Psycho Killers in Love

by C. T. Phipps

  “Holy building blocks,” Carrie said, coming in through the door. “What the hell is all this?”

  In her arms were Cujo and the Necronomicon. The old book was made of vellum—sheep’s skin—instead of human skin because that didn’t carry ink very well.

  “I’m building a diorama of death,” I replied, putting a little pirate in one of the guard towers because I’d run out of little green soldier men to place on the board.

  “Oh good,” Carrie said. “I was worried your lobotomy kicked in and you were back to acting like a seven-year-old.”

  “None of my lobotomies took,” I said. “Yours either.”

  “I no longer suffer depression,” Carrie replied, looking my creation over. “I’m also prone to uncontrollable giggling during inappropriate situations.”

  “What’s an inappropriate situation?” I asked.

  “Chopping a pedophile’s hands off,” Carrie said.

  “That’s inappropriate?” I asked, genuinely surprised.

  “Apparently,” Carrie said.

  “Bark!” Cujo said. He was already looking better even though that was objectively impossible.

  “Even if he disagrees,” Carrie said. “Can I let him run around your model like Godzilla?”

  “No,” I said, dryly.

  “Spoilsport. Why do you always have to be the responsible one?” Carrie asked. “Let your hair down. Go wild.”

  “I tried,” I said, sighing. “I got myself killed.”

  “You got better!” Carrie said, putting down Cujo. He moved under the pool table and began playing with a shoe attached to a human tibia. We really needed to clean this place up. The meth dealers had left it a mess.

  “Why do you have Grandpa’s old book of spells?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.

  The book rattled a bit in Carrie’s hands. Unearthly blue-white light was seen flashing inside the pages. “Oh, I wanted to ask Grandpa if he had any advice about our situation.”

  “Did it help?” I asked.

  “No,” Carrie said, frowning. “He just asked why the two of us hadn’t given him any great grandkids yet.”

  “Ugh,” I said.

  “I have many more years to start a family,” Carrie said. “It’s just not right to pressure a girl like that.”

  That was when the book flew open and a horrifying voice moaned from another dimension where the souls of the dead were tormented mercilessly. “Children of Lamia, beware of Bloody Mary! The Reveal is upon us! The Samhain tithe to hell must be paid! Six must die! The streets will run red with blood and the Elder Gods shall arise otherwise! Doom!”

  Carrie shut the book tightly. “Do we have duct tape or maybe some steel chains?”

  “Over there,” I gestured. “Do you think any of that was true?”

  “Grandpa was a man that Dad called unstable,” Carrie said, holding the book tight and then using her teeth to unroll the duct tape before mummy wrapping the book. “He’s probably too busy communing with the Elder Gods to know what’s going on.”

  “Maybe,” I said, not sure.

  Weird as it may sound, I had some affection for my insane grandfather from Dulwich, Massachusetts. Jeremiah Patrick may have been a lunatic both alive and dead with values wholly irreconcilable with the modern world, but he’d tried to protect us from our father’s abuses. He’d followed a twisted religion that believed the monsters beyond had to be appeased with blood sacrifices in order to prevent them from destroying the world. I didn’t think it was true, but he’d carried out his slashing with grim sadness rather than sadistic pleasure. Maybe that didn’t make a difference to the rest of the world, but it did to me. When Billy recruited us to put down his father for good, I regretted it. I still did. At least he didn’t hold it against us—as far as I knew.

  “So, what’s the plan, Stan?” Carrie asked, looking at the model I’d created. “Also, is there a reason some are green army men and others are pirates?”

  “Yes. A reason I am keeping from you for reasons that can only be discussed under the light of a full moon,” I said, picking up a pen from the side of the model and pointing with it. “Now pay attention because this plan is extremely complicated.”

  Carrie rolled her eyes. “Is the plan just to blow a big hole in the wall, sneak in somewhere else, and then sneak out with the prisoners while they’re distracted?”

  I paused. “Maybe.”

