by Jacob Rayne
‘Pain cleanses the soul,’ he giggled. ‘She was as innocent as a babe by the time I finished with her.’ He cupped a blood-smeared hand to his mouth in a curiously childlike manner to stifle a giggle. ‘Too bad she didn’t survive long enough to enjoy it. Still, she’s on her way upstairs to sit with Him now.’
Deborah’s eyes grew wide.
‘Let’s see if you can last long enough to reap the benefits of your newfound faith.’
Deborah’s terror morphed into anger momentarily as she saw the ruin of her friend’s face anew. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘When I take my blade here to the flesh of you non-believers, you suddenly start to believe.’
Deborah furrowed her brow.
‘More often than not, they start to call out to Him for help, for divine intervention. Most even see the error of their ways before I’m through. They are better for their introduction to Him, no matter how painful the methods involved.’
‘You’re out of your fucking mind.’
‘The Lord moves in mysterious ways,’ Cross giggled. ‘And He tells me how to bring the wayward sheep back to him.’
Deborah felt powerless to resist as he started to advance, but, as if a spell had been lifted, she remembered Lee was in the house with her.
She began to scream for him at the top of her lungs.
‘Another one to lead back to the flock,’ Cross beamed. ‘My, my, I really was needed here.’
Again he stifled a giggle with his hand, and again it reminded her of a kid.
This time his hand left smears of blood across his lips.
His tongue flicked out momentarily, lingering over the blood.
He seemed to savour the taste.
‘The taste of redemption,’ he smiled.
‘What’s going on in there?’ Lee shouted.
His footsteps sounded unsteady and, right on cue, he lurched into the wall.
‘What the fuck has happened to Kirtley?’ he bellowed.
Cross tutted loudly, the grin disappearing from his face at the sound of Lee’s curse.
His face set in a furious mask.
The door flew open and Lee, unlikely drunken saviour that he may be, stumbled into the room.
His eyes grew wide at the scene before him.
Before anyone could move, he bent double and heaved all over the carpet.
The stench of bourbon and stale beer formed a vile cocktail with the coppery tang of blood that already hung in the air.
Somehow Lee managed to right himself as Cross moved towards him.
He moved unnervingly fast.
The knife carved a gleaming arc through the air right where Lee’s throat had been, but he moved back just enough to make it miss him.
Lee came back with a wild haymaker that hit Cross full in the face.
His lips burst across his teeth, but he was otherwise unharmed.
As Lee swung his arm for another go, Cross darted in, slashing the knife wildly.
Lee let out a cry as blood welled up out of the wound on his chest.
Deborah lurched in, swinging another bottle at his head.
The blow glanced off his temple, making him lurch to one side as though he’d been drinking all night with them.
‘Satan’s whore,’ he spat, his blood spraying Lee’s face.
‘Run, Lee,’ Deborah shouted.
Lee seemed to hear her words, but he looked far away, no doubt lost in terror and confusion at his wound.
Last night’s three quarts of bourbon might have had something to do with it too.
Still, he moved forward, trying to grab Cross in a bear hug.
Cross moved back but tripped over the spread-eagled leg of one of the bodies.
Deborah darted in and threw her foot full force at his head.
She felt his nose crunch beneath her instep, felt his warm blood spatter her shin.
He grunted, but didn’t give up the fight.
As Lee came down for him, throwing punches like his life depended on it, Cross raised the knife.
Deborah saw what was going to happen before it happened and she shouted a warning to Lee.
But it was too late.
He fell, belly-first, onto the knife.
He convulsed like a fish plucked from the water by a cruel hand, blood gouting from his mouth as his jaws worked soundlessly.
Deborah knew he was done, knew she would be too if she waited around.
‘It’s just you and me now,’ Cross hissed. The smile had returned to his face. ‘I’m jealous of you cos you’re going to see the very face of God.’
‘Fuck you,’ she shouted and aimed another kick at his head.
It missed, adding insult to her boyfriend’s injury as her foot hit him in the jaw.
As she hit the hallway, she trod on a shard of the lamp and hissed as the shard of pot penetrated the sole of her sneaker.
It made running harder, as her foot hurt every time it hit the floor.
Worse, it left smears of blood behind her, showing the bible-bashing lunatic exactly where she was headed.
Never in her life had she felt so scared.
Even though it was her house, she felt like she was on another planet.
Alone in the darkness with the maniac and the blood, it was hostile and alien.
She ran, not really knowing where, only wanting to put some distance between her and the knife-wielding maniac who’d killed her friends.
2.3
Deborah slammed the door to her parent’s bedroom, wincing at the noise it made.
Chest heaving, she leant against the faded white glossed wood.
She desperately tried to think.
Her subconscious had led her here, but at first she had no idea why.
