The Final Girl

by Kenneth Preston

  “When?” Darlene asked.

  “Today, about an hour after you left.”

  Harry took a seat next to Jill, yellow notepad and pen in hand. “Where exactly?”

  Jill kept her eyes on Darlene. “In the neighbor’s yard...across the street. He was hiding behind a tree...watching me.”

  “What did he look like?” Harry asked.

  “He had a pushed-in face.” She paused. “He was just...looking at me.”

  Harry looked at Darlene before scribbling in his notebook.

  “Jill, honey, we’ve been over this,” Amanda said. “There is no Man with the Pushed-in Face.” She looked between Darlene and Harry. “I’m sorry she wasted your time.”

  Darlene waved her off. “Jill, what did you want to show us?”

  Amanda sighed. “She doesn’t want to show you anything.”

  Darlene ignored her. "What's in the shoebox?"

  “Nothing,” Amanda said. “Jill, please put that thing back in your room.”

  “Jill?” Darlene prompted.

  Jill loosened her grip on the shoebox and gently removed the lid. "Letters," she said. She lifted a white, business-size envelope from the box. She reached through the shorn top of the envelope and removed a folded sheet of loose-leaf paper. "Actually, it's just one letter. I used to have more, but my mother took them away."

  “A letter from who?” Darlene asked.

  “My father,” Jill said. “It was written after he died, after I killed him.”

  “Your father’s not dead,” Amanda said. She sounded like she was pleading with her daughter. “He left us.”

  “I killed him. You were there.”

  “Can I see the letter?” Darlene asked.

  Jill handed the letter to Darlene. She unfolded it to find what looked to be the sloppy cursive of an adult male. She read aloud:

  Dearest Jill,

  I’ve lost count of the number of letters I’ve sent your way. But I have to keep sending them to you. You need to be reminded: It’s a cruel world. And it’s crueler to some than it is to others. It’s been cruel to you. I’m your father. It’s my job to protect you. Unfortunately, I’ve failed to make this world less cruel to you. But all of that changes starting today, as my pen touches this paper. This letter is step one. Step two is to keep a very close eye on you. Step three is to make sure that no harm ever comes to you.

  I have been watching you for some time now, and I know that you know it. I know that you've seen me, though you may not have recognized me. It's been some time since you've seen me, after all. Seven years. I've gotten close enough to see that look in your eyes. I know that I've frightened you, and for that, I apologize. It was never my intention. My only intention was to get close enough to my daughter to ensure her safety.

  I know that some of the other kids at school have been picking on you. That is unacceptable. If I were a good father, the kind of father who was there in the house with his daughter, I would teach you to stick up for yourself. I would teach you to fight back. But I can't be there, so the best I can do is to show you how it's done. These kids who have been picking on you, they don't deserve to breathe the same air as you. They are nothing more than weeds in an otherwise well-manicured lawn, and they must be rooted out. That’s where I come in.

  I will do my best to keep my distance. But if I’m nearby, and I see someone hurting you, I will move in, and I will do what I must because you are the one bright star in this otherwise dim universe of mine.

  Love always,

  Dad

  Darlene passed the letter over to Harry with a brief glance in his direction. She was not one to gloat or to say I told you so, but here it was now, possible hard evidence of Randall Turner’s involvement staring them in the face. And truth be told, she was in no position to gloat. Before reading the letter, she’d been having her own doubts about Randall Turner’s involvement.

  “When did you receive this?” Darlene asked.

  “I’ve been getting them here and there over the past six months. My mother took them away, but this one was under my mattress.” She looked sheepishly at Amanda.

  “I didn’t want her to have those letters,” Amanda said. “He ceased to be her father the day he ran out on us.”

  “Can I see the envelope, please?” Darlene asked. Jill handed her the envelope. The Turner’s address was written in the same cursive as the letter. The envelope was stamped and post-marked. No return address. “Can we hang on to these?”

  “Sure,” Jill said.

  Darlene turned to Amanda. "Do you have any samples of your husband's handwriting?”

  “You don’t believe me?” Jill said. “You think I wrote the letter?”

  “I do believe you,” Darlene said.“And no, I don’t think you wrote the letter. This looks like a man’s handwriting to me, but this is an official investigation, and we have to sure.”

  Jill nodded.

  “Amanda?” Darlene said.

  Amanda hesitated. “I might have something. Let me check.”

  “She doesn’t want you to know,” Jill said after Amanda stepped from the room. “She doesn’t want you to know the truth.”

  “Well, that’s why we’re here,” Darlene said. “We want to know the truth.”

  “But you don’t believe me. You don’t believe that I raised my father from the dead.”

  Darlene glanced at Harry. “We believe you. We just...” She didn’t want to go down this road. She didn’t want to tell the girl that she doubted her story. She looked to Harry, silently imploring him for assistance.

  “We believe that you believe it,” Harry said. “But we’re detectives. It’s our job to gather as much information as possible. We have to get it right.”

  Jill gave Harry a faint smile. She appeared satisfied for the moment.

