Under The Blade

by Serafini, Matt

  Caleb clamped a hand down on her ass and squeezed, planting his lips on the nape of her neck.

  Marcy pulled her top off and dropped it, ruffling Caleb’s hair as he kissed her breasts. “But I don’t think we’re going to get that far.”

  “Works for me,” Vince said, unbuckling his pants and shimmying out of them as he approached.

  Marcy pushed his head to her free breast and moaned gently as both guys kissed and fondled them.

  A beam of light sliced through the night on the path at their backs. Marcy noticed it right off, pushing the boys from her bosom. They struggled like hungry calves, leaning into her the more she resisted.

  “Cut the shit,” she said at last and broke away, fondling the darkness beneath for her discarded shirt. “There’s someone there.”

  The guys were now turning toward the light.

  “Hey buddy,” Caleb grunted, “quit shining that fucking thing in my face.”

  Marcy was still crouched and fumbling for her top when a pop erupted from behind the flashlight, accompanied by a cracking splat somewhere above. Caleb dropped from the air, crashing onto her back like a ton of bricks. Startled, she writhed and Caleb rolled off her bare back, collapsing into the dirt with a thud. She got upright in time for another pop, and an explosion of skull slapped her cheek as Vince dropped next. His body twitched and writhed at her feet as blood left his body in eager gulps.

  Marcy went to scream as the killer lurched forward, hurling the flashlight down at her feet. She jumped back and glanced at the bodies: bloodied holes in their heads and lazy drifts of smoke rising up out of broken skulls.

  Before she could say anything, the gun barrel glinted in the moonlight, followed by a thunderous boom and a blinding muzzle flash.

  FOUR

  In the evening’s latest hours, just before the day burned out the night, he found himself awake and walking.

  His eye adjusted to the world around him as he stepped back into his shelter, focusing on the structural beams that ran across a stone ceiling. His hand shot up over his face and he rubbed the torn and jagged flesh where his nose had once been—and was again.

  I’m…healing…

  He managed to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror back there, while the blonde woman bathed. The desire to kill her was great, but his appearance was worse. It wasn’t the way he remembered himself and stared at the reflection feeling disbelief and confusion.

  Why am I alive?

  A lingering piece of him knew enough to contemplate this.

  He put his boot down on the dirty mattress and jiggled it. It squished and water seeped out—too soaked to sleep on.

  Lumbering out from beneath the lean-to while embracing the cold and cavernous air around him, his heart pounded with excitement as his attention fell upon a stack of broken remains. Dirty bones and spotted skulls lie in a discarded pile stacked to his knees. His work carried out a long time ago. At least, it felt like a long time ago. He never kept time and only vaguely acknowledged its passing.

  Hunting was the only thing that brought him joy. It was both thrilling and necessary. When he didn’t protect his domain, terrible things happened.

  He wondered how long it had been between murders. There must’ve been tools down here but he couldn’t find any. As he searched, his bones began to ache and his temples throbbed. His body was snug and uncomfortable, like slipping into a shirt two sizes too small. He thought of things he didn’t understand and suffered visions of those he couldn’t recognize. Was this what it was like to get older?

  His brain scattered like cockroaches at the flip of a light switch. The impulse to kill gnawed at him, turning over in his mind despite the confusion.

  Last time he’d killed, it had been so easy. Wandering through the woods, protecting his wilderness, there had been a glimpse of her through the trees. He saw her moving down the country road, walking faster than they usually did. His eye caught sight and at that moment, she was as good as dead. He ghosted her, using the habitat for coverage while maintaining distance. All he could think about was ripping her to shreds beneath his blade—his heart leaping into his throat as he stalked.

  The hunting knife had slipped from its sheath, rendering him the most powerful predator that ever lived. He kept pace while fantasizing about all the ways to kill her: a forceful jab through the top of her skull, or the knife’s hungry teeth sawed across her throat. Multiple stabs in the back. Hands wrapped around her throat. He preferred looking them in the eyes as he did it—that wide-eyed look of horror and disbelief never failed to excite.

