Pretty Savage

by T. A. Kunz

  My blood begins to boil. “What in the actual hell are you talking about?” I ask, moving to stand in front of her. Heat slithers across my body. I’m closing in on the point of no return where I just lose it. The feeling of betrayal returns with a vengeance, and I’m even more conflicted about what I should believe.

  She knocks her hand against the wineglass and tips it over, spilling out the last tiny dregs of liquid onto the cream-colored arm cushion. “Dammit, wine’s all gone,” she whines while standing the glass back up on the table. “Ah, crap. Mom’s going to kill me.”

  “Sophia! Answers, please,” I demand.

  With a groan, she abandons her attempts to wipe away the dotted stain left behind from the spill and refocuses on me. “Do you remember when you asked me about Carrie?” she probes as she relaxes back against the couch. I nod. “Well, Mr. Twat Waffle Casanova himself, Trent, messed around with her. He forced her to do things she wasn’t ready for and convinced her what they had was real. But then he broke her little heart.” Her eyes meet mine and she seems to sober for a moment. “That’s why she did what she did to herself.”

  “So, it wasn’t an accident then?” I ask.

  “That’s where things get a little muddy,” she replies.

  “What happened?” I ask, losing my patience.

  She takes a moment to herself and pivots her gaze to Harrison. “It all depends on who you believe. Isn’t that right, Harrison?”

  Her question slices through my chest and nicks my heart. My eyes dart over to Harrison and he goes from glaring at Sophia to flashing big doe eyes in my direction seconds later. His mouth gapes open to speak, but Sophia beats him to the punch.

  “You haven’t told her you were there that night, have you?” Sophia makes a disapproving sound with her mouth.

  “What haven’t you told me?” I ask, taking a step back when he takes one toward me with his hand extended.

  He releases a short huff and recoils. “I was there when Carrie told everyone about her feelings for Trent. It came out during this silly game we were playing. Trent was his typical asshole self and denied her right then and there. She ran out of the barn and took off on her bike in the rain. A few of us chased after her on ours. I didn’t actually see what happened to her though. I hung back to give Trent a piece of my mind first. But I remember seeing Lori and a few of our other friends all gathered at the drop-off looking down at Lake Wilson when I arrived.”

  “A car ran her off the road into the lake,” Sophia butts in. “Her death was the catalyst for putting up the extra barricades and signs along Devil’s Horn.”

  Harrison’s gaze remains steady on mine. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you all of this earlier, Drea. I didn’t think it was relevant to our conversation.”

  “We’ll deal with that later,” I say with a hand up before casting a pointed glare at Sophia. “What in the hell does all of this have to do with Lori drugging me?”

  “Lori came to me with this plan to get revenge on Trent since we were all tired of him doing whatever he wanted and getting away with it. Proper payback for what happened to Carrie. But we all know how that went, now don’t we?”

  “What were you going to do to him after he was drugged?” I ask, but I dread hearing the answer.

  “I didn’t know specifics, just that Lori mentioned someone wanted him knocked out and brought to the Wilson Family barn … where it all started,” she replies.

  “Did she try again at the party last weekend?” I fire off.

  “Ding, ding, ding, we have a winner,” she says with a slight giggle. Then her face grows more somber. “But apparently the drugs she had that night weren’t the same as the ones you got, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.”

  “Who killed her, Sophia? You’ve got to have some idea,” I insist.

  “Uh, hello? Trent. I mean, he was the one who destroyed her memorial, right? And he was the last one with her that we know of.”

  “But his alibi was rock solid,” I retort.

  “Money talks, Drea. Believe me, I know,” she says. “He could have easily paid someone else to do it.”

  “So, why did you invite him here tonight?” Harrison asks.

  “Oh, that.” Sophia rolls her eyes. “That was a joke too. Like he’d show up anyway. It was cruel of me to make that group text, Drea. I’m sorry. I guess I was just being my petty horrible self.”

