Jason Chandler: No.
Jeff: Lol, that overtime, tho.
That Engineer: This was heavily inspired by the Halloween movies, mainly Halloween 4: The Return of Michael Myers (1988). A lot of horror fan say it sucks, but it's probably my favorite after Halloween II (1981).
Guest: Yeah, Ronnie Anne is extremely thin and anorexic looking in this.
Emergency Alert System broadcast transmitted across the Midwest, April 15, 2028, 6:45pm, CST.
The following message is transmitted to the request of the Michigan State Police. A criminally insane mental patient escaped from the Westover Santiatrium at 2:15 pm Central Standard Time. A doctor and an orderly were killed during the escape and several others afterward. An all-points bullinet has been issued for Ronalda Anne Santiago, twenty-one. Santiago is described as a Hispanic female, 5'6 and weighing 105 pounds with black hair and brown eyes. She is considered armed and extremely dangerous. All residents of central Michigan are advised to stay inside and keep their doors and windows locked. If you see her, alert police immediately. Do not approach her. This message is effective until further notice. Please tune in to your local broadcast or cable station for more updates
As the last dying rays of the late afternoon sun withdrew from the world, leaving cool, purple twilight in its place, streets emptied and families across the region hunkered behind locked doors. Panic and cabin fever set in quickly. In Elk Park, an old woman placed a frantic call to police about a shadow on her bedroom blinds. It's her, she stammered fearfully, please hurry. Responding officers found the source of the shadow in the form of a tree in her backyard. Near Ann Arbor, a man pumped six shotguns shells into a line of trash cans clustered at the curb in front of his house after hearing a strange noise. His only victim was a raccoon.
As the evening progressed, police cars cruised back and forth through deserted villages, sweeping roadside gullies with spotlights, and roadblocks sprang up on every major and secondary route in a 100 mile radius: Motorists were stopped and vehicles searched. State patrol helicopters soared through the night, and search parties lead by dogs scoured fields and forests despite the late hour. In Royal Woods, Police Chief Clifford Williams ordered a dusk to dawn curfew, and businesses that were normally open late closed. Billy "Flip" Sawyer sat behind the counter of Flip's with a shotgun across his lap and a bottle of whiskey standing next to the register. Whereas everyone else in the area dreaded meeting the crazed mental patient, Flip looked forward to it. He hadn't seen any combat since 'Nam, and sometimes he dreamed about it with a smile on his face.
Meanwhile, Ronnie Anne Santiago, the most wanted woman in the country at that moment, crept through tall grass. At a ragged tree stump, she paused, grabbed an ax whose blade was embedded in the wood, and ripped it out. It felt good in her hands. Right.
Like coming home.
On his way to Leni's room, Lincoln checked all the second story windows, starting with his and finishing with the ones in Lisa and Lilly's room. Lola sat at her vanity doing her homework by lamplight and listening to WKBBL on a transistor radio. She rolled her eyes when he told her what he was doing. "You're overreacting," she said over her shoulder, "she's a nut, not Jason Voorhees."
He tested the window between hers and Lana's bed, and it lifted. Closing it, he flipped the tabs on the top of the sash then tried again.
Locked.
"I agree with you," he said, and he did. Ronnie Anne was not a slasher villain, but she had killed three people in her lifetime, including two men at one time. That made her extremely dangerous. Lola's dismissive tone indicated that she didn't think Ronnie Anne was a threat. With that, he did not agree...but he didn't say so. "I just want to make sure everyone's safe." He crossed to the vanity, laid one hand on the edge and the other on the back over Lola's chair, and bent over her shoulder. "What'cha working on?" he asked, not because he was particularly interested, but because he didn't want to leave her.
Sighing, she sat back and slapped her pencil to the table with a clack. "History," she said and looked up at him, then crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue.
Lincoln snickered. "History's easy, though."
"Yeah," Lola drew, "but it's boring."