  He had remained indecisive right up until that final moment. The whole thing almost collapsed when a car pulled over, a male voice offering a ride. There hadn’t been any way of knowing what was said, but she stormed off in a huff and the car peeled away in much the same fashion.

  Giving him the break he’d been waiting for.

  The hitchhiker had stepped well off the road and dropped her backpack into the dirt. Her back was to him as she sat down on top of it, sighing. He came for her with purpose, closing the gap in seconds. His eye wide with anticipation, transfixed by the sliver of exposed black flesh between her waistband and ruffled top.

  Flesh that needed cutting.

  He had decided that the knife wasn’t necessary at the last minute. It dropped from his grip as he lurched out from behind the last tree and brought both hands down around her neck. She yelped and struggled, but he yanked her off the pack and hurled her into the forest. She tried screaming but all he had to do was flex his arm tighter, and her protests became crumpled gags. She fought for air while they retreated from the road.

  The girl had been barely conscious by the time he released her. She dropped into the dirt with a soft thud and he threw his weight atop her as he liked to do—the best view to the dying game. Her eyes popped but it was much too late. His hands, thick and broken nails on all fingers, pushed up on both sides of her face. With one simple motion, he jerked her head to the left and closed his eye.

  The neck snap was always an orgasm to his ears, and he remembered the drool falling from his lips, and plopping onto her dead flesh.

  Her body had gone limp, and she stared up at the chirping birds with unblinking eyes. Their song was oblivious to the barbaric murder it had just scored. He remembered staying there for a moment or two, watching her corpse with a hunter’s satisfaction. Then he took a contented walk to the roadside in order to retrieve her bag and his discarded weapon.

  She had been beautiful once. The memory was old now, and certain details were lost to time but he never forgot those beautiful, bulging eyes of horror. He loved it because it made him feel strong.

  He remembered dragging her corpse back home, overwhelmed with disappointment and sadness that they didn’t stay pretty for very long.

  Now she was disgusting. Just bones he could no longer find—lost in a pile of a dozen others. Again, he wondered why he was awake, certain he shouldn’t be. It must have been because of her.

  The one that got away.

  The one who hurt him.

  He often dreamt of the things he would do if he ever saw her again. The need for revenge was instinctual, as automatic as a reflex. And yet, he had scurried off tonight like a frightened animal.

  Things had changed and he was out of practice. Before he could take his revenge, he was going to have to get used to the fact that he wasn’t young anymore.

  Though he still had the urge.

  He wondered how many had grown comfortable with passing through these woods in the time he was away. This made him anxious and angry as he pulled a black parka over his shivering body. The coat wasn’t as warm as his old one.

  Tonight was sloppy. His body felt weak and he knew that he was going to have to act quickly to kill her.

  She can’t escape again.

  He wanted to tear her blonde hair (it had been red the last time) from her scalp in fistfuls. Her eyes, bluer than Lake Forest Grove, begged for his thumbs to gouge them. Lo
ng and lanky legs—how easy they’d break. Pasty white flesh needed to be repainted with her life’s blood.

  A second later, he knew her name.

  Melanie Holden.

  She wasn’t going to leave Forest Grove alive this time. But before he could kill her, he needed a mask. Weapons.

  And practice.

  ***

  Tanya pulled up to Rafe’s house at a quarter to nine and honked the horn. She thought about going to the door to retrieve her boyfriend, but Mr. Hanscom was a creep who couldn’t keep his eyes to himself. It was worse on summery days like this, when all she wore was a pair of low-rise denim shorts and a tank top.

  No, today the car horn would have to suffice.

  Rafe must’ve been waiting by the window because he came right out, jogging down the stone path with a dopey smile on his face.

