The Final Girl

by Kenneth Preston

  The next class photo was that of Jessica Lewis, her long, dark hair cascading over her shoulders. More praise for the gifted student with a bright future. More tearful interviews with family and neighbors. She was a saint, of course, like everybody who dies young and tragically.

  Next up was Gary Butler. Another saint with a promising future cut short.

  They were all saints. All of the kids in these sanitized news profiles would never bully a shy, insecure loner like Jill Turner.

  Then there was Richard Caulfield. Darlene wondered if anything had leaked. But no, it was another sanitized profile of a remarkable young man with a long, promising road ahead of him. Nothing about the disturbing artwork. Nothing about the slasher movie role-playing games. Nothing about the ski mask. Nothing had leaked. The police had done a good job keeping the press out of the loop. But the truth would come out eventually. It would come out for all of them. And the world would know what these kids had really been up to at Blydenburgh last night.

  The coverage cut to a class photo of Jill Turner. She was smiling, and the smile reached her eyes. She looked genuinely happy. But was she? Darlene wondered if the girl had ever been happy a day in her life.

  The female anchor said, "With one survivor in the hospital, police are asking what role, if any, she may have played in the murders."

  "What?!" Darlene leaped to her feet. "The police are asking no such thing!"

  The coverage cut to footage of Darlene and Harry leaving the precinct. "And there's a fascinating development in the story. Suffolk County homicide detective Darlene Moore, mother of Brittany Moore, who was murdered two years ago, has been assigned to the investigation. The Brittany Moore case made national headlines―"

  Darlene hit the power button, dropped the remote on the television stand, and fell back onto her bed, her arms splayed beside her.

  No, she wouldn't cry. She would call somebody. She’d had every opportunity to tell Harry what she was going through, but their relationship just wasn’t there yet. And despite what Harry may have thought, her relationship with Molly wasn’t there either. She could talk to Molly when she was in a better place. But on a day like today? Forget it. There was only one person she could talk to on a day like this. She wouldn’t tell him about the gun. He just wouldn’t understand. But he would understand the rest.

  She slipped her phone from her pocket, pulled up his contact information, and put the call through.

  “Hey,” Dave answered.

  “Hey.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “No...not all.”

  “Yeah...I kinda figured.”

  “You heard the news, I’m assuming.”

  “Everybody’s heard. It’s everywhere, CNN, FOX, MSNBC.”

  She sighed. “What are they saying about me?” She hated the way the words sounded coming out of her mouth. She sounded like a narcissist, and she was anything but. She’d been hoping against hope that the media wouldn’t focus on her involvement in the case, but that hope had already been dashed when she’d caught that snippet of coverage on News12.

  “They’re playing it up as an interesting twist on the case, but they’re not covering it as much as you would think.”

  “An interesting twist.” She knew enough about her ex-husband to know that he was downplaying it. “Well, here’s another interesting twist for ya: The lone survivor, Jill Turner, she’s seventeen.”

  “I know.”

  “She looks just like Brittany.”

  “You think so? I only saw the one picture on the news, but I didn’t see a resemblance.”

  “Or maybe she just reminds me of Brittany.”

  “Maybe you should step away from the case.”

  She smiled slightly. “You sound just like Harry.”

  “Well, I don’t know this Harry, but he sounds like a smart man. This case is obviously screwing with your head.”

  “How’s your head?”

  “My head is fine, but I’m not dealing with what you’re dealing with. And whenever my head is screwed up, I have someone here to help me through it.”

  She knew he didn’t mean it, but it felt like a low blow. “How’s Renee doing?” Darlene and Dave’s second wife weren’t exactly friends, but they had a cordial relationship. Darlene had even attended the couple’s wedding.

  “Renee’s fine. I’ll let her know you asked.” He paused before adding, “You really need to get out there.”

  She sighed. “This is not why I called, Dave.”

  “I know this isn’t why you called, but that’s why you need to get out there. You need somebody you can talk to.”

  “I’m talking to you.”

  “You know I’m always a phone call away, or a twenty-minute drive away, if you need to see me, but you need more than that. You need somebody to be there for you...always.”

  “How do you know I don’t have somebody? How do you know Harry’s not my somebody?”

  “I’m guessing Harry’s your partner. If Harry was your somebody, you wouldn’t be talking to me.”

  “Touché.”

  He was making her feel pathetic. She was just about ready for this conversation to end.

  “So talk to me. What’s going on inside that screwed up head of yours?”

  “How do you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Carry on.”

  “I don’t have a choice. We don’t have a choice. We can’t change the past. We can only learn from our mistakes and try to make the present and the future better.”

  “Do you ever cry?”

  “Of course, but I’m crying less and less as time goes on.”

  “I never cry. Do you think that’s weird?”

  “No, we all grieve in our own way, and you did plenty of crying...when it happened.”