As a child, Lola competed in beauty pageants and was, for all intents and purposes, a "girly girl." Her passions included pink, makeup, glitter, and effeminity. She was largely the same now, with the exception of her intelligence. She was always bright, but when she entered middle school, she began to show a shocking aptitude for math and science. She was nowhere near as good as Lisa (is anyone?), but she did extremely well and thoroughly enjoyed the work. Lisa encouraged her proclivities and often allowed Lola to assist her with experiments and research, which made Lola glow the way winning a pageant once had.
"Maybe," he said and bobbed his head to one side in acquiescence, "but an easy A is an easy A."
Lola rolled her eyes. "All A's are easy when you're Lola Loud."
Uh-oh. Her ego was starting to swell again. Better bring it down a peg. He flicked her cowlick and jumped back with a laugh when she tried to swat him away. "Leave me alone, Lincy," she spat in faux outraged. "You're distracting me. Go bother someone else."
"Fine," Lincoln sniffed.
Then went to bother Lucy.
She sat on her bed with her legs crossed in front of her and a book open in her lap. She looked extra goth in a black dress with a square neckline, a belt with a silver skull playing buckle, and heavy black boots. A silvery pentagram rested in the hollow of her throat and her bangs rested just above her dark, stormy eyes, which flicked back and forth across the page as she read. Music drifted from a stereo on the nightstand - a steroro surrounded by black candles (unlit) and plastic skulls. Posters of emo bands, bapmothet, upside down crosses, and other spooky things Lincoln couldn't name were plastered to the walls, and a coffin occupied the spot where Lynn's bed used to be - Lucy had Lana build it for her four years ago but couldn't set it up until Lynn went off to college. Space limitations, you know. And sister limitations. I'm not sleeping in the same roof as a casket, Lynn said once, that's waaaaaay too far. Lincoln couldn't say he disagreed.
His eyes went to the window over the bedside table and frowned at the fluttering curtains. "Lucy?"
She flipped a page. "What?" she asked without looking up.
Lincoln started to speak, but stopped when he realized he needed to be diplomatic here and choose his words wisely. He didn't want to worry her anymore than she already was, but he also needed her to understand why having her window open wasn't such a good idea.
Then it struck him.
Lie.
"Detective Rudd wants all of the windows closed and locked," he said, and glanced away when Lucy met his gaze. "I-It's just a formality. You know...a precaution."
She favored him with a blank stare...then, with a deep sigh, she leaned over and pushed the sash down. "There," she said and went back to her book.
He opened his mouth to tell her it had to be locked as well, but went over and did it himself instead. Lucy watched him from the corner of her eye, and Lincoln couldn't tell if she was worried or annoyed. "There," he said and put his hands on his hips. He felt the same desire to stay with her as he had with Lola. "What'cha reading?"
"The Servants of Twilight by Dean Koontz," she said and held the book up, a hardback with a laminate dust jacket. The author, a tall man with a mustache and bald in the middle, smiled back at him. "It's about a little boy who might be the antichrist and this psychic lady and her cult trying to kill him."
Oh. That sounded...nice.
An image of Ronnie Anne Santiago's face flashed across his mind. She wasn't a psychic, but she was a lady, and she was trying to…
He closed that thought out; suddenly he didn't want to hang out with Lucy anymore. "Well, have fun," he said.
In Lisa and Lily's rooms, he checked the window. Locked.
Done, he finally slipped into Leni's room; she sat at her vanity much like Lola, only instead of doing homework she fed fabric through a sewing machine, the tip of her tongue curled over her upper lip in concentration. He leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest, a loving smile dancing across his face. Ten years he'd been with her, and somehow, each day his feelings for her only grew, his heart swelled bigger and his affection deepened. She was his everything and he loved her so fiercely it scared him.
Pushing away from the door, he went over, laid his hand on her shoulder, and kissed the side of her head, her hair tickling his lips and filling his nose with its warm, clean fragrance. She melted into him and hummed in contentment. "Hi, Lincy," she said.
"Hi," he said, "what'cha working on?"
Leni sat up straight and turned to him with a big smile. "A baby blanket."