  He should’ve been the one to drive, but the moron totaled his car last night while racing his buddy across the Grocery Basket parking lot—his Oldsmobile hopped an island medium at fifty miles per hour, leaving the undercarriage a busted mess of oily wires. The loser didn’t see so well at night, apparently, and failed to stomp the brakes until it was too late.

  Today she was forcing him to go to an eye appointment, after which they’d hit the highway in search of something fun to do. The one benefit of growing up in Forest Grove was that everywhere else was more interesting. They could sit in a rest area, drinking sodas and cranking Eminem, and it would be better than whatever they could come up with around here.

  “I can’t believe you’re not grounded,” she said as he got in and kissed her cheek.

  “Like anyone could keep me away from you.” He jerked his thumb toward the house. “Especially them. Mom’s just happy I’m alive. And she rules the roost, so…”

  “That crazy woman from the other day texted me. Wants to meet up and have a chat.”

  “I figured she’d be checked into a methadone clinic by now.”

  “Do you even know what that means?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s married to the chief. And she didn’t look like a krunkhead to me.”

  “Because you’ve seen so many of them?”

  “I just feel bad because everyone’s talking like she’s some kind of junkie. My parents don’t want me to have anything to do with her. Yours?”

  Rafe shrugged. “I didn’t mention it to them.”

  It was no wonder that Rafe kept his parents at an arm’s length. Everything was an overreaction where they were concerned. Tanya had eaten dinner there once and forgot to inform them of her gluten allergy beforehand. Mrs. Hanscom looked at her with the kind of disdain that might’ve better served a teenage pregnancy confession.

  They drove downtown, and Rafe decided he wanted an iced coffee from Dunkins.

  “We’re going to the diner, you can get one there.”

  He was actually pouting when they pulled into the restaurant’s parking lot.

  The chief’s wife waited for them on one of the picnic tables outside. Rafe volunteered to go in and place an order while Tanya walked over and took a seat across from Mrs. Brady.

  “I, uh, never got the opportunity to thank you two for the other day.” Trish wore dark jeans and a faded tee representing some band Tanya had never heard of—probably a hundred years old and long forgotten. “Got your phone number off your Facebook…you really should tweak those privacy settings.”

  Unlike most of the kids her age, Tanya didn’t live and die by social media. Something about it seemed incredibly sad, and she wasn’t self-absorbed enough to believe her every thought needed documenting. No one was that deep or interesting—especially people from this yawner of a hometown.

  Rafe interrupted when he returned with double fists of coffee. “Are you doing better?” He dropped beside Tanya.

  The answer to his question was obvious, if only because Trish looked alive now. She hadn’t two days ago. They had snuck out for an afternoon on the lake, the perfect place to get stoned and mess around. Instead, they found a woman face-down in the dirt, completely unresponsive.

  “Much better, thank you.” Trish put her hand out and Rafe shook it. “I’m sure you’re both wondering why I’m wasting your time, right?”

  Tanya pressed her lips around her straw and sucked up a mouthful of mocha almond coffee.

  “Alright, listen,” Trish said, “I grew up in this town. I see that it hasn’t changed much. You guys are going to be, what? Seniors next year?”

  “Thankfully,” Tanya said.

  Trish laughed; her cheery white grin an odd contrast against the onyx lip color surrounding her mouth. “Well then, you’ve got a vested interest in this.”

  “In what?” Rafe asked.

  “In this town. I hated going to school here because of the way they treated us. Home before nine, in bed by twelve. Don’t listen to loud music, don’t read the wrong books, and whatever you do, don’t fucking drink or you’ll turn into a whore.”

  Tanya and Rafe exchanged mutual glances that said, hey, maybe she isn’t so bad. True, she was a little strange, but her boots were hellacool and she proved that the alt look worked beyond high school. Trish didn’t seem to care that most of the people in town—according to her parents—were uncomfortable around her, and that was pretty badass.

  “It is kinda lame here,” Tanya said. “But, hey, one more year until college.”