A few moments of thought revealed to her that her dad had a gun in the drawer of his bedside cabinet.
The drawers’ polished mahogany veneers glinted like a gift from God.
The gun was probably the only thing that was going to deter this rampaging madman.
She threw the lock on the door.
The clunk it made was loud but reassuring.
She felt sure it’d take a beating before it broke.
She wedged a chair under the handle.
The urge to pile up more things against it overcame her, but she knew that if that didn’t hold then nothing would.
Instead she moved to the chest of drawers and grabbed the polished brass of the top handle.
‘Shit,’ she hissed, upon discovering it was locked. ‘Just my fucking luck.’
Despairing, she cast her eyes round the room until they landed on the phone.
She picked it up.
Dead line.
She pictured his ominous grin as he realised she had found out the phone was useless.
As if he’d read her mind, he shouted through the door, ‘Phone’s dead. No one is coming to help you.’
In her mind’s eye, she saw the dark orbs of his eyes, seeming to blaze through the door.
Then she cursed having so much weed last night.
This guy was fucking batshit crazy.
He was strong.
He was fast.
And he had murdered all of her friends without too much trouble.
But he was still a man.
Men could bleed.
Men could hurt.
Men could die.
She doubled her efforts at getting the drawer open.
In panic, she tipped the drawers over and started slamming the base of her fists into the wood.
It hurt like hell and she made her fists bleed but she managed to make a small crack.
It was enough to give her hope.
Seemingly in answer to her knocking, his fists began to bray on the door.
He hit it hard, like he was much bigger than his slim frame suggested.
It sounded like a wild animal was trying to batter its way through the door to her.
The whole room seemed to shake and her blood ran cold
at the thought of what he was going to do to her when he got the door open.
His hissed threats left her in no doubt that she was dead if he got in here.
For a few vital seconds, the sound of him slamming the door made her freeze.
Then she gathered her senses.
I’ve got to get in this drawer before he gets in here, she thought.
Her fists weren’t doing the job, so instead she thought to stomp on it.
No, she thought, just as her foot was about to slam into the wood.
If I can escape, I might need to run.
Instead she tried to pick the chest of drawers up.
It was heavy, but she was desperate.
Save your strength, she thought.
If he gets in here I’ll need the gun to stop him.
She tried to lift the drawers but the weight was too much.
If I don’t get this gun I’m dead, she thought.
She dug deep inside herself.
I need to do this.
Letting out an animal grunt that echoed that of the madman doing his utmost to smash the door into kindling, she managed to pick the drawers up.
She felt the strain in her back and her legs.
Using strength she never knew she had, she managed to swing the drawers back.
Once she had them moving, she used the momentum to swing them forwards into the wall.
The wood cracked a little, but not enough.
Again, she thought.
Her legs and lungs blazed.
But she vowed she would not die here, not while she had energy to spare.
She picked up the drawers again, crying out at the weight that seemed to have doubled.
She cried out in agony as she swung it back and threw it into the wall.
A section of door flew into the room and the madman’s leering face appeared in the gap.
‘I’m going to cut the devil out of you,’ he bellowed.
His fists beat on the door, as loud as gunshots.
Put it out of your mind and get those fucking drawers open, she implored herself.
She bent, her back in agony, and picked the cabinet up again.
I don’t know how many more of these I can do, she thought, despairing.
As many as it fucking takes, she vowed, setting her face in a determined grimace.
‘Save your energy for the fight to come,’ he teased.
She ignored him and again hoisted the drawers.
Her back almost gave way this time, but she let out a howl of despair and threw the drawers into the wall again.
The wood split a little more, just as another piece of door was sheared away.
The gap was large enough for him to get his arm through now.
He began to fumble around for the lock.
She watched, numb for a few seconds, then told herself to get on with her task.
She turned so she couldn’t see him and hoisted the drawers again.
Something gave in her leg, the crack echoed by the snap of the bolt drawing back.
A blinding pain in her stomach forced her to pause for a moment.
The door opened slightly then stopped as it hit the chair.
‘Hey, sinner, I’m almost in,’ he giggled.
This is the last one, she thought.
All or nothing.
Life or death.
She let out a bloodcurdling cry and raised the chest of drawers above her head, just as the door came open.
More pops; this time in her back and her right arm as she hurled the cabinet with all her might.
To her surprise, it hit the wall at roughly eyelevel and smashed into shards.
Frantically, she dived onto the drawers, hardly feeling the searing pains in her back and legs.
‘Hey, dickhead, I betcha didn’t know I’ve got a gun in here,’ she laughed.
She threw pieces of the wood at the door, desperate to find the gun.
Her father’s life insurance documents were in there, as were his gun licence papers and photos of her as a kid.
A tear filled her eye as she saw one of her and Hannah playing, happy as pigs in shit, in the back garden.
