A rumbling noise breached the silence, and Freddy flinched again. Oh wait. That was his stomach. Freaking out was hungry work, man. The greasy plate Patrick had brought in from the barbecue still sat on the dining table. There was one burger left. Score! He’d wolf that down before finding someplace to hide.
“Come to papa,” Freddy said, gazing lovingly at the cold burger. He straightened the top half of the bun. Was there time to look for condiments? He could check the fridge and—
The side table suddenly wobbled. Freddy jumped about fivefeet in the air. He grabbed one of the dining chairs and held it out in front of him like a lion tamer in a circus, his breath scraping his lungs.
Then he yelled as a large, furry lump waddled over his toes. The lump climbed up on an adjacent chair and snatched the beef patty and the top half of the bun. Freddy clutched at his wildly beating heart like he could slow it down. A cat? He laughed nervously, a little embarrassed he’d been tricked into another old chestnut of a jumpscare.
The animal lifted its face and regarded him with beady black eyes, nose twitching. Not a cat. An enterprising raccoon, no doubt drawn by the tantalizing smell of human food. Wearing the mask nature gave it. “Fucking masks,” Freddy said. He’d had enough of masks. There weren’t going to be any masks in his screenplay, no sir.
“Take it, my good man,” Freddy graciously told the raccoon. He wasn’t stoned enough to eat food that had been groped by a trash panda. Also, he was fairly sure the raccoon could take him in a fight.
The raccoon bumbled back across the front room and out one of the open windows with its prize. Freddy envied it. It got to stick to the shadows and feast on the scraps left behind. That was the life. Easy and fuss-free.
Watching the raccoon leave a trail of burger grease across the hardwood reminded him he was still hungry. He’d raid the kitchen and take his spoils into an upstairs closet. Patrick was sure to have packed something good. Safety and snacks, what else did one need? Like the raccoon, Freddy was happy with creature comforts.
He moved on to the kitchen. Kicking aside a ladle he’d knocked to the floor earlier, he opened the fridge. The faint moonlight from the window helped illuminate the contents. Jackpot! Patrick hadn’t let him down. A generously laden charcuterie board beckoned. Knowing Patrick, the sliced cheeses, cured meats, and fancy crackers would all be top notch. They were immaculately laid out on along wooden plank, wrapped in plastic film and ready to serve. Pity no one was around to share. Too bad, so sad.
Had Patrick brought grapes, too? That would be an excellent addition to this feast. Freddy bent over, hanging onto the top of the door for balance, and peered into the lower recesses of the fridge.
His eyes caught on something in the fridge door. No, notinthe fridge door. Below it. The toes of a pair of boots. Freddy smirked to himself. Yet another fake jumpscare. That was another slasher movie chestnut: the person skulking behind the open fridge door, who turns out to be a friend.
He straightened. “Glad you came back, Carrie, but I call dibs on the cheese. You snooze, you lose.”
He swung the door back, and was face to mask with the Slasher.
Shit!
The Slasher held an axe with gloved hands like he knew how to use it, and not on firewood. Freddy cursed himself for listening to his stomach and making a detour to the kitchen.
The Slasher raised the axe. Freddy liked his brain the way it was—that is, firmly nestled in his uncracked skull—and grabbed the only large object within reach. His soul died a little as he whacked the Slasher’s descending arm away with the charcuterie board. Cheese and crackers rattled against the plastic wrap. Freddy ducked, picking a piece of cheese off the floor that had slipped out and shoving it into his mouth. Five-second rule! Mm, smoked gouda. His favorite.
The Slasher raised his axe arm a second time. Freddy tried to smack it away again but the charcuterie board snapped in half, raining cheese and crackers all over him. He cried out as a slice of pastrami slapped him in the face, mostly out of dismay over the waste of food.
