Loved BEHIND THE MASK; THE RISE OF LESLIE VERNON, Please review if you love it too!
She turns the key, the simple gesture difficult as her arms weigh like lead, heavy and uncomfortable. Pushing further, she stumbles into her apartment, exhaustion solidifying in her bones, attracted to the force of gravity, threatening to spill her body onto the floor. The bed awaits her. Barely had her feet managed an encouraged step when a thought pierces through the foggy muddle of her brain. 'The alarm system! Turn off the alarm system!" Throwing herself at the wall, fingers rise unsteadily and with great deliberation presses in the code while a tiny voice inside her head prays that she gets it right.
The arrival of the police is another annoyance that she hasn't the energy to deal with. Dragging herself forward, shoes scrapping the floor, barely manoeuvring through the obstacles in her way. The fatigue is so extreme that it is work to keep her head above the darkness that entrenches her, threatening to swallow her. Somewhere from the deep recesses of her mind, a voice screams at her not to fall asleep. Legs buckle under the strain and unable to support her own weight, she tumbles to the floor.
It happens again like it did the last few times. Dark. It is the sort of darkness horror stories are borne from, dark and bitterly cold, she can feel the pressure of solitary press around the base of her skull. She can feel the harsh stomp of footfalls, deliberate and determined. Adrenalin pumps in her veins, fresh fear and desperation saturates her bloodstream.
The hammering of her heart echoes in her ears but they listen carefully despite it. Her instincts driving her to survival by any means necessary. Fingers tighten around the handle of the ax, willing it to be a part of her body. It had to be done, feeding her desire for reprisal, fanning the flames until it was a roar that kept her movements somewhat controlled. The shack with its decrepit structure and pitiful ties to the land beckoned her like a mental asylum to the innocently insane. She is running from pure adrenalin, motivated by the twisted screams and the spilling of dark-rich blood that coats her hands. In her mind's eye, she can envisage the plotting of Leslie, the maniac gleam in his eyes and the silent, animalistic panting for the thrill of the kill and infamy. Somewhere among the shadows, Taylor thinks she sees a likeness of herself, urging him forward, providing a silent, interested spectator.
It is their final battle and it hangs over their heads like a used guillotine, dripping gore and the people with their twisted ideals and bloodthirsty desires rejoice. The moment is jarring in its intensity, the colours a clash of dark and light. Straddling her, hands squeezing the air from her lungs while his soulless eyes bore down on her. Fleetingly she wonders how it is fair that their last moment is so intimate when nothing of the time spent together has added up to any meaning. Abruptly, he halts his murderous rampage when she thought Satan himself was incapacitated by the carnage-with delight.
With one swift motion, the mask is ripped from his face with one hand with a sick tearing sound of flesh, She welcomes the release to suck in mouthfuls of life-giving air. Her eyes focus on the figure, expecting to see a fleshy pulsing mass of oily red. Instead it is the face she knows almost companionably. A smile lifts his lips and suddenly the dangerous, sunken pallor has been vanquished under a charming, almost warm facile. Eyes seemed to sparkle as they look down on her almost with passion, the kind that sends a hot heat wave through her body that was once chilled to the bone.
She wanted to move, but the heated look pinned her to the floor. Leaning forward, his lips hovered over her own that trembled with anticipation and anxiousness. Sweat awashed her skin, allowing his hands to skid easily over her arms, goosebumps erupting. She tried to form words but her mouth was dry and unusable. Callused hands snaked around to grasp the back of her neck; he drew her into a fiery kiss, their tongues battling. The taste of him, coppery, tangy and so bitterly forbidden robbed her of breath. The world was locked in a freeze frame and everything else that mattered was reduced to particles of dust that was swept away by his hot caress. She gave a muffled moan as he nipped at her bottom lip, rolling it between his teeth before dipping his tongue into her warm cavern. It sought out hers with an ardent desire that left her whole body buzzing with currents of intense electricity. He presses against her; the weight is almost comforting instead of the suffocation she expects. Fingers thread through her hair and hands skim her planes and curves, rubbing areas that elicit moans from deep within her throat. It is when his hand breaches the elastic of her pants and slides into her wetness that she is struck with the horror of it all and the worst, her stomach tightens, she cant bring herself to care, not when he embraces her with his body. The iron sweetness mingled with the sharp aroma of death, burns her like a small inferno. She can feel herself cooking from the inside. Her focus is on the turbid of pleasure that his expert hands invoke on her body.
Their bodies match each others movement of desperate need. Fingers stroke taut, burning skin, explored to absorb the distinct physical signatures of each other. He had always been the only man to provoke such animalistic tendencies in her. Surrendering completely, the world spinning as he dug his fingers into her flesh, mouth biting and marking her as he had scarred her mentality on that horrible night. She knows she should feel conflicted, she should care that her body was numb before coming alive under his fervent gaze. The cruel slash of his mouth, the black, piercing acuteness of his eyes that threaten to whisk her away with him to his tormented existence, fearful-excitement, she cannot place where she belongs. To the survivors or the monster. Breath scorched her ear as the dry, morbid whisper resounding like the brittle crack of autumn leaves and whose bone chilling tenacity whispers with echoes of past nightmares. "Every legend needs his survivor girl, without her- he is a pigment of night terrors. She brings him alive!" A bleat, weak and submissive like a lamb emitted from her throat and just like that she knows she has capitulated.
Her eyes flutter open. The first thing she notices is the bright warmth of the sunlight streaming through the window, the curtains swaying in the breeze-it is a beautiful day. A new beginning. Brushing the sleep from her eyes, she pushes herself into a sitting position. The dream is vivid, the aftershocks registering through her entire body. But was it really a dream. Then, with mounting horror, she realizes that she is wearing a thin nightgown, the simple material hugging her skin; lace concealing reddish blue bruises and white, purer on her sun-kissed tan. A woman of the modern era would have no use for it. Taylor is in bed, tucked securely under her satin covers and safe, yet a fission of deviant excitement chides gently that naivety does not suit her. Someone had entered her domain. Her nose detects the faintest odour of burnt skin and the pungent aroma of medicine. Leslie is no longer a formidable spectre that has been vanquished, lurking only in the deep recesses of her mind where nightmares are dredged from..He is real. A Man. And he wants her...