  “When I let her die. You can say it?”

  “Stop that.”

  “It’s true.”

  “It’s not true.”

  “I let her die, and I don’t even cry about it anymore.”

  “Please stop.”

  “I don’t feel anything anymore. I’m cold inside. Do you know what I did today? I insisted on informing all the families of the victims myself, not because it was my job, but because I wanted to feel what they felt. I wanted to feel their pain because I was so desperate to feel something, to remember what it’s like to suffer over the loss of a child. And I felt it, but just a little bit and only for a few minutes. Then it went away, as if it had never been there. And here I am again, an emotional zombie. Why don’t I feel anything?”

  “You need help, Darlene. You need to talk to somebody.”

  “I am talking to somebody.”

  “You need professional help.”

  Darlene thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  “I’ve heard this before. I’ve been hearing this for the past two years.”

  “Is a therapist gonna help me feel something?”

  “A good therapist is gonna help you get through this. You already feel something. You feel too much, and it’s driving you crazy. If you didn’t feel anything, this girl, Jill Turner, she wouldn’t have you in the state you’re in right now. You’re freaking out because Jill Turner reminds you of our daughter, the daughter we lost, the daughter we both loved.”

  Darlene gasped and sat upright. “Say that again?”

  “You feel something because Jill Turner reminds you of the daughter you loved, the daughter you still love.”

  Darlene stood and paced the room. “I think you’re onto something.”

  There was a brief pause on the other end. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. You said it yourself: Jill Turner is freaking me out because she reminds me of Brittany.”

  “You sound different. Better.”

  “I am. I’m suddenly feeling a lot better. I’m feeling...hopeful.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. But I still think it would be a good idea to step away from this case.”

&
nbsp; “Not a chance.”

  “No?”

  “Nope. Jill Turner needs my help, and I’m gonna do everything I can to help her.”

  “Okay, you’re not gonna step away from the case, but will you at least talk to somebody, a therapist?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Don’t yeah, sure me. I’m serious.”

  She smiled. “I know you’re serious, and I will definitely take it under consideration.”

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  “I’ll look into it. You have my word.”

  “All right. I’m gonna hold you to it.”

  A moment passed before she said, “Thanks for caring.”

  “Of course.”

  “And thanks for talking me through my bullshit. I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

  “I’m always here when you need me. You know that.”

  “I do.” She took a deep breath. “I love you, Dave.” She paused and added, “You know, in a friendly kinda way.”

  Dave laughed. “I love you, too, Darlene. You know, in a friendly kinda way.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  She heard the thunder in her sleep and knew before she woke that it was time to get up. She opened her eyes to darkness, intercut with flashes of lightning so close that it sizzled. Each flash of lightning was followed immediately by an earth-rocking clap of thunder. The storm was right overhead.

  She looked at her mother, sound asleep in the chair next to her bed. How she could sleep through this, Jill didn't know. The woman had always been a deep sleeper, but Armageddon was here. The forces of good and evil were battling it out right outside the hospital window. She must have been exhausted, or she was awake with her eyes closed.

  Jill looked at the bedside digital clock. 3:23 a.m.

  Normally, she loved these kinds of storms. Nature's fury on full display. She would have loved it now had the storm not been a message. She knew it in her sleep.

  The storm was calling to her.

  And when she realized why the storm was calling to her, her heartbeat intensified, slow and dull at first. But as she swung her legs out of bed and planted her bare feet on the cool linoleum, the beat accelerated. Hard and fast.

  She stood, realized that the heart rate monitor was on her finger, and considered slipping it off. But she knew that the nurse on duty would come running into her room, and she didn't want to be prevented from answering the call. As fate would have it, her bed was situated close to the window. She didn't have to remove the monitor.

  She stepped slowly toward the window, stopped, and looked back at her mother. She was indeed sound asleep. She would have heard Jill getting out of bed if she were awake.

  Another flash of lightning and another clap of thunder called her attention back to the window. Step after step. Her heart feeling like it was going to explode. Terror seizing every neuron in her brain and every cell in her body. Fear should have kept her frozen in place, but she was being guided toward the window.

  She gasped. She wasn't in control.

  It was only four steps to the window, but they didn't feel like her own, just as she didn't feel that she was willingly looking out into the storm. But she was looking, and her body was quaking, and her breath was coming in short, staccato bursts.

  There was nothing to see. It was too dark.

  But the lightning flashed, and she saw something. A figure darting between the trees.

  Him.

  It was dark again, and she couldn't see him, but he was there. He could be walking toward her, and she wouldn't know it. She should have been backing away from the window, but she was frozen in place. He was holding her. She should have been calling to her mother, but she couldn't will herself to move her mouth.

  She wanted to look away. She didn't want to see him in the next flash of lightning, but her eyes were opened so wide that she thought they might fall from their sockets.

