Satanic Panic- A Homage to 1980's B-Movie Horror

by Daniel P Coughlin

  Ordinary People was his favorite, but today the film was simply background noise. Lance’s focus was on the memory of last night. It had actually happened. Outwardly, it had been a threesome. A risqué physical experience, but introspectively it had been so much more. It had been innocent. It was an experience built on the foundation of love, an early Christmas present. There had been too much emotion involved for the experience to be considered hedonistic. Sure, elements of it were animalistic, especially at the beginning, but it needed to be that way. Once they had become comfortable and gone to the bedroom the experience had evolved into something much more passionate and heartfelt. The sex had come natural as though it was natural. Meant to be. There couldn’t be anything wrong with it because it was right.

  Brianna was Lance’s drug. His addiction. He didn’t want to wait for next time. A small, but powerful fantasy manifested in the deepest arena of Lance’s thoughts. At some point, he’d want to be with Brianna alone. There was no animosity toward Brock. In fact, Lance was thankful he’d brought last night to fruition. But he was in love with Brianna and he wouldn’t want to share her forever. Maturity took over and Lance allowed his fantasy to diminish with his thoughts. He and his best friends had elevated their friendship into something physical. Their life would always remain together. It had always been the three of them.

  Unless something bad would happen to Brock.

  “Stop.” Lance whispered. He hardly realized that he’d said it out loud.

  He also couldn’t deny that the idea and thought of he and Brianna grieving the demise of Brock wasn’t unpleasant.

  Chapter 8

  Troubled Waters

  1

  S tanding near the entrance to the Quarter and glancing in the direction of the disruptions at the bar, Ricky Mack couldn’t stand to watch Nick Benson stumble into one more plastered rip-head or sexually harass another college coed. Usually, Nick was a happy drunk. Tonight, he was a stumbling idiot and every patron of the bar took notice and found his inebriation unfit. Puffing his chest out and placing a scowl on his face, Ricky made his way to the end of the sticky, liquor-drenched bar where Nick slurped beer and fingered the bartender’s garnishes. Cherry juice dripped from Nick’s chapped lips, ran down his chin and stained his shirt. The light brown beer—intended to connect with his lips and soar down his throat—also ran down his chin and darkened the fabric of his blue T-shirt.

  “Nick, come on man. Let me call you a cab.” Ricky clapped a massive hand on Nick’s shoulder, which unintentionally guided him, chest first, into the bar. More beer slushed from Nick’s mug.

  “What the hell, man?” Nick wobbled then straightened his position. His head swiveled until lucid eye contact was established. Nick closed one eye as he attempted to focus. His sight stuttered on random onlookers. Ricky settled when he realized Nick’s shame.

  True alcoholics always felt shame.

  “I’m that drunk, huh Ricky?” Nick mumbled.

  Ricky looked to the bartender who nodded his vote of approval to remove Nick from the crowded bar. A clique of sophomore girls pointed and laughed with cruel intent.

  “Can I call you a cab?” Ricky slouched his chest and dropped the scowl. Nick’s drunken demeanor reminded Ricky of his father before he’d died from liver disease.

  “Nah, I’ll walk back to the dorm. It’s just across the bridge.” His head bobbled. “I could use the fresh air.”

  “I’d feel better if I called you a cab.” Ricky was genuine, concerned.

  “Please, Ricky. I respect you, but just let me stumble out the back. Please? I’m embarrassed.”

  Ricky didn’t know if he preferred the shameful drunk or the mean drunk. The shameful drunk could tug at the heartstrings, which was harder to hate. Sure, the mean drunk’s were easier to handle than the loudmouth frat-type assholes. Those assholes traveled in packs and always looked for a fight. He usually had to deal with them at the end of the night. “It’s your call, Nick.”

  “Thanks. You mind if I take a piss first?”

  “Sure thing, just don’t pass out in the stall again.”

  “Check on me in a minute, would ya?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Nick made his way down the narrow hallway to the men’s bathroom, located near the back exit where he could sneak out when he was done with his business.