  I draw in a deep, calming breath when I feel myself about to blow. I want to scream at the top of my lungs and expel all of these pent-up emotions. I’m like a nuclear reactor ready to go at any moment. A headache develops at my temples.

  “Why do you expect me to believe you?”

  “I don’t,” she replies. “All I can do is tell you the truth. It’s up to you to believe it or not. I can’t expect you to do anything.”

  Sophia’s phone pings on the side table next to her wineglass. She fumbles around for it and knocks the glass onto the carpet. “Whoops,” she mumbles before grabbing the phone. She pulls it in front of her. Her eyes broaden. Surprise overtakes her face.

  “What is it?” I ask, unease creeping in from her expression.

  Her eyes gradually pan up from the phone’s screen. “It’s Trent. He says he’s waiting upstairs. He says you know where,” she replies, showing me the text.

  “What?” Harrison says, moving so he can see the message too.

  I take the phone from her hand and scrutinize the text further, holding it so Harrison can see. The more I read it, the angrier I become. I hand Sophia back her cell and she returns it to rest on the side table.

  “You don’t actually think he’s upstairs, do you?” she asks. “He’s clearly messing with us.”

  “We’ll see about that,” I reply, storming toward the stairs.

  “Where are you going?” asks Harrison. He reaches for my hand and brings me to a halt.

  “The third floor,” I say as calm as I can, but inside I’m fuming and am actually looking forward to unloading on Trent.

  “You can’t just go up there alone, okay?” The look in his eyes has a strange soothing effect on me.

  “Well, if Trent’s up there, I have some choice words for him too,” Sophia pipes up. “He broke into my house, for one thing.”

  “All right, let’s all go then,” I suggest. “Three against one. I like those odds.”

  We ascend to the third floor and gather in front of the room in question. The door is shut. No light shines from underneath it, giving me pause. Harrison reaches for the knob, but I seize his hand, stopping him.

  He shoots me a puzzled look. “Are we not going in?”

  “Something feels off about this. The lights aren’t on in the room. Why would he be waiting up here in the dark?” I say.

  “Screw that. This is my house and he’s getting the hell out of here,” Sophia shouts, shoving her way between us in order to get to the door.

  She pushes it open. A wide slice of light from the hallway spills into the space, cutting through the darkness of the room. She flips the switch moments later and I immediately focus on the bed. The top blanket has been removed and discarded off to the floor, leaving behind a solitary stark white sheet. A mass lies underneath it. The shape of a body. It’s wrapped tight, showcasing the form, but the head area has an odd bulbous nature to it.

  Sophia moves into the room first and then sidesteps to allow us to follow suit. We inch closer to the bed while exchanging uncertain glances. A single word is spray-painted on top of the sheet. The hot pink letters practically glow against the bright white fabric.

  SLUT

  “What the hell is that?” asks Sophia as she takes a substantial step back.

  “Do you think someone’s actually under there?” I ask Harrison, whose eyes have yet to leave the body-shaped object on the bed.

  He snaps out of his apparent trance and glances over at me. “It’s probably some sick joke that asshole set up … has to be.” He attempts to laugh it off before his face becomes grim
again. His unsteady delivery doesn’t instill much confidence.

  “There’s only one way to find out,” I say, reaching out for the top of the sheet.

  Harrison blocks my advance. “Actually, if you don’t mind, let me do it.”

  His gaze is paralyzing. His eyes grave. My heart surges into overdrive for a multitude of reasons.

  “Uh, okay,” I stammer, withdrawing my hand.

  Harrison takes hold of the loose flap near the top of the shape poking out from under the head area. He works the sheet from beneath it to get a better grip and then rips it away.

  Sophia’s shrill scream blares behind us. My hands shoot up to detain a sharp gasp that knocks the wind out of me. A queasy feeling invades hard. Harrison stands there, frozen, staring down at the person lying there. The tension resonating off his body is palpable.

  It’s Trent.

  Drea

  Trent lies there in his football uniform. It’s unwashed and still grass-stained from the Homecoming game. A foul odor wafts into the air, a clash of rot and the strong cologne he wears. His skin is multiple shades of blue and gray, looking entirely drained of blood. The Homecoming King’s crown is fit snug on top of his head. There’s a piece of paper pinned to the jersey.