Just as she began to fear the gun was not there, right at the bottom of the pile of debris, she felt the cold ivory of the handle.
She flicked the safety off and raised it.
Without hesitating, she fired a shot towards the door.
What remained of the door was open slightly, but the raging madman she expected to gun down was nowhere to be seen.
Where the fuck did he go?
She didn’t dare take her eyes from the door, but she wanted to ensure that the gun was loaded.
There were five bullets in the cylinder.
She raked around in the drawer but could find no more.
Five would be enough.
It had to be.
What the fuck do I do? She thought in despair.
Do I get out of here and risk him getting me as I come out?
Has he ran off?
Is he waiting for me somewhere in the house?
Her gut told her he was waiting for her.
It seemed doubtful he’d want to let her go so easily.
Her skin crawled at the sudden silence of the house.
After the din of their respective brayings, it seemed extra silent.
It was as though her world had been muted.
She paused, her ears seeming to prick up like those of a cat, as she listened for signs that he was still in the house.
The only sounds were the chirping of crickets outside.
Thinking fast, she knocked the lights off and went to the window.
She cupped her hands to the window, wincing at the cold of it against her skin, and at the slick feel of the warm blood that she smeared across the dirty glass.
She couldn’t see anyone outside.
The nearest house was a quarter of a mile away down a gravel path.
There was no way of getting there quietly.
In fact, with her body as broken it was, she doubted that she would get there full stop, but she knew that she had to try.
She knew the heavy lifting could have harmed her baby, so for his/her (the scan revealing the baby’s gender was still a few weeks away) sake, she set off.
As she hurled the door open her arm lit up with pain that coursed right through her.
She felt unsteady on her feet.
More pain flared in the back of her legs and the lower part of her back.
I’m still alive.
But for how much longer is up to me.
She held the gun in front of her, feeling that it was not going to be enough to stop him.
Stop it.
He’s just a man.
Men can bleed.
Men can hurt.
Men can die.
This became her mantra to chase away the terror that threatened to turn her to stone.
Inch by agonising inch, she made her way down the hall.
She did her best not to look at the bodies sprawled around her, trying instead to focus on any sound or flicker of movement that indicated he was still there.
The silence made her flesh creep.
She knew he was here somewhere, just waiting to act out his insane agenda on her fragile body.
He was being careful now, cos he knew she had the gun.
She should have felt in charge of the situation but she felt more terrified than ever.
He knew she had the gun, so his attack would be savage.
She knew she’d have to kill him to stop him.
There could be no half measures here.
One of them was going home in a body bag.
And, despite her tough talk, she had the creeping feeling that it was going to be her.
2.4
As Deborah entered the kitchen, the final room between her and the outside, the first thing she noticed was her friend Sam slumped forwards onto the marble breakfast bar, a butcher’s knife sticking out of the
back of his head.
A vast pool of blood dripped over the table’s edge and pattered to the floor.
She couldn’t help but notice that a huge cross had been daubed in blood on the wall.
‘Prepare for salvation,’ was written beneath it in dripping six-inch letters.
A sound made her spin, but it was just blood trickling down from the slit in Darren’s throat.
He slumped back against the fridge, his glassy eyes staring at the still-frosty beer in his left hand.
His right hand held a knife from the same block as that which was buried up to the hilt in Sam’s skull – a weapon he’d never even had chance to defend himself with.
The gun went everywhere her eyes did, but it seemed clear that her enemy wasn’t here.
Has he fucked off? She dared to hope.
The very idea sent life-affirming relief flooding through her.
But then she shook her head.
I can’t let my guard down, or I’ll end up like those poor bastards.
She pulled the kitchen door open quietly, not daring to make a noise that might alert him to the fact that she was on her way outside.
She shivered as the cool night air hit her.
Steam began to rise from the warm blood on her clothes and skin.
A noise from behind her made her jolt and she felt certain that it was him coming for her, eager to wet his knife in her guts, but the reality was arguably even worse.
Camille, the most popular girl in class, was shoved up against the wooden wall of the house.
Her arms were horizontal, nailed to the wall in twin splatters of red.
Nails ran through her feet and into the wall.
The sound seemed to have been her head finally flopping onto her chest as her lungs gave out.
Blood ran down the walls in thick trails.
‘Forgive them, Lord for they know not what they do,’ was written in the dripping blood legend above her.
Deborah’s eyes filled with tears.
Camille had been one of the sweetest kids in class.
Never had a bad word to say about anyone.
She’d been a kind soul with an infectious laugh and some serious talent when it came to penning horror stories.
Her skin crawled as though someone was watching her, but she couldn’t see where they were.
She wasn’t even sure if there was anyone there.
The gun held out in front of her, she made her way down to the neighbour’s house.
With every step she took, she felt closer to safety.
