The Final Girl

by Kenneth Preston

  She shook her head. “I didn’t want this. I don’t want this.”

  “You’re lying to me, and you’re lying to yourself. Remember, I’m in your head; I know what you’re thinking. You know the truth; you know you wanted them dead.”

  She didn’t have to respond; he knew what she was thinking.

  “But you can’t stop now,” he said. “The others were just practice. The real bullies are still out there. One of them is in that house right behind me.”

  “Mom.”

  “You killed one parent; I’ll kill the other. But I can’t do it alone. I’m gonna need you there with me. Don’t worry. You don’t have to watch, though I know you want to.” Silence. “Then we’re down to just one more name on our list.”

  She hesitated. “Who?”

  A pause. “I think you know.”

  She did know. He was a killer of everything she hated.

  “Are you ready?”

  She nodded. “Ready.”

  He smiled. “Let’s finish this.”

  Chapter Fifty

  Amanda stood by the window. Watching, waiting. Her name was on Jill’s list, the monster’s list.

  Randall’s list?

  No, that wasn’t reality. Sure, her husband had been a monster. A monster like so many flesh and blood monsters who drank and beat their wives. But he wasn’t the come back from the grave monster that Jill had in her head.

  He was gone now, and the only monster left was the one he and Amanda had created. Jill was a different kind of monster, a far more terrifying monster than Randall had been. She was the monster so enamored with her father that she’d emulated him. She was the monster so enamored with violence by the tender age of ten that she’d become infected by it and allowed it to fester. And she’d used that infection to shoot her father and bash his face in with a hammer. She was the monster who’d become obsessed with the monstrous Carrie White and convinced herself that she’d used telekinesis to kill her father and raise him from the dead.

  And she was the monster who had raised him from the dead, in a sense. She had indeed pulled her father from the ground―the old-fashioned way, of course. And she had become her father, returned from the grave like Jason or Michael Myers in one of those evil movies she’d liked to watch. And she’d killed those kids. How she’d managed to kill all four of them, she didn't know. But she'd pulled it off somehow. Then she'd waited and killed the next two on the list, Katie Beckham and Diane Wright.

  Amanda didn’t need to be psychic to know that her daughter had recently killed Katie Beckham and Diane Wright; she just needed to know the names on the list and the order in which they were written, and she just needed to look out the window, to see Jill, knife in hand, walking across the front lawn, ready to cross the next name off the list.

  Amanda never thought that it would come to this. She’d let Jill climb out through her bedroom window, knowing what the girl would eventually do. And she’d been fine with that. More than fine, she’d wanted it to happen, hoping that once she’d killed the rest of the sullied, she would be done, and she would come home, and the monster would go back into its cage, and they could both move on. But after reading the list of names clutched in her husband’s skeletal hand, Amanda knew that there was no moving on.

  This was the endgame.

  Her husband, in the form of her daughter, had come home to finish the job. And Amanda knew that she didn’t stand much of a chance against the girl. She was monstrous enough to kill the others. She was cunning enough to evade the police.

  Like her father, she was a monster, but like her father, she was methodical, organized to a fault. She’d made her way through the list, top to bottom, saving the worst for last. Amanda’s wasn’t the last name on the list, but it was next.

  She heard the screen door opening overhead, heard the door slam shut, heard the girl’s footfalls moving toward the basement door. She knew just where to go. Jill would be down momentarily.

  Amanda had spent the past seventeen years protecting her daughter, but her daughter was gone. Her husband was back. He wanted her. He wanted to kill her.

  But this time around, Amanda was not going down without a fight.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  His tiny hand reached for the doorknob, turned, and pulled.

  He listened, heard nothing. But she’d left the basement light on. He knew she was down there...waiting for him.

  He descended, slowly, cautiously, his eyes scanning. Was she going to surprise him? Try to get the jump on him? He’d never known her to be so bold. But through Jill’s eyes, he’d been watching. She’d changed quite a bit over the years. She’d had to deal with a daughter that frightened her more than he ever could, a daughter she’d referred to more than once as a monster.

  But she wasn’t trying to get the jump on him, not physically anyway. Because there she was. And there he was. Or what was left of the man he used to be. She was trying to get the psychological jump on him.

  “Hello, Amanda,” he said, his voice not quite as low and gruff as it had been when he’d last spoken to her. It wasn’t the voice of the man. How could it be? He was a man trapped in a teenage girl’s body.

  “Jill.” She took a deep breath, as if just getting the girl’s name out was an effort. “Put down the knife.”

  “Jill is gone,” he said. “It’s just me, now.”

  A pause. “Me who?”

  He smiled. “Don’t you recognize your husband?”

  It was meant to be a joke, but of course, she wasn't laughing.

  “Randall,” she whispered.

  “I’m home.”

  “You think you’re Randall.” She pointed at the skeleton, as if he hadn't seen it, as if she meant to surprise him with it. Stained with a mixture of dirt and blood, the outfit he'd been wearing when his daughter had killed him was barely recognizable. And, of course, the skeletal face had been shattered, the few remaining bone fragments pushed in toward the back of the skull.