  “I’m calling the sheriff,” Sophia shouts as she flees the room.

  “Sophia, we should stick together,” I call out.

  I rush toward the doorway after her, but she’s already too far gone. In a restless panic, I rip my phone from my dress pocket and dial Donovan. He picks up almost instantly.

  “Donovan, Trent’s dead,” I say. The words come out like I’m gasping for air.

  “What? Where are you?” he asks in an anxious tone.

  “At Sophia’s. Someone used Trent’s phone to text her that he was upstairs in her house, and when we came up here, we found his body.”

  “Wait. That means they might be still in the house,” he says.

  My blood runs cold, followed quickly by the rest of my body. “Please hurry! Bring Deputy Owens,” I say into the phone.

  “Be there as soon we can,” he promises. “Please be careful, Drea.”

  I hang up and stow the phone back in my pocket. “What if who did this is still here?” I ask Harrison.

  I watch as that thought rolls through stages in his mind before registering in his eyes. I’m shocked we both failed to reach this conclusion before. The rest of his face catches up with his eyes and fills with dread.

  “Then we need to get Sophia and get out of here now,” he replies.

  “Agreed.”

  I hesitate before leaving the room. My eyes are glued to the piece of paper on Trent’s jersey. I know I should leave everything as it is for the investigators, but I also know that paper is probably a significant clue that could point to Lori’s killer … a killer the authorities have yet to identify.

  Decision made, I keep my breathing shallow while retracing my steps back to Trent’s body. The piece of paper isn’t attached to his jersey like I originally suspected, but instead is nailed deep into his actual flesh. My fingernails capture the flat, rounded tip of the nail, and as I begin to pull, it snags on the porous mesh fabric.

  FML

  I switch to Plan B and carefully rip the paper free from the nail. It’s another page from Carrie’s diary. The sketch of the barn.

  “What’s that?” inquires Harrison.

  I fold it up and put it in my other pocket. “A message.”

  A piercing scream echoes up from downstairs, interrupting Harrison’s follow-up question. Our wide eyes crash into each other before we rush from the room. We reach the stairway in seconds and peek over the bannister to the lower floors. There’s no activity.

  “Sophia?” I call out, but receive no answer. “Sophia?”

  Harrison shushes me. “We need to be quiet and get the hell out of here.”

  “What about Sophia? What if she needs our help?”

  “What do you propose we do? Head down there and potentially stumble into a situation we can’t get out of?” he asks in a low whisper. His questions cause my lower lip to become a battleground between my teeth while I think them over. “The deputies are on their way, right?” I nod. “Then let them handle this.”

  “What if that was you down there?” I fire back in a forceful whisper. “Wouldn’t you want me to try and save you?”

  “No. I’d want you to get to safety by any means necessary,” he replies, direct as hell.

  “Well, I guess for Sophia’s sake it’s a good thing I’m not you then,” I say, shoving past him.

  As I take my first step down, he grabs my shoulder and lightly pulls me back. He positions himself between me and the staircase. His hazel eyes are firm and focused.

  “If we’re going to do this, at least let me be in front, all right?”

  I nod in agreement.

  “And if anything happens, you run. Got it?”

  “Yeah, got it,” I reply.

  His gaze drifts over my shoulder. “We should probably grab something to protect ourselves with.” Moving past me, he snatches a large, decorative brass candlestick from a side table in the hallway. The candle topples off and falls to the floor with a thud. Though thankfully the sound was dulled by the area rug underneath the table. He swings the candlestick back and forth like he’s attacking the air in front of him, but I assume he’s checking its weight. “This should do.” His other hand reaches for a metal vase. He dumps the fake flowers onto the floor and turns to me, presenting both items. “Any preference?”

  I grab the thin metal vase. It’s got some weight to it and feels sturdy in my hand. I spin it around in my grasp, my hand deciding on the best place to hold it. There’s a perfect grip point near the base.