  “Because that’s the exact same plan you used to break us out of the asylum,” Carrie said.

  I didn’t respond for a moment. “That just means it works.”

  “How did you get the explosives in the first place?” Carrie asked.

  “I made them, I replied. “It’s amazing what you can create with sufficient time, many chemistry books, and a staff that’s willing to use its patients as labor because of budget cuts.”

  “Personally, I think it was all a sinister conspiracy to turn us into more effective serial killers before letting us escape. This is all part of a larger plan to keep the public afraid and passive,” Carrie said, picking up a little plastic pony. “Is the pony supposed to be me or Nancy?”

  “The pony is a pony,” I said, ignoring her insane theory. The government didn’t need slashers to achieve that. They had communists, terrorists, misbehaving teenagers, immigrants, hippies, and the poor to keep the affluent scared. “There’s a stable in this compound for when the rich want to go hunting their victims on horseback.”

  “God, the rich are just a different species, aren’t they?” Carrie said, putting down the Necronomicon on the pool table’s edge. It started bouncing away before flopping down on the floor. “In any case, I think it’s a good plan. I know Nancy wants revenge, but we’ll be in their territory. Once we get her friends out, we can take pictures and find out our targets’ identities. Then we’ll hunt ’em on Wall Street or in the Hamptons or wherever. Good times. The Hamptons need more murder.”

  Growing up poor and imprisoned by the government had made her quite the class warrior. “So much for my CPA business. Still, it’ll be easier said than done to find out their identities.”

  “Eh, we’ll just torture it out of their minions,” Carrie said. “We can also summon Charles’ ghost. I kept one of his hands.”

  I blinked. “Torture doesn’t work for interrogation. It’s more a fun thing according to Grandpa. Necromancy would work, though.”

  I wasn’t sure if Nancy would want to hunt down her attackers after we rescued her friends. As nightmarish as her situation was—being murdered was a traumatic experience after all—the fact was she had a normal life she could return to. Well, semi-normal since she’d apparently been raised by vigilante survivalists.

  I couldn’t escape what I was, particularly if my sister was going to continue hunting no matter what. This Fraternity offered an opportunity to escape the central paradox of my existence by giving me a target that was socially acceptable to destroy. Well, maybe not socially acceptable given they were rich and powerful, but understandable. Nancy would have to be insane to want to continue that sort of crusade.

  You underestimate a woman’s capacity for revenge, the Spirit of the Hunt said.

  Perhaps I just don’t want to get my hopes up, I said.

  Hehehe, the Spirit of the Hunt chuckled.

  “Glad to see we’re on the same page. Oh, that reminds me, I have a present for you. Two actually.”

  “A present?” I asked. “When did you get time to get me a present?”

  “Eh, it’s almost Christmas,” Carrie said, reaching into the pocket of her jacket. “So, I made an effort. Some day we will have one that doesn’t completely suck.”

  “We can only hope,” I said, not believing it.

  Carrie then handed me a...pocket protector? One with pens already in it. Used ones.

  “Uh, thanks,” I said, looking at the object strangely.

  “It’s a pocket protector,” Carrie said.

  “I can see that,” I said, unsure what to make of it. “Why
?”

  “Because you’re the Accountant!” Carrie said, as if I was missing something obvious. “You can make this part of your costume.”

  “My costume,” I said, frowning. “Do I need a costume?”

  “Yes!” Carrie said. “You’ve chosen a really weird theme, but you’ve got to commit to it now. You need to beat people to death with calculators, stuff their throats with spreadsheets, and use a catch phrase. Maybe, ‘The only things certain are death and taxes’ or ‘I’ve got your number, bitch.’”

  “Uh huh,” I said, sighing. “I was really hoping the presents weren’t murder related.”

  “Why?” Carrie asked, confused. “I also got you this pair of glasses.”

  Carrie pulled out a pair of black glasses frames that were conspicuous by the fact they’d had their lenses removed. There was also tape wrapped around the middle, increasing their nerd factor considerably.