  The bar-back fist bumped Ricky and said, “Gotta love a cooperative drunk. I like that dude, but he’s fucked if he keeps drinking like that.”

  Ricky nodded while watching Nick exit the bathroom. “You just look at him and know the drink is gonna kill him.”

  “Sad.” The bartender downed a shot before walking toward a brunette that flagged him down with a shout and chest jiggle. Her shirt was navy blue with deep cleavage.

  Ricky watched Nick bump into both sides of the hall like a pinball before exiting into the icy winter night.

  2

  The Killer stood in the shadows of the bar near a small round table littered with glasses filled with the remnants of spirits. He watched intently as Nick Benson stumbled outside. The Killer’s smile wasn’t visible from this dark corner. People were magnetized by smiles and The Killer didn’t want magnetism or attention, but couldn’t refrain from grinning. Smiling was an involuntary action that drew people close. He didn’t want anyone to notice nor approach. Not now.

  About a minute after Nick left, The Killer slid out the front door, unnoticed, bundled his black winter coat and swiftly b-lined to the black van parked two lots over beneath the cover of a leafless Maple tree. He wasn’t worried about losing track of Nick. He’d been observing Nick and studying his patterns for the past few weeks. He was aware of Nick’s routines.

  Tonight, Nick wasn’t going to reach home.

  3

  “Fuck, it’s cold out here!” A voice called out from the icy darkness.

  Stumbling, eventually tripping over his own large left boot, Nick spun, surveying his surroundings in search of the voice.

  Maybe it was just the wind? Maybe just his mind?

  The cold bite that stung Nick’s ears was becoming a fearful reality. The cold air pulsated with what felt like freezer burn. “Who said something?” Nick spun until his outlook halted on the outline of a person that stood at the base of the bridge where the railing ended and the street began. Along the west front, a short cement hill slanted downward to the river.

  “You okay?” the shape called.

  Lowering his head, Nick hurried toward the shape, hoping for a friend. “My ears are fucking popsicles, man. What’s up?”

  “Nothing. Just saw you walking. Thought you might want to, um ... ” He held up his hand. “Smoke up ... kill some of this cold. I think it’s gonna snow tonight.”

  Nearly forgetting about the pain in his pulsating ears, Nick’s adrenal gland produced ability, and he spoke with mild coherence. “You got smoke?”

  “I got a little Purple Cush.” The shadowed figure returned while he extracted a tightly rolled joint from his pocket. From his other pocket he pulled a small torch—blue—that maintained its flame in the gusty wind.

  The figure walked toward Nick and sparked the joint. The cherry burned like an ember when he inhaled. Close now, the figure came into focus when he extended the joint to Nick.

  When Nick inhaled, the man laughed.

  Nick lowered the joint and asked, “What’s so funny, dude?”

  “Your face.”

  “I’m drunk, man, but I ain’t gonna take any shit.”

  “Bullshit, I’m gonna fucking kill you and you’re not gonna do a fucking thing about it.”

  The black van slid sideways then halted near the curb. The sliding door whipped open and a man wearing all black with a silly rubber Devil mask popped out. Involuntarily, Nick would have laughed if the man hadn’t slammed a metal pipe against the side of his face. The shadowed figure puffed deeply on the joint before stomping it out and placing a black plastic bag over Nick’s head. Quickly, the figure retrieved a piece
of thin copper wire and wrapped it around Nick’s neck. Both men grabbed Nick while he struggled drunkenly. Then they threw him into the van. His head slammed against something metallic. Maybe a toolbox? A blinding white pain shot across his forehead. It felt worse than the migraine that had put him in the hospital a few years back.

  The street darkened as the snow fell heavy now and the van’s headlights disappeared into the night.

  The van was not to be seen.

  And neither was Nick, ever again.

  4

  Frozen, tiny beads of ice pelted the van’s windshield, diminishing visibility. Whether the high beams were on or off, the succession of snowflakes dashing forward prevented safety.