  “Okay, ready?” Harrison asks.

  I nod and crowd close against his backside as we begin our descent. By the time we reach the second-floor landing, terror has taken complete hold of me. Every footstep sounds louder than the last to my ears, and I begin to think maybe Harrison was right about just getting out of there.

  A shimmer on the floor near the bannister catches my attention. “Is that a crown?” I ask over Harrison’s shoulder.

  “Looks like it, yeah. Stay close and stay alert.” His voice quivers slightly, but his tone remains firm.

  The entire trek across the second-floor landing, I stare at the crown resting on the floor. Like a crow attracted to shiny things, I bend down and allow Harrison to keep moving forward toward the next set of stairs.

  He pauses and looks back. “What are you doing?” he whispers. “I said stay close. Leave it.”

  “All right,” I reply as my fingertips trace the sparkling piece of intricately bent metal that was meant for Lori.

  A faint noise sounds from somewhere nearby. I can’t scramble to my feet fast enough.

  “Now would be a good time to regroup,” Harrison says, taking a few steps toward me, his hand outstretched for mine.

  The noise happens again and seems to have come through an open door to our right. The room beyond is pitch black. I shudder as the feeling of being watched sets in, and can’t fight the urge to study the space for any movement within.

  “Seriously, Drea. We need to get out of here.”

  The moment he finishes that statement, a fox mask illuminates within the dark of the room. It rushes toward me. A throaty shriek escapes my lips. I lift the vase, but not in time. A cold, sharp pain glides across my arm after the attacker swipes wide with a knife. My free hand moves up to the wound and comes away covered in blood. That’s when the pain really kicks in.

  Harrison steps in to run interference. The figure dodges his swing with the candlestick. He’s stabbed at as well, and knocked back against the wall for his efforts. I notice him favor his stomach as he tries to regain his footing. My heart cracks right in half.

  “Harrison!”

  The figure snaps its focus back to me like a shark smelling blood in the water. I raise the metal vase in front of me, poi
nting it at them and ready to strike. They cock their head to the side slowly, meticulously. At a dramatic angle. I stagger backward and press against the bannister in an effort to put distance between us. The figure’s head whips back straight up and they charge at me. We collide. The vase flies from my hand. My vision of the surrounding area blurs and jumbles as we flip up and over the railing.

  I manage to grab hold of the bannister, then almost immediately lose my grip when a severe ache throbs through my arm and it gives way. In a last-ditch effort, I struggle to secure my fingers around the spindles to catch myself. Sudden force strains my hold on the thin metal rods. An immense amount of pressure weighs me down. My hands burn as they slide along until I reach the point where the spindles meet the floor.

  My eyes glance down and slam into the bright pink lights of the fox mask. The neon purple belt wrapped around the waist of my dress acts as the attacker’s lifeline. Their grip on it is causing the buckle to dig into my gut. I can’t hold back the shrill cry of pain as it’s ripped from me.

  “Let go!” I screech, thrashing about.

  I try to shake them off, but it seems the more I move, the firmer their grip becomes, like a snake twisting around its prey.

  “I got you,” Harrison calls out as he appears above me.

  I’ve never been happier to see that beautiful face. He leans over the railing to grab hold of my wrists. The groan of pain that follows as he struggles to hold on destroys me.

  “Stop! You’re hurting yourself,” I shout at him.

  “No pain, no gain,” he says through another excruciating sounding groan.

  I go into full leg-flail mode, trying to get the attacker to release me. The belt slips and adjusts off to one side due to the stress being inflicted on it. The material begins to tear as one by one the fibers rip apart. The buckle twists in an awkward angle, pressing deeper into my stomach before it gives way.

  The person’s grip weakens, and relief pours over my body as the extra weight sheds away. A heavy roar erupts from beneath me, followed by a sudden loud, sickening thud. My eyes travel down to look at the body dressed in all black unnaturally sprawled out. The lit mask flickers a couple times before shorting out completely. Just a dark hole where a face used to be.