He dropped the now-useless board pieces, yanked open the freezer door, and swung it into the Slasher’s face. It made a satisfying smack on his masked forehead. While the Slasher faltered, Freddy frantically looked around for something he could defendhimself with. He and his friends had already plundered the kitchen. What else was there? He threw the empty knife block, which the Slasher easily dodged. He pulled a drawer open and started to lob forks and cheap steak knives at the Slasher’s masked face. The Slasher paused, cocking his head to one side. The cutlery pinged off his mask and clattered to the floor. The Slasher inclined his head to the other side, as if to say,Why did you think that would work?
The case of bottled water still sat on the counter. Freddy struggled with the overwrap but it might as well have been made of steel. Frustrated, he hefted the entire case at the Slasher with a grunt. The case fell short and plummeted to Freddy’s feet, narrowly missing his toes, and he wished he’d spent more time at the gym. Or any time at the gym, really.
The cupboards! Surely the dishes would make more of an impact. Freddy flung a cupboard open, revealing the vintage Corelle and Corningware. His mom had a couple Corningware casserole dishes and cherished them like they were family heirlooms, so he reached for the Corelle first.
He grabbed a plate and banged it on the edge of the counter, thinking he’d create a makeshift knife. The plate only bounced off the laminate. Stupid unbreakable dishes! Freddy changed tack and started tossing them like Frisbees as the Slasher approached with slow, patient steps. The dinner plates, the side plates, all the bowls, and then the mugs. They all bounced harmlessly off the Slasher’s broad-shouldered plaid jacket and rolled all over the floor. Freddy picked out the last cup, a ceramic mug that saidLIFE IS BETTER AT THE LAKEin decorative script, and hurled it in desperation. The Slasher sidestepped the missile, and the mug shattered on the ground.
The Slasher cracked his neck, as if to say,Is that all you got?leaving Freddy with no choice.
“Sorry, Umma,” he said, seizing a white and blue casserole like the one she owned and slamming it into the Slasher’s face before he could raise the axe again.
Bull’s-eye! The Slasher toppled over the dishes. (They still didn’t break.) Freddy had no time to rejoice. The casserole dish slipped out of his hands and smashed to the floor as he shot out of the kitchen—though not before grabbing another piece of gouda off the linoleum.
Squeaks and scrapes followed Freddy from the kitchen, as the Slasher struggled to get to his feet among the discarded dishes and salami. Time for Freddy to execute his original plan. Logic dictated that he should run out the door instead of staying in the cabin. But if he went outside, the Slasher would definitely follow. He needed to hide instead. His friends were due back any minute and they’d lure the Slasher away from the cabin with their main character energy.
Freddy would never again judge girls who ran up the stairs instead of outside in horror movies. He flung the front door open. A classic misdirection. He’d written a similar scene in his screenplay, except in his movie, the hero janitor took down the screen of a ceiling vent before hiding in a broom closet. Brilliant. The screen door banged noisily shut, and Freddy quietly raced up the staircase, thankful the soft rubber soles of his skateboard sneakers hardly made any noise.
He just had to find someplace to hide. Fuck, he should’ve stopped to pick up more of that smoked gouda.
He passed a bathroom first, suppressing a yelp when he saw the bloody handprints on the shower curtain. Had Russ already been here? Which one of his friends had been killed? Someone always died in or after a shower, usually a girl. If this were a movie, it would be Tiffany, since she was the hot blonde. Freddy crept across the tile, avoiding the dark spatters on the bathmat. He dragged back the shower curtain, half turning his face away, dreading what and who he might find.
The bathtub was empty. Freddy let the curtain fall back in place and realized the blood was printed on the vinyl. He took a great, shuddering breath, in relief and also annoyance at what felt like asick joke. Any other time he would’ve appreciated aPsycho-themed bathroom, but not today.
Unfortunately, the bathroom door didn’t have a lock. Not that a lock would stop an axe, but it would make Freddy feel more secure. He loped down the hall to the next door, turning the doorknob with a sweaty hand. A linen closet. Crap. He flung open the next door. A room that might as well be another closet, its only contents a large duffel bag on a narrow camping cot. Nowhere to hide, and no lock, either.