  “Yeah, but what if you didn’t have to spend the next year waiting for it to be over?”

  Tanya jiggled the ice around in her coffee cup, losing interest.

  “I’m saying that maybe we push back a little. Maybe the juniors and seniors organize a summer dance. Something that will stomp the superstition out of this town once and for all.”

  “I didn’t even know Cyrus Hoyt was real until last year,” Rafe said. “Figured he was just an urban legend. I mean, I know that stupid rhyme like everyone else, but…”

  “It was the same when I was in high school,” Trish said. “And since I’m going to be living here again, settling down, it’s worth my time to get involved. Kids are going to be kids, and this place is all about sheltering them from the world. That needs to stop.”

  This was making a certain kind of sense. Tanya got pulled over by Officer Johnson last week, and he wasted no time giving her hell. All she’d done was drive through the downtown strip blasting deadmau5, and caught a lecture on ‘irresponsibility’ as if she’d been speeding.

  She was still a little sore about it.

  Trish grinned. “Do you want to set something up?”

  “Why are you so concerned with helping us?” Tanya asked.

  “If I ever have kids, I refuse to bring them into this kind of fucking bourgeois community.”

  “I dig that,” Rafe said, slurping the very bottom of his coffee cup for the remnants of syrupy caramel.

  Tanya did too. Her imagination was already running wild with possibilities. If the grove were to have a dance, wouldn’t the girl responsible for delivering it be a shoe-in for homecoming queen?

  My gift to the class of 2014.

  She’d be a hero to everyone.

  Yeah, she was definitely warming to the idea.

  Trish must’ve noticed the look on her face, because now she was grinning too.

  “So, does this mean you’re in?”

  “We are,” Tanya said. Rafe would follow because that’s what a good boyfriend did. Besides, he only stood to gain from this—he had the pleasure of walking into these potential dances with a total babe on his arm.

  “Beautiful,” Trish said. “Just think of what we can do for future classes. And telling the establishment to fuck itself won’t be all that bad either.”

  “I like it,” Tanya said. “What do you need us to do?”

  ***

  Melanie wasn’t doing any better today. Sitting in front of her laptop, the words refused to come.

  She’d decided last night that the soggy footprint was far too small to belong to C
yrus Hoyt. Remembering that night at camp, his giant boots stomped toward her, shaking the walls and floors as he readied an attack.

  No way could his feet be so—dainty.

  After finding that watery outline last night, she’d hurried downstairs to interrogate Desiree. The only possible explanation was that the old woman had come into her room for one reason or another while she’d been asleep in the tub. Melanie was currently the only guest, and so there wasn’t another suspect.

  To make matters worse, the old woman had denied everything: “Once my guest is settled in, it’s their room. Not mine. Last thing I would do is violate your privacy, hon.”

  The incident had cast a cloud over an expertly prepared supper of seared chicken in apricot sauce with basmati rice on the side. Melanie simply did not believe Desiree, however adamant her denial. What felt more likely was that the old woman had snuck in for some reason and was now embarrassed that she’d been caught.

  After dinner, Melanie had never felt more vulnerable. There was no alarm system to detect intruders, and only a simple deadbolt to keep the world locked out of her room. Every wind wisp gave her gooseflesh, while each branch tussle sent her imagination hurdling into overdrive. She imagined Cyrus Hoyt’s muddy welder’s visor and tattered army coat creeping through the cover of night, his remaining eye leering up at the third floor window with fantasies of murder on his mind.

  This morning brought a continuation of those feelings, so she’d packed her things and was all set to leave when an image of Jill Woreley stopped her dead in her tracks. The girl was standing in front of what should’ve been her class, gum smacking on her lips while explaining the significance of the first line in epic poetry. “You guys have to understand that the first line is a succinct explanation for the poem at large.”

  Of course, the girl would use that nugget, Melanie had offered it up when Jill complained of difficulty while deciphering Homer.