpet as I pass an empty corridor, bottle clenched in one hand, shoes in the other.With every step I get closer and closer to the hallway the noise comes from, and when I finally reach the entry, I see it.The dim gas lamps cloak me in shadow, but they also cast a dark veil over the moving shapes down the hall from where I stand.
And they are moving.Surging.At first glance, I’d think the two people propped against the wall have given into their “attraction under aversive conditions” and are breaking rule one.The likelihood of two of the men finding a match tonight rather than during the queer event next week has the same odds as anything else that’s happened in the last few hours.And I can tell it’s two men at the end of the corridor.I can see enough of the face of the man against the wall to know that it isn’t John.And if I wasn’t witnessing what I’m witnessing, maybe I could feel some relief about that.Idorecognize him as one of my dates from the second half of the evening, but that’s about it.
The guy holding him up against the wall is shrouded in darkness, his head just a black blob.But given his height, the way his shoulders are broad even under the oversized dinner jacket—he’s unmistakably masculine.It’d be nice to think it is just two of the guys who haveunexpectedly connected and given into their carnal urges, but there’s also the fact the guy against the wall’s head is thrown back in an unnatural position and the sound—that heavy, wet sound—is coming from the repetitive thrust of a blade into his belly.
This is different from Curtis or the coat check attendant or the bodies in the corridor.I could look at the gore of their injuries and pretend they were Tom Savini masterpieces, convince myself what I was seeing was just the magic of makeup effects.But this… this is like watching how the sausage gets made, and the sight makes me gasp.
The man pauses shoving his knife into his companion’s stomach, the black shadow of his head tilting to the side as if he’s heard me.He’s heard me, but he’s contemplating sticking with the task at hand rather than turning to greet me at the end of the hall.After a moment, he pulls his knife out of the guy’s gut in one slow, graceful motion.The blade glitters like a ruby under the dim recessed lighting overhead as the body slides to the floor with a dull thump.He flicks the knife to the side instead of wiping it, and even from where I’m standing I catch how the blood splatters against an ornate mirror, countless red jewels pouring down the silver surface.Bile rises in my throat, and I swallow it back down.Red is dripping from the ceiling and spreading across the carpet and sprayed across the walls.
Run, Jamie.
I know that’s what I should do, but I can’t get the message down to my feet.Goddamn it.I judged all those characters who just stood there while the killer moved closer to them.The ones who screamed and held up their hands and ended up with a knife—not unlike the one he’s holding—buried in their chest.I confidently assured myself I’d never do that, but now—
He turns fully toward me.
RUN, Jamie.
A rose-red halo backlights him as he starts slowly down the hallway.He isn’t in a hurry, and as he passes one of the antique lights, the romantic glow illuminates his head, revealing a mask.
Of coursehe’s wearing a mask.They all do.In the shadows it looks like a deep burgundy ski mask, the color of dried blood, but when he passes another lamp I can see it isn’t burgundy at all.It’s pink.
A hot, fun, feminine pink.
The bottle slips from my grasp as my hands start to shake, and my shoes follow.They don’t make a sound when they fall to the ground, and even though part of me is still screaming to run, another part is cursing the fact I didn’t keep the bracelet I gave to Wes.Another small, delusional part is telling me to just bend down, pick the bottle back up, and meet him halfway, arm outstretched, but I can’t stop looking at that mask.
A zipper makes a grim silver line where his mouth should be and his eyes… they are deep, black, endless pools.Not just his eyes, but the space around them; there’s some material stretched over the holes that obstructs my view of his eyes but clearly doesn’t impact his vision.When he strides past another light, and I’m able to distinguish the shape of the eye holes, why they look different, that’s when my brain flicks over from freeze to flight mode.
RUN, JAMIE!
The hem of my dress flares out around my thighs in a wide arc as I spin on the spot and leg it back the way I came.I know then, sprinting across the plush crimson carpet, that the image of his mask is one I’m not going to forget anytime soon.If I survive this, if I make it to the end, I’m going to see that mask every time I close my eyes.