  “Jill dug up the body,” he said. “I know. I was there. I watched her do it. I was with her when she put it in the trunk of the car, when she dragged it down here. There are no surprises here, Amanda. I was with her every step of the way.” A pause. “That body is useless to me. It’s like an old apartment that you’ve moved out of and have no use for anymore. I’ve moved on. I’ve found a new place to live.”

  A deep breath. “Jill...” Another deep breath. “Jill thinks she raised you from the dead.”

  “Jill is confused. I wasn’t buried. Only my body was. But she did raise me from the dead, in a sense, not in body but in mind where it counts. Because she needed me.” A pause. “She needed me to do what you couldn’t.”

  “Stop,” Amanda pleaded.

  “I’ve been watching over her all this time, every moment I’ve been gone. And I’ve been watching you, Amanda. I’ve been watching you do what even I never could have done. I watched you abuse our daughter.”

  Amanda shook her. “Never.” But he heard the guilt in her voice, saw it in her eyes.

  “You hit her,” he said. “You never hit her the way I hit you, but that’s only because you were afraid of her. You were afraid that if you hit her too often or too hard, she would do to you what she did to me. I can’t say I blame you.” A pause. “And you abused her psychologically. You tormented her mind, filled her head with garbage. You taught her that it was a sin to feel what kids feel, to do what kids do.”

  “Those kids were sullied,” Amanda said. “I was protecting her.”

  “You failed to protect her. She was being bullied.”

  “She shouldn’t have been with those kids.”

  “But she was. And they picked on her because she was awkward, shy. She didn’t know how to socialize because you wouldn’t let her have friends.” A pause. “You had the power to protect her, but you didn’t have the will. I had the will to protect her, but I didn’t have the power. I couldn’t protect her in my disembodied state. I needed a vehicle.” Another pause. �
�And Jill gave me one.”

  Amanda twisted her head, listening. “Do you hear that?”

  He did. Sirens.

  “They’re coming,” Amanda said. “They’ll be here any moment.”

  They were close, pulling up in front of the house, the flashing red and blue lights penetrating the basement windows.

  “Jill," Amanda said. He started at the sound of his daughter's name. "You have to stop this. If they know what you are, they'll take you away."

  He paused, felt Jill struggling to make her way to the surface, and pushed her back down. “Jill is gone,” he declared. “It’s just us now.”

  The front door opening overhead. Footfalls in the foyer. The basement door opening.

  “Time’s up,” he said.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Darlene was first down the stairs with Harry pounding down behind her.

  Her gun drawn.

  Her eyes searching.

  She caught sight of Amanda first, standing perfectly still, her eyes wide and pleading. No Jill. Then she saw the skeleton lying beside her.

  “What the hell is this?” she said.

  No response.

  “Where’s Jill?”

  No response.

  But a moment before Harry said “Darlene,” she saw the gleam of metal at Amanda’s throat. Her head jerked back, and she sank to her knees, revealing Jill, one hand holding Amanda’s hair, the other holding a knife to Amanda’s throat.

  But she hadn’t used the knife yet. She’d had every opportunity to kill her mother. She had the opportunity now. One pull of the blade was all it would take. But she was hesitating.

  Amanda had a chance.

  Jill had a chance.

  “Jill,” Darlene said, “put the knife down.”

  Her gun was raised, she suddenly realized, pointed directly at the girl’s chest. It would be a clean shot and an easy one at this range. And if she didn’t play her cards right, Jill Turner, the girl she desperately wanted to save, the girl who reminded her so much of the girl she’d failed to save, would be her first casualty in the line of duty.

  She lowered her weapon, knowing full well that Harry would not lower his, knowing that if Harry wasn't given a choice, he would pull the trigger.

  “Jill, listen to me,” Darlene said. “You can come back from this. It’s not too late. Your mother is still alive.”

  Jill glared back at Darlene with eyes hers but not quite hers. There was malice in those eyes. “You’re barking up the wrong tree. She’s not my mother.”

  Darlene looked deep into the girl’s eyes and saw something else, something that did not belong to her father, something that belonged to Jill. Darlene had seen that look in the girl’s eyes the day she’d escorted her home from the hospital, as she walked her to the front door of her house, as Jill sat in the living room silently imploring Darlene to stay.

  It was longing, the longing of a child looking for her mother. But Jill wasn’t looking at her own mother; she was looking at Darlene; she was looking at Darlene the way Brittany had looked at her when she’d last seen her daughter alive.

  It was Jill looking at her now, the real Jill. “Detective Moore,” she said. “You have to kill me.”

  Stunned silence. “No,” Darlene said. “That’s not an option. I’ve never killed anybody before, and I’m not about to start now.” She paused. And her voice trembled when she said, “Not with you.”

  “I’m not in control,” Jill said, her own voice trembling. “He is.” A tear escaped her eye and slid down her cheek.

  Darlene shook her head. “No, you’re speaking to me right now, Jill. That is your body. You are in charge. If you have the power to speak to me as Jill Turner, you have the power to let your mother go.”