  “Why no lenses?” I asked.

  “Well, the guy I killed them for had a particularly thick prescription,” Carrie said. “I mean, it’s not like you’re going to benefit if you can’t see. I figure we can get some window lenses inserted when we’re not in Nowheresville.”

  “You have a very weird idea about what accountants do,” I replied.

  “Says the guy who has never had a customer and is only certified due to extensive fraud,” Carrie said, lacking any condemnation in her voice.

  “And whose fraud pays for everything?” I asked, smiling.

  “Oh yes, what a wonderful castle you’ve acquired for us,” Carrie said. “I still think we should squat in houses for sale.”

  I smirked and put my pocket protector in the front of my jacket before putting on the glasses. Oddly, I felt a little different when I did so. I felt stronger and more in control of myself. Power objects were something many slashers possessed. Like Fred and his glove or Mike and his mask.

  They were focuses for the mystical power inside it and enhanced them, even as it weakened us to be apart from them. It seemed ridiculous mine would be a pocket protector and a pair of glasses with no lens, but perhaps the act of naming myself had occult consequences.

  Or you just appreciate a gift from your sister, the Spirit of the Hunt said. Power objects put the psycho in psycho somatic.

  That is a terrible pun, I said.

  “It is, isn’t it?” Carrie said.

  “Bark-bark!” Cujo said, holding the tibia in its mouth.

  “Oh, you’re so cute!” Carrie said, scooping him up. “What kind of evil monster would hurt a dog? Even Hitler liked dogs and I’d totally kill him!”

  “Dad,” I said.

  “So, our father was worse than Hitler?” Carrie asked. “I’m cool with saying that.”

  “I don’t think it works that way,” I said. “Also, you should take that out of his mouth. We don’t know where it’s been.”

  “Fine, fine,” Carrie said, pulling the bone out to Cujo’s disappointment. “So, we need to make a bomb. I saw a tractor supply store and community college science building in the next town over, so that shouldn’t be difficult. Anything else?”

  “We’ll need a school bus or large transport van,” I replied. “If all seven of her remaining friends are still alive that’s a lot of people to transport. There’s also something else I want to get. Something that I know you’ll immediately reject but we should at least consider.”

  “What?”

  “Guns,” I said.

  “No!” Carrie said, throwing the tibia over her shoulder and holding Cujo. “No guns!”

  “We have a lot of people to kill,” I said, dryly.

  “No guns! It’s against the rules of the slasher!” Carrie snapped.

  “There are no rules!” I said.

  Yes, there are, the Spirit of the Hunt said. You don’t want to make me angry. Guns make things too easy.

  I closed my eyes. “Fine, no guns.”

  “I like guns,” Nancy said, walking into the room with a quilt wrapped around her. “Wow, that is a really impressive Lego set. Where did you learn to build like that?”

  “Arts and crafts at the asylum,” I said. “I think we can get everything together for the attack by three in the afternoon.”

  “Good,” Nancy said. “I couldn’t sleep. It turns out that I dream of horrifying murders now.”

  “Ah,” I replied.

  “Isn’t that normal dreaming?” Carrie asked. “I mean, aside from sex dreams with John Stamos and Lori Loughlin.”

  Nancy and I looked at her.

  “What? Full House is awesome,” Carrie said. “Never missed an episode at the crazy house. It’s perfect viewing for the green and blue pill combo.”

  “Bark!” Cujo added.

  Nancy rubbed her eyes. “Listen, two more things. One, could we get me some new clothes while we’re out?”

  “Sure,” Carrie said. “Probably not a good idea running around in the middle of winter in a skirt that short. I mean, it’s a great look for you but sexy Goth is not proper camping wear.”

  Nancy rolled her eyes. “Says the girl who’d dress as an evil ice skater if she could pull it off.”

  Carrie narrowed her eyes. “I told you that in confidence. Also, have you ever tried to stab someone on ice skates? I was thirteen and it just made me look like an idiot.”