For the past three years, Leni had wanted nothing more than to have Lincoln's children. As a teenager, she nurtured big dreams and high hopes of making it in the fashion world. After high school, she attended the prestigious Chicago School of Design but dropped out after two semesters. I miss you too much, Lincy, she told him at Christmas, I don't wanna do fashion anymore. He tried to persuade her to stick it out, but she came home, and though he wanted her to achieve her dreams, he was happy because he missed her too.
When she first brought up the idea of having a baby, he was onboard 100 percent. They were going to announce their relationship to their parents, move into their own place, and start a family. I want five kids, she told him excitedly, that way each one can have a name that spells L-I-N-C-Y. That was the most adorable thing he could imagine, and it made him want children even more.
Then dad died and suddenly leaving was no longer a simple matter of walking out the door. Lincoln loved his family but he did not plan to live with them forever - in fact, he was anxious to get his own place with Leni, that way they could sleep together at night and wake up to one another in the warm light of the morning sun...that way they could delight in all the domestic trivialities that most couples take for granted. Dad dying changed everything. Mom and his younger sisters needed him in a way they didn't before, and call Lincoln what you will, but he couldn't bring himself to leave them. Not until things settled down.
Leni understood his reasoning and assented, but it hurt her. One day, he told her once, we'll have all the Lincy babies you can stand. That gave her heart, and though she didn't indulge in fashion very often anymore, she went through periods where she mass produced baby clothes, then put them in a box for later.
The blanket she was currently working on was pink with a lacy white trim, a teddy bear's face embroidered across the front. His eyes were closed and little blue Z's drifted from his mouth. Lincoln smiled and brushed a strand of hair from her face. "It's beautiful," he said.
She grinned proudly...then her face fell a little, the happy light draining from her eyes. Lincoln's heart twinged. "What's wrong?" he asked.
With a heavy sigh, she said, "I really want a baby, Lincy. I can't wait much longer."
Lincoln nodded solemnly. "I know, but...now just isn't the right time."
"When will it be the right time?" she asked. "It's, like, been three years. Everyone's as over it as they're going to get."
He opened his mouth to protest, but stopped, first surprised at the level of insight that comment displayed (she wasn't a deep thinker, but she did have her moments), then contemplative because maybe...maybe she was right. No one can every fully come back from losing a spouse or parent, but the wounds do scab with time. Mom wasn't the weeping, inconsolable mess she was right after, sitting dazedly on the couch or wandering aimlessly through the house; Lola missed Dad but she smiled a lot more than she used to; Lana, Lucy, and Lisa were all better as well. Lana didn't have nightmares anymore and Lucy no longer tried to contact Dad's spirit. Lily recovered well too.
Looking at it now, clearly and soberly, he knew in his heart that things were as back-to-normal as they would ever be.
He didn't want to leave them, though.
But it was going to happen one day.
Why not sooner rather than later?
He looked into her hopeful eyes, and his soul stirred like leaves in a warm spring breeze. In that moment, he decided.
It was time to start his future.
He cupped her cheek in his hand, and she turned her anxious face up to his. "You're completely right," he said and brushed his thumb over her delicate cheekbone.
The light so recently fled from her eyes returned, warm and dazzling like the summer sun. "Can we have a baby now?" She clutched his wrist and smiled.
Lincoln answered by kissing her, his tongue brushing past her lips and dancing with hers. She kissed him back, her head tilting to one side and her grasp tightening around his hand.
Shortly, they moved to the bed, stretching out on their sides and losing themselves to a flurry of urgent kisses and soft, gentle strokes. In the midst of their passion, Leni rolled onto her back and Lincoln mounted her, his fingers weaving with hers and pinning her hands above her head. He broke from her lips and planted his lips to the silky swell of her throat, her skin salty and warm. She threw her head to one side and said his name in a breathy sigh, her legs propping in an M and her knees grazing his hips.
Intoxicated on her, mind fogged with passion, Lincoln skimmed his fingertips along the outside of her thigh, pushing her dress up and finding the frilly waistband of her panties. She hitched into his mouth as he pulled them teasingly down, the fabric scraping her fevered flesh. She arched her back and he slid them over her ankles then tossed them away. Their eyes met, and she smiled beautifically, her palms lying flat on his chest and kneading the outline of his rippling muscles.