  The Killer instructed the driver, “Turn left.” He pointed to an industrial park at the end of the street. There were a few glowing florescent lights illuminating the dark from a distance, but other than those dimly lit bulbs the structure was unseen.

  “I can’t see shit, man.” The driver leaned in close to the windshield as if his actions might aid with visibility.

  “Keep driving straight,” the Killer stated.

  An aluminum metal garage door opened. More florescent light splashed outward into the night revealing another two figures wearing the uniform: all black with Smiley Devil masks.

  The Killer smiled, pulled the plastic bag off of Nick’s head, broke open an ammonia-based smelling salt, and placed it beneath his unconscious nose. “Wake up, sunshine.”

  Nick shook to life. Punched and kicked.

  This reaction was nothing The Killer hadn’t dealt with prior and he was prepared.

  “What the fuck, man!” Nick slapped his palm to the bleeding gash on the right side of his face where the pipe had torn skin. “What did I do? Why is this happening?”

  “You met the criteria. That’s all,” the Killer explained, calmly.

  “What?”

  “You met the criteria. You’re an athletic, in-shape, Caucasian male with the ability to resist being murdered. A challenge,” He continued. There was a less-than-calm edge to his voice as if he were losing his patience.

  The surrounding figures wearing black clothes and Smiley Devil masks had gathered around the van. They turned to each other before nodding their approval. They dragged Nick out of the van. Abruptly crashing to the cement floor, they subdued him. “Please, my mom won’t know what do.”

  “Sorry bro, we like that. In fact, that’s one aspect to all of this that I enjoy focusing on. The pain of all the others that know and care about you provides me with strength and inspiration. You should be thankful that you’ve become important. You’re an offering.”

  Nick slid his foot free from beneath one of the masked men, shot upward with all his strength and slammed his boot into another masked face. The figure stumbled backward and grabbed at his mask, but the Killer prevented the figure from removing it.

  Nick freed one of his arms when the other masked figure stumbled backward.

  Lunging to his feet, Nick ran instinctually pulling his cell phone from his pocket. From memory, he thumbed in his brother’s contact. The pain throbbing from his wrist was intense and prevented mobility. He was certain that it had been broken. The phone fell. Nick’s stomach felt like it had filled with ice. The rectangular, plastic communication device—that had meant so much to him—slid beneath a stack of wooden pallets that lined the tall cement walls, which appeared damning. He only hoped that his call had connected and that his brother would answer, hear the struggle, and notify the authorities—before these maniacs killed him would be convenient, but wishful. For now, he would prepare to fight. Survival mode would need to kick in.

  To the front of him, a small door behind a neatly aligned row of old, broken down cars became visible. Setting his sight on the door, he thrust his legs forward and sprinted harder than he knew he could. Earlier, he’d downed many drinks and had been drunker than hell, but right now he was sober. His vision was clear. Tongue dry and swollen, it stuck to the roof of his mouth, which made it hard but not impossible to breathe. The only thing that mattered was reaching that door.

  The obnoxious crashing of boots chasing him rose in volume. The vibrations of their murderous feet tore at his sanity.

  The skeleton of a car resting in front of the door—his salvation—didn’t deter his focus. Head first he slid underneath the car. His skin screeched and tore as the damp cement tugged it tight. Then he crawled forward.

  The stomping boots halted.

  A glimmer of hope couldn’t resist expanding in his gut. Then hope diminished when he heard the creaking of metal above. They were running to either side of the car and on top of it.

  It was now or never.

  Nick knew three things: 1) these maniacs wouldn’t stop; 2) this was going to hurt; and 3) they intended to kill him.

  He scraped the skin off of his elbows while dragging himself out from under the car. He looked up and saw the metal doorknob. He rolled to his feet, grabbed the knob, and twisted.

  It was locked.

  “What? What the fuck is this?” Nick begged for an answer.