  “Oh, yeah, I remembered that. That was hilarious,” I said, smiling. “I almost submitted it to America’s Funniest Home Videos. That would just have just gotten us all arrested, though. What was the second thing, Nancy?”

  Nancy looked unsure how to explain then shrugged. “Well, I got bored and decided to explore the house while you were building your toy set and Carrie was unloading boxes of axes.”

  “We only have three,” Carrie said.

  “So, I went into the basement,” Nancy said. “Uh, are you guys aware there’s a vampire down there?”

  Chapter Eight

  As surprised as I was by Nancy’s revelation, I decided to play it cool. “How do you know it’s a vampire?”

  “It’s a desiccated corpse with fangs and a stake through its heart. I don’t know much about the supernatural, but I think that’s probably a vampire,” Nancy said, lifting an open beer can I hadn’t seen before and finishing its contents. She tossed it over one shoulder, and it clanged against the floor behind her. Did her mother and grandmother raise her in a barn?

  “It could just be a Halloween decoration,” Carrie said. “We used to decorate corpses up like that. I remember—”

  “It’s probably a vampire,” I interrupted her.

  Vampires were the most common form of supernatural, being able to spread their infection to others easily. Supposedly, they kept an elaborate society behind the scenes. Every major city in the world was rumored to contain 5-10 of their ranks. Enough that they could feed without stepping into one another’s territory but not so few as to be unable to gather when they needed the company of others. I’d heard most of this second hand, though, so I couldn’t exactly verify it. Fellow patient Wilson was a veritable font of supernatural information when he wasn’t rambling about how he was the President of the United States trapped in another man’s body due to a Romani curse. At least he’d gotten over the racism and the accidentally causing WW2 thing.

  “Probably,” Carrie said. “So, you want to go downstairs and cut off its head?”

  “Sure.” Stretching my arms and rolling my neck, I looked back at my model. “I’ve been at this for hours. I could use a good corpse decapitation.”

  “I’m only letting you have this because I love you,” Carrie said, looking at me and singing. “Black Christmas, I ripped out a heart. The very next day, I threw it in the bay.”

  “I don’t think that’s how the song goes but thank you,” I said, turning back to Nancy. “Do you want to come?”

  “You don’t want to talk to the vampire?” Nancy asked, confused.

  “Why would we want to talk to a vampire?” Carrie asked. “It’s not like slashers get alo
ng with each other let alone other supernaturals. Well, some of them.”

  “Yes, we have too many complications to deal with. I—” I started to speak.

  “Wait, is it an ugly ’Salem’s Lot-esque vampire or a hot and sexy vampire?” Carrie asked.

  “It’s a mummified corpse so I don’t—” Nancy started to say.

  “I’ll get some of the blood seasoning from our ribs,” Carrie said, walking off.

  “Huh,” Nancy said, looking at her. “That didn’t go how I expected.”

  I sighed. “I’ve come to accept that my life is the whims of mysterious forces manipulating me for my amusement. Finding a vampire in the basement isn’t the weirdest thing I’ve ever encountered. Not even the top ten.”

  I’ll work harder, the Spirit of the Hunt said.

  I am not your puppet, I said.

  No, you’re my doll, the Spirit of the Hunt said.

  “I thought you didn’t believe in destiny?” Nancy asked.

  I blinked. “How would you know that?”

  Nancy blinked and looked concerned. “Just, an impression I’ve got of you.”

  “Huh,” I said, not entirely satisfied with that answer.

  “Grr,” Cujo growled, staring at her with what I swore was suspicious eyes.

  “Got the blood,” Carrie returned, holding a plastic tub of hemoglobin. “Hey, Nancy, what do you think of William’s new look?”

  Nancy looked at me. “He looks like he’s dressed as an accountant for Halloween. He’s just lacking the briefcase.”

  “Shit!” Carrie cursed, causing Nancy to flinch. “I knew I forgot the briefcase.”

  “What is with you and swearing?” I asked, looking at her. “Did bad language traumatize you as a child?”