He undid his belt and slipped his jeans down just enough to free himself; Leni's sickly heat broke across him in waves, and when he thrusted deep into her boiling core, she gasped and sought his hands, their fingers twinning and a closed-eyed look of bliss touching her radiant features. Lincoln stared down into her face as he made love to her, his heart swelling as surely as his arousal. Leni watched through slitted, sparkling eyes, her breaths coming in short, hot bursts. Even ten years later, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, inside and out, and though he had done it a million times in the past, right now he gave her his heart and soul, leaning into her lips and sealing it with a desperate kiss. She swirled her tongue with his, giving him her heart and soul, then wrapped her legs around his waist, dug her heels into his butt, and lifted her hips slowly but firmly into his thrusts, each meeting of their bodies knocking a thin, pleasured whimper from her throat.
At some point, they changed positions, Lincoln lying flat on his back with Leni on top, her fingers splayed on his chest and her messy hair veiling her crystal blue eyes. Her dress was rumbled and hiked around her hips, her hot, satiny lower lips skimming across his tip like a fleeting kiss. She slipped her hands under his shirt and kneaded his skin like a playful kitten.
Slowly, she sank herself onto his shaft and threw her head back with a moan, her wet walls molding to him and stroking as she fell into a slow, tender pace. Lincoln gazed upon her beauty and crept his hands from her hips to her pert breasts, squeezing lightly and rubbing her aching nipples with his thumbs. She bent, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pressed her lips to his cheek as she lifted up until he was nearly out, then sheathed him again. Lincoln hugged her to his chest and peppered her neck and shoulder with needy kisses. His climax was forming rapidly in his loins, and each one of her moans nudged him closer to the edge.
She drew back, laid her forehead against his, and stared into his eyes, her hair enshrouding them in their own secret world - a world built on love. "I love you, Lincy," she panted.
"I love you too," he said and kissed her.
She increased her speed in one final burst of energy, then froze, her walls clamping down on him as her orgasm peaked. He hugged her tighter and gave into his own end, heat rushing up from his depths, spilling out, and filling Leni's eager womb. They cried out together and shook as their mutual climax ebbed and flowed from one trembling body to the other, back and forth in tingling ecstasy until they were both spent and panting for air. Leni's wild hair hung in her face, obscuring it, and with every pant her muscles clenched as if to wring the last drops of his seed from his quivering dick.
For a while, Lincoln drifted on a tide of nirvana, then he brushed her hair from her face and held her cheek. Their gazes locked...then she bowed her head and giggled melodically. "Now we wait," she said.
"Alright," Lincoln said drowsily. "Let's wait."
She lifted off of him and stretched out beside him, her head resting over his heart and his arm around her shoulder.
In moments, they were asleep.
And both were smiling.
In the living room, Detective Frank Rudd was not smiling. He stood before the front window, his sausage fingers holding the curtain back so that he could stare into the night. Scott and Johnson were still parked across the street. "Tell me you got her," he said into the cellphone pressed to his ear.
The voice on the other end was silent. "No, but we do have something."
On the couch, Rita Loud, arms crossed anxiously over her breasts, watched warily. "What?" Rudd asked sharply.
"Two stiffs at a gas station twenty miles north of town."
Rudd's heart dropped. "How do you know it was her?" he asked, hoping to God it was a robbery gone wrong or something else...anything else.
"One was hanging upside down by his feet and gushing blood, the other was tacked to the wall with a machete. Looked like a slasher movie."
Acid bubbled up in Rudd's stomach, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Christ," he muttered.
"Who is this woman anyway?"
Rudd didn't know...and that scared him. "Just...keep me posted," he said shortly. Before the voice could reply, he closed his phone and shoved it into his coat pocket.
"What?" Rita asked worriedly.