  “It’s just a game. You’re a random pick, bud. Sorry,” one of the masked figures said with eerie calmness. Then a wet towel whipped across Nick’s face. The soaking wet tip of the towel snapped into his naked right eye. A million nerve endings exploded painfully. The scream came from his soul. The lens of his right eye ripped free. No one saw it and no one cared. They dragged him away from the door toward the metal tub at the entrance to the warehouse. A strong metallic odor stung his nasal passages. He knew the towel had been soaked in some form of chemical. His eye burned badly. Stars, white dots, and then blackness clouded his limited vision. He fell from consciousness. After some discomfort he was being submerged in freezing cold water. He saw all colors. A rainbow of different colored clouds erupted before his black vision. A euphoric sense surrounded him. He felt lucid like he’d taken morphine. He was suddenly comforted.

  Blackness found him.

  5

  Nick’s brother, Tim, hadn’t been sleeping, but he wasn’t awake either. His evening had consisted of more than a few drinks and topped off with cheap Mexican food that gave him horrid gas and heartburn. The struggle over whether or not to answer his cell phone had landed on yes.

  “Nick, I’m too drunk to pick you up, dude. Take a cab.” He started to drift into sleep with the phone stuck to his ear. Then dread coursed into the pit of his stomach when he heard his brother’s faint screams. The sloshing of water melded with the laughter of at least four people. Those icy cackles filled him with terror and the threat of loss. He couldn’t help but to cry. On his landline, he dialed 911.

  “911, what’s your emergency?” dispatch asked.

  “It’s my brother, he’s being attacked, he’s being ...” he couldn’t bring himself to say the truth. He looked to his cell phone, which was still connected to Nick’s phone. But his brother needed help. Tim pulled it together. Saying what was wrong brought horror into reality. He didn’t want to accept that his brother was being harmed. To feel that torturous emotion would be too much, but he had to. So he said, “They’re killing my brother. He called me and his cell phone is still on. I can hear them. Is there any way you can track my brother’s cell phone?”

  “Sir, please stay on the line, I’m sending an officer, right now.”

  Tim stayed on the line until the police showed up, which didn’t take long. Scared as he was, he had to admit that the police were impressive. They showed up in less than five minutes and didn’t waste any time. They saw the phone, called some kind of service to have the device tracked and then sent more police to the location of his brother’s cell phone.

  6

  The Killer’s attention was honed into the faintest echo of someone yelling from somewhere near, but hidden. His head swiveled to each corner of the building. Glancing at every stack of pallets and every nook of the warehouse he finally found the cell phone that had been thrown under a metal shelf full o
f tools. He picked it up and listened. Whoever was on the other line had called the police. He picked up the phone and placed it to his ear. A shaky voice spoke with the dispatch.

  The Killer looked to the others and yelled, “Out! Now! Take the vile thing!”

  The masked man that stood behind the tank suddenly dropped his camcorder on the floor.

  “Dude, pick that up! You fucking idiot! You better not have lost any of the footage.”

  “Take it easy.”

  “I’ll take it easy once we’re out of here!” the Killer screamed.

  They pulled Nick’s lifeless corpse out of the metal tub of water, dragged him to the van, tossed him into the back, killed the lights, and drove away from the industrial park.

  Less than ten minutes later the Smiley Devils stood silent in an abandoned house off campus. Nick’s body was slumped on the floor and leaked water onto the hardwood.

  The Killer watched through the upstairs hallway window as three police cruisers parked at the warehouse where they would find nothing unusual except an overturned industrial-sized metal tub. Fifty gallons of water spilled on the cement floor.

  “Are we good?” one of the masked men asked.

  “We’ll be good once this is over,” the female voice chattered through the rubber mask.

  “We need to get him to the bridge. Quick,” the Killer demanded.

  7

  The rear tires slid as the black van weaved along the backstreets of town like a drifting shadow. Finally, the van ended up at a small parking garage where the four men tossed Nick’s corpse from the van into the trunk of a cheap Ford Tempo. After removing their masks and placing them in an empty plastic trashcan they poured a quarter gallon of hydrochloric acid over the evidence and waited for the acid’s sizzle to become audible before they separated into two groups.