  The lightning flashed, and there he was, out in the open. Dressed in black. Those faraway eyes peering at her from that pushed-in face. It felt too surreal to be a genuine moment, but this was no dream. This was really happening.

  He lifted a knife, the blade gleaming in the last millisecond of illumination.

  The clap of thunder that followed seemed to break his hold on her, and she screamed, sure that he had returned to finish what he'd started. She stumbled back against the bed.

  Her mother was next to her in an instant, wrapping her arms around Jill's shoulders. "Honey, it's okay," she said frantically.

  Jill shook her head and pointed at the window.

  Her mother followed the trajectory of her finger. "What?"

  "Out there," she gasped. "He's out there."

  If Jill were looking at her mother, she was sure she would be looking back at her like she was crazy. But she didn't care. He was back.

  To kill her.

  To kill her mother.

  To kill them all.

  "Who?" her mother asked. "Who's out there?"

  "He's...out there."

  Her mother released her and moved toward the window before Jill had a chance to reach out and pull her back. She hesitated before darting to catch her. "Mom, no!" She latched onto her shoulders, intent on pulling her back from the window.

  The lightning flashed. And…

  Nothing. She peered into the field before the lightning faded.

  Her mother turned to her. "There's nobody out there."

  "He was..." Her voice trailed off.

  "Honey, you had a bad dream."

  Jill narrowed her eyes. "Bad dream? I'm awake."

  "How long have you been awake?"

  "A few seconds."

  "A few seconds," her mother echoed. "You were dreaming, and the dream is still with you. It happens all the time." She gestured toward the bed. "Come on. You need to rest."

  Jill hesitated, waiting for the next flash of lightning. It came. And still nothing. He could have been hiding behind one of the thick oaks, or he could have run off. But it wasn't a waking dream. He'd been out there. She was sure of it.

  "Call the police in," she implored.

  Her mother furrowed her brow.

  "Ask them to check outside."

  "Jill―"

  "I won't go back to bed until you do."

  Her mother sighed and walked to the door.

  Jill stood by the window with her arms crossed as the minutes ticked by, watching as two police officers in raincoats checked the field in the dissipating rain. She shook her head, knowing they wouldn't find any hint that the man had been there, but she wouldn't be embarrassed. She knew what she had seen.

  Her mother placed gentle hands on Jill's shoulders. "You see?"

  But she didn't see―not what her mother saw. What Jill saw was the truth that nobody else was capable of seeing.

  The Man with the Pushed-in Face wasn't done with her.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Stalking her outside the hospital was just the tip of the iceberg. He'd seen the look on her face through the window. He'd even heard her scream. That scream had been loud enough to puncture the thunder. He'd heard it, and he'd smiled.

  It had all started so long ago. The stalking. He'd gotten quite good at it, and he had made her very uneasy. Little by little. He'd gotten closer and closer. Little by little. He'd gotten under her skin. He was playing the long game. This was his craft. Terrorizing Jill Turner was a work of art. But it was a work in progress. And when the work was complete, it would be his masterpiece.

  The hospital. He liked the setting. Perfect for a sequel. Like Halloween II. One of his favorite horror movie sequels. Jill, like Laurie Strode, was the final girl. She'd made it through the first massacre, the first movie.

  Of course, that was all by design, but that was his little secret. Nobody else needed to know.

  The killer, Jill's very own Michael Myers, had gotten away, and Jill was recovering in the hospital. She was surely sedated, like Laurie Strode, and she was traumatized. That part of
his mission had been accomplished.

  But giving her a scare outside her hospital room window in a thunderstorm―a horror movie cliché but a horror movie cliché for a reason―was as far as he would be able to go under the circumstances. He couldn't stroll into the hospital as Michael Myers had. This wasn't a movie; this was real life. The girl had a guard outside her door and more than likely had one outside her window now that he'd given her a fright. They wouldn't believe the ramblings of a severely traumatized teenager screaming that the killer was still out there, that he was stalking her, that he was terrorizing her. The police believed they had their man. They were probably sure of it. The man outside her window was a figment of the girl's imagination, or he was just some random guy who wanted to get a look at the headline-grabbing final girl. But they would keep a guard or two stationed outside her room just to cover their own asses.

  They wouldn't be out looking for him because they didn't know he existed. But Jill knew, and that was all that mattered. She may have told them part of the truth, but surely she didn't tell them the whole truth. The whole truth would require a hell of a lot of explaining.

  And lying.

  But she was a good liar, wasn't she? She and her mother both were; they'd had plenty of practice. But being a good liar didn't do much for the girl's conscience. He didn't know how the mother felt, but he knew the girl like he knew himself, and the guilt was eating away at her. The seed of guilt had been planted years ago, and it had been growing ever since. It had grown to its full height, and now it was a part of her. It was eating her from the inside out. It was eating away at her brain. It was driving her crazy.