In twenty years of police work, Rudd had never seen something like this. He dealt with killers, but never an escaped mental patient tearing across the countryside and leaving bodies in her wake. He peered out into the darkness, and his stomach turned sickly. Years ago, when he went to arrest a perp wanted for murder, he had a gun drawn on him, and he was open about that being the most terrifying experience of his life….standing there, frozen, staring down the bore of a pistol, shaking and waiting for the hammer to drop. It never happened again, and he never, ever felt that same marrow clawing dread.
Until now.
"What?" Rita pressed, her voice rising in alarm.
Rudd turned away from the window. "Nothing," he said, "we're doing our best." The last part came before he could stop it and sounded lame even to his own ears. He crossed to the armchair and sat heavily, a sigh escaping his lips.
"If something's going on, I think I deserve to know about it," Rita said crossly, "my family is in danger."
"Your family is fine, Mrs. Loud," Rudd said and held up his hand, "you are under police protection."
She looked like she was going to argue, then she took a deep breath and got up. "I need to call Lana again." She snatched her phone from the coffee table and went into her office, the door clicking softly shut behind her.
Alone, Rudd took a deep breath and absently patted the revolver in the rig under his left arm like a small, frightened boy stroking a magic talisman to ward away evil spirits. Ronnie Anne Santiago was somewhere in the night, and he couldn't deny her intentions even if he wanted to.
She was coming here...bearing down on him and this family like a freight train from hell. She might even be outside this very minute, crouching in the bushes and looking for a way in, her face speckled with blood and her grin too wide, too big, too cannibalistic.
He was shocked to realize that his heart was slamming in fear.
Stop it, he commanded himself. You're acting stupid.
Taking a deep, calming breath, he got restlessly to his feet and went to the window, needing to be up and moving. He pulled the curtain back; heavy darkness pressed against the pane like evil incarnate, and irrational as it may have been, Rudd felt like it was watching him.
He let the curtain fall back into place and tensed when he heard footsteps descending the stairs, his hand going unconsciously to the gun.
It was only the blonde girl, not Leni, the one with the gap in her teeth. Rudd knew her mother told him her name but he couldn't remember it. The only ones he knew off the top of his head were Lincoln and Leni, and only then because they were the vics of Ronnie Anne Santiago's previous assault.
Relaxing and damning himself for a fool, he turned away from the window and nodded to the girl when she walked into the living room. "Everything okay up there?" he asked. He figured it was, hoped it was...but didn't know, and that disturbed him. He was building Santiago into a movie monster and the worst part was...he couldn't laugh it off because maybe she was.
"Yeah, everything's fine," the girl said. "Is...is my mom around?"
Rudd nodded toward the office. "She's in there."
"Thanks." The girl went to the door, knocked, then slipped in, closing it behind her. Alone again, Rudd sank into the armchair and took out his cellphone, willing it to ring with good news but dreading it ringing with bad. He was not an overly religious man, though he did believe in God, but he thought back to the story of Christ in the Garden, praying desperately that the cup be taken from His lips. That was him right now, wishing, hoping, begging for this bullshit to pass him by like a threatening cloud.
Pursing his lips, he looked up at the TV screen where a family of superheroes bickered over whether or not to order pizza. Looked like one of those awful Nickolodean kidcoms his neices watched. A superhero would come in real handy right now.
He sighed and looked away, his eyes landing on the coffee cup perched upon the table. He completely forgot about it. Picking it up, he took a sip and winced.
Cold. Better get more
Something told him it was going to be a long night.
Lana Loud leaned against the kitchen counter, cracked a can of Natty Ice, and took a long, thirsty drink, foam coursing down either side of her chin and dribbling onto the front of her shirt, where it soaked into her breasts. Loud, twangy country music blared from surround sound speakers in the living room and the steady backbeat made he feel like dancing even though she wasn't any good at it.
Behind her, the party was in full swing, couples dancing, guys playing beer pong, and girls standing against the wall with red solo cups clutched in their hands, not entirely sober but not yet drunk enough to start twerking. Her boyfriend, Stuart, tall and gangly with pale black hair, stood by the kitchen table with a few of his buddies, laughing over a mean-spirited joke at another friend's expense.