  Darlene offered Harry a smile of her own and mouthed, “Thank you.”

  Harry returned the smile and mouthed, “You’re welcome.”

  Amanda returned, a greeting card in hand. “It’s just an old birthday card.” She handed it to Darlene.

  “It’ll do.” She opened the card.

  Dear Amanda,

  Happy Birthday to the most beautiful woman in the world!

  Love always,

  Randall

  The handwriting appeared to match the handwriting in the letter, but she was no handwriting expert.

  She passed the card to Harry. He did a quick side-by-side inspection and raised his eyebrows.

  “We’re gonna need to take these into evidence,” Darlene said.

  Amanda shrugged.

  “What about The Man with the Pushed-in Face?” Jill asked. “He’s still out there.”

  “We have police stationed outside,” Darlene said. “Nobody’s getting near this house. Don’t worry.” She placed a hand on Jill’s forearm. “You’re safe.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Amanda closed the door behind the detectives and turned toward her daughter, still clutching the empty shoebox in her hands. "Why?" It was the only word she could get out of her mouth at the moment. Any more, and she risked exposing the rage that had been festering in her for the duration of the detectives' visit. She could be authoritative, and she usually was, but she couldn't lose her temper. Losing her temper risked bringing out the worst in her daughter.

  “I had to show them,” Jill said. “It was the right thing to do.”

  Amanda took a deep breath, in through her nose and out through her mouth. “Why did you have that letter?”

  “My father sent it to me. He was dead, but I brought him back. I used my gift, the one you told me I should never open again. And you were right; I shouldn’t have used it, but I couldn’t resist, and now he’s back, and he’s out there. He’s killed before, and he’s gonna kill again, and I don’t know what to do.”

  Amanda hesitated. “I don’t know what to do either.” And she meant it. She must never open her gift again, she’d once told her daughter. And she hadn’t. But whether she’d
wanted to admit it or not, Amanda had known this day was coming. She’d known that Jill would not be able to keep her gift under wraps forever. Now, her husband was back, in some form, and like her daughter, she didn’t know what to do.

  “You could start with the truth,” Jill said. “Why did you lie to them?”

  Deep breath. “You know very well why I lied to them. Do you want the police to know what you are?”

  “What am I?”

  “Do you want them to take you away?”

  “What am I, mother?”

  Jill only called her ‘mother’ when the monster was close. She had to tread lightly. Deep breath. “You’re my daughter,” she said as dispassionately as she could manage. “But you’re...different.” Poor choice of words. “Special. Unique.”

  “A monster.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You did say that. I heard you.”

  Amanda closed her eyes, remembering. “That wasn’t meant for your ears.”

  “But you still said it, and you meant it.”

  Deep breath. “Yes, I said it, and I meant it. But that was a long time ago, right after you killed your father. I was traumatized. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I meant it then, but I don’t feel that way now.” She paused a beat. “I’m sorry.”

  Jill nodded her acceptance. Her eyes were downcast. Amanda took it as her cue. This conversation had ended, and she was going to make a quick retreat while the monster was still in its cage.

  She escaped to her room, closed the door behind her, and locked it. She’d installed the deadbolt on her bedroom door after Jill had killed her father. So far, she’d had little reason to use it, but that hadn’t stopped her from using it every night since the day she realized what her daughter really was. And she had every reason to use it now.

  With her back against the door, she trembled. Jill had scared her plenty when she’d killed her father seven years ago. But she’d been afraid for Jill, for what she’d become. Amanda had never felt threatened by Jill. But now, Jill was different, worse. And Amanda feared for her own safety.

  But her fear for Jill still took precedence. She was still the girl’s mother. It was her job to protect her, and she was beginning to suspect that she was failing in that regard.

  The police were on the right track; Jill had put them there. They would eventually put the pieces together and see Jill for the monster that she was, and they would take her away.

  Amanda couldn’t let that happen.

  She may have been afraid of Jill, but that didn’t change her role as Jill’s mother. For better or for worse―and things had certainly gotten worse―her job was to protect her daughter at all costs.

  God works in mysterious ways, she reminded herself. God had allowed this monster to come into the world, into her life. Then again, God had allowed the sullied to come into this world. God had allowed the sullied to come into Jill’s life. It was a test, Amanda knew. God was testing her resolve. She had been given a mission: Bring Jill into the world, teach her, nurture her, protect her, never give up on her. After what Amanda had seen, it would have been easy to give up on Jill. But Amanda was a woman of God, and she would not abandon her mission.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Darlene handed the letter, the envelope, and the birthday card over to Kyle Griffin, a forensic document examiner in the Questioned Documents section of the Suffolk County Crime Laboratory In Hauppauge.

  “To the naked eye, the writing appears to be identical.” Kyle removed his glasses. “But looks can be deceiving, as I’m sure you know.”

  Darlene smiled.

  “It'll take time to thoroughly examine the documents," Kyle continued. "I can have the results for you sometime tomorrow, if that’s all right.”

  “That’s fine,” Darlene said, handing Kyle her card.

  Darlene and Harry walked back to their car.