  Jill closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them.

  Randall was back.

  “You’re right, Detective Moore. Jill is in charge. But I think there’s something you’re missing. It’s not me who wants this woman to die.” A pause. “Jill wants this woman to die.” Another pause. “Don’t you get it? It’s always been Jill. Jill wanted those kids to die at the campsite. Jill wanted Katie and Diane to die. She just couldn’t face it. She just couldn’t admit it to herself. I was just a surrogate. She brought me in to do the dirty work.”

  Darlene felt the gun trembling in her hand. The horrifying reality of this situation was beginning to dawn on her: She might actually have to use the gun. She might actually have to shoot the girl she so desperately wanted to save.

  “Jill brought me in to do what she wasn’t willing to do,” Jill said, “what she didn’t have the courage to do.” She looked down at her mother. Amanda appeared remarkably calm, like she was just waiting for the inevitable. “But I think she really just brought me in to guide her, to give her the courage to do what she’s wanted to do all along.” A pause. “The others were just practice, I told my daughter. This right here―” The knife moved ever so slightly, and Darlene raised her gun, pointed it square at Jill’s chest. “―this is what Jill has been practicing for.”

  She yanked the knife across Amanda’s throat. The blood sprayed, then it flowed. Her eyes rolled back, and she was dead before her face hit the carpet.

  Darlene gaped at the body, the rapidly spreading pool of blood. She saw the gun next to her, Harry’s gun. He was lowering it.

  “Jill,” he said. “Don’t do it.”

  Darlene looked at Jill. She was holding the bloody knife to her own throat.

  “It’s almost over,” Jill said. Blood was dripping from the knife, trickling down the front of her shirt. “I’m a killer of everything that Jill hates, and I saved the worst for last.”

  She was going to kill herself. Or the identity of her father was going to kill her. Darlene was sure of it. And if she didn’t act fast, she would fail to save another young life. She was too far away to get to the girl in time. And what had seemed like an impossible choice moments earlier was no longer a choice at all. If she was going to save Jill, she was going to have to pull the trigger.

  She took one last look into Jill’s eyes.

  And she saw Brittany looking back at her.

  She’d failed Brittany.

  She would not fail Jill.

  She aimed the barrel of the gun at Jill’s right thigh, but her hands were trembling, and the barrel of the gun was doing a mad dance between Jill’s thigh and torso. She quickly estimated that she had a fifty-fifty chance of getting this right, and she hated those odds.

  But she was out of options because the knife was moving against her throat, ever so slowly, like she was struggling with this, like she didn’t really want to do this. But she was drawing blood. And Darlene was out of time.

  She pulled the trigger. The gun jerked up in her trembling hands.

  Jill screamed, dropped the knife, doubled over. Her hands clasping the right side of her abdomen, she collapsed onto her left side and curled into a fetal position, blood streaming through her fingers.

  Darlene didn’t realize she was frozen in place until Harry pushed past her, nearly knocking her down but pushing her into action.

  She kneeled next to Jill, one hand on the small of her back, the other on her shoulder, trying to turn her onto her back to tend to the wound.

  Harry was calling for an ambulance.

  “Help me!” Darlene implored.

  Harry cradled the phone between his shoulder and ear and grabbed Jill’s shoulders, helping Darlene turn her onto her back.

  Jill’s eyes were closed, her face ashen.

  Darlene worked her hands under Jill’s, the blood pooling between her fingers now, and pushed, leaning into the wound.

  She was desperate. She couldn’t let this happen, not again.

  Not again.

  No, not again. She couldn’t let her die again.

  Tears surfaced and dropped onto Jill’s shirt, mixing with the blood.

  “Don’t die,” she sobbed. “Don’t die.”

  “She’s not gonna
die,” Harry said. “The paramedics are on their way.” He placed his hands over hers and pressed. “Look at me. Look at me.” She looked at him. “She’s gonna be okay.”

  She took a deep breath and nodded. The sobbing ended. The tears subsided. And she knew that Harry was right; Jill was going to be okay.

  She looked down at their hands, saw that the bleeding had stopped, and allowed herself a smile.

  That’s when Jill opened her eyes and began to thrash. Eyes wild, filled with hatred, she struggled to get free, her arms flailing, reaching for the knife.

  “Jill, relax,” Darlene pleaded, pushing now to prevent Jill from getting up.

  Harry pressed harder on the backs of Darlene’s hands, and they were beginning to hurt.

  Jill went from thrashing to squirming, trying to shift her body out from underneath their hands. "She has to die," she spat. "She has to die."

  “Jill, she’s already dead,” Darlene said.

  Jill shook her head. “Jill...she has to die.”

  And Darlene understood. “No,” she said. “Jill does not have to die.” A pause. “Jill doesn’t hate herself. She just thinks she does because she’s never been loved. She doesn’t hate herself because she wants to be loved. And I...” Another pause. “I think I can help her with that.”

  Jill stopped struggling. Her features softened. She looked at Darlene, that longing in her eyes. Then she looked at her mother, lying in a spreading pool of her own blood.