  “We probably shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves,” Harry said, slipping behind the wheel.

  “Nope.”

  “But it looks like Jill’s father has been stalking her.”

  “Yep. Just like Jill said.”

  “Jill also said that she raised her father from the dead.”

  “We can dismiss that part,” Darlene said, “chalk it up to trauma. But I think we have to consider the possibility that her father played a part in the murders.”

  “There’s nothing in the letter about killing those kids at the campsite. There’s nothing in the letter about killing anybody. We know that the kids were acting out horror movie scenarios. We know that Richard Caulfield was obsessed with horror movies, particularly the slasher variety. We know that the murder weapon came from his kitchen. And we know that he was wearing a ski mask.” He shrugged. “I mean...”

  “All the pieces fit,” Darlene said.

  “Yeah.”

  “The plastic knife?”

  “The others thought it was just a game. They brought the plastic knife along like they did every other time they played the game. But of course...”

  “Richard had other ideas.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then there’s Jill’s story,” Darlene said. “She was attacked by her father.”

  “As we’ve already established, Jill was...is...severely traumatized.”

  “I'm not saying that her father has a pushed-in face or that she raised him from the dead."

  “Oh, good.”

  Darlene smiled. “No, I’m not Fox Mulder. But I do believe that her father is stalking her.”

  “I agree.”

  “And I think it’s at least possible that her father had a hand in the murders.”

  “I think it’s far more likely that in her traumatized state, she’s conflating the stalking with the murders.”

  “I’m not saying it’s likely that her father had a hand in the murders, but we can’t rule it out. We have a letter written by Jill’s father.”

  “Probably.”

  “Probably,” Darlene agreed. “Which means he’s probably been stalking Jill. And it’s at least possible that he followed Jill to the campsite that night, saw the others picking on her, and decided to do something about it.”

  Silence.

  “Or not,” Darlene said.

  Harry shook his head. "No, it's possible; I just don't think it's likely. The kids are playing a slasher movie role-playing game complete with ski mask, plastic knife, and a final girl, and the father of the chosen final girl shows up and kills everybody except the chosen final girl? What are the odds?”

  “Astronomical,” Darlene said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She waved him off. “No.”

  “It just doesn’t...”

  “It just doesn’t seem likely.”

  “It just doesn’t sit well with me.”

  “Does anything about this case sit well with you?” Darlene asked.

  A pause. “No.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Part of her was glad that she’d given the letter to Detective Moore. It was the right thing to do, she told herself. Her father, he’d killed before, and he was surely going to kill again. The detectives needed to know he was out there. They needed proof of his existence. They wouldn’t go looking for him, otherwise. They’d been convinced that Richard Caulfield was their man. Now, they would know otherwise. And they would go looking for him. Stop him. Kill him? Was that possible? Can a man die twice? Save lives. Yes, that was it. That was the important part. Saving lives. The detectives knew that he was out there, that he would kill again, and they would save lives. And by her count, there were four of them. Four lives to save. How did she know? She’d seen his list. Through his eyes. Their connection was that strong, now. At times, she could see through her father’s eyes. And she’d seen the list of names he’d compiled. Her enemies. His victims. Four down, four to go. But she couldn’t make out some of the names. The four who were still alive were a blur. Her connection to her father was strong, but not strong enough. He was blocking her. He
knew she would try to stop him. But she was intuitive enough to guess at least two of the names. And yes, she would try to stop him. But she couldn’t do it alone. She would need help. So she’d given the letter to Detective Moore. She would believe Jill because she cared. It was that maternal instinct. She cared about Jill the way she cared about her own daughter. She wanted to protect Jill. And Jill wanted to be protected by Detective Moore. She wanted Detective Moore to care about her the way a mother cares about her daughter. It was that reason, above all others, that prompted Jill to give Detective Moore the letter. She wouldn’t have given it to anybody else.

  But she had some regrets. The letter was hers. And it was tangible, the last physical link to her father. She knew it was weird. Her father was a murderer, and he’d beat her mother. But he hadn’t always been a bad man. He’d become a bad man when he started drinking. It was the alcohol; he’d been seduced by it; he’d been infected by it. And the bad man had taken over. There was still some of the good man in there when she’d killed him, and she’d never gotten past that. So she’d brought him back. And there was still some of that good man in there. He was protecting her. His methods were extreme, to say the least, but his motives were pure.

  He’d been a given a second chance. Her mother would tell her that God had given her father a second chance. If so, God had given him that second chance through her. After all, she had a gift, and she’d used it to bring him back, and she’d been given that gift by God. And her father had used that second chance to kill.

  But his victims had been sullied. Hadn’t they deserved to die?

  No, that was wrong. That was her mother talking.

  Her mother. Not Detective Moore. Her biological mother. She’d been wrong about so many things. She’d been wrong when she took her letters away from her. They were dark, but they’d brought her so much comfort. He was a father. Even in death, he was a father to her. So much comfort. But Amanda, her mother, she didn’t want her to be comfortable. She wanted her to be afraid. She was a bully, just like all the others.