When the can was empty, she crushed it in her fist and threw it to the floor. Her friend, Debbie, a fat, frumpy lesbian with long brown hair and clad in a red and black checkered shirt, grabbed her own can from the box, cracked it, and grinned. "You can't beat me, girl. Don't even try."
"I'm three in, where are you?"
Debbie lifted the can to her lips and chugged, then crumpled it and slammed it to the floor. "That's where I'm at."
Every time Lana went to a party, she and Debbie wound up trying to outdrink each other, a tradition Lana herself established when she got sick of Debbie pounding her chest about how she could put anyone under the table. Man or woman, white or black, I'll drink more, that's a fact. She liked the dyke, but you can only take so much of someone boasting on themselves before you want to put them in their place.
Unsurprisingly, Debbie,often won their bouts - she was bigger than Lana, so it took more to get her drunk. Lana was nothing to sneeze at, though, her tolerance for alcohol was naturally high, and more than once she was the last woman standing, which won her bragging rights until the next match.
She wasn't planning on drinking tonight since her mother would kill her if she smelled it on her breath, but things happen. She snatched another beer, popped the top, and drained it at a draught, the warm, yeasty liquid splashing down the back of her throat and hitting her system like a punch. Her head started to feel fuzzy and she swayed unsteadily.
Someone wrapped their arms around her waist from behind, and she jumped, sucking beer into her windpipe and choking. Debbie laughed uproariously and waved her hand as Lana coughed and gasped for air, the can dropping from her hand "You gotta learn how to do that right," Stuart taunted and kissed her neck, his hands running over her stomach and his crotch rubbing firmly against her butt.
"Will you get out of here?" she laughed and pulled away. "You messed me up, asswipe."
Picking up another beer, Debbie said, "He saved you, honey. You were about to lose so hard your babies would feel it."
Lana reached for a replacement beer, determined to show her who was gonna lose, but Stuart threw his arms around her shoulders and pulled her against him, upsetting her balance. She cried out and flailed her arms like a bird flapping its broken wings and trying to stay airborne. "Don't do it!" he yelled playfully. "Our babies are at stake. Think of the children." His hands crept to her breasts and squeezed, and pangs of sensation rippled through her pussy. She said she didn't like it when he groped her in front of people, but that was a lie: She did.
"Get the hell offa me," she spat and struggled against his embrace, making sure to grind her butt teasingly against his groin. "You're acting dumb." She turned her head and their noses brushed.
Stuart grinned. "I thought you liked dumb."
She bit her lower lip and gazed into his soft, green eyes, flecked here and there with brown and gold. Her heartbeat sped up like it did every time she looked at them and a dreamy smile lifted the corners of her lips. She wasn't the type of girl who liked beautiful stuff, but she liked Stuart's eyes...they made her feel stupid, funny things that she couldn't explain but felt really nice. "Nope," she said, "I like dirty."
Their lips met and the tips of their tongues flicked in a sensual greeting, the taste of his boozy breath filling her mouth and intoxicating her senses. He laced his hands over her stomach and she laid hers on the backs of his, her slender fingers stroking his knuckles and her nails grazing his skin. Her core tightened in desre and every nerve ending in her body crackled with anticipation of being touched, kissed, and fucked.
Shaking her head, Debbie made a sound of disgust in the back of her throat. "Y'all need to take that somewhere private."
Stuart broke the kiss and leaned his forehead against hers. "That sounds like a good idea," he said and glanced at the back door. "There's a barn out there."
"A barn?" Lana asked. She heard him, but...a barn? Really? They had sex in some strange places, but that was a little much. In her mind, barns were full of dust and cobwebs and stank of ancient, lingering horseshit. The only place to do it was in the brittle, dirty hay and…
On second thought…
He nodded and grinned goofily. "A barn."
"Alright," she said, "just let me pee."
Stuart's grin widened salaciously. "I'll meet you there."
He released her and scurried excitedly out the back door while she swept into the crowded living room, only now realizing that she was past tipsy and closing in on drunk. Her steps were shaky and uneven, and when a boy in a denim jacket bumped into her, she felt herself beginning to topple and her heart rocketed into her throat. She kept her balance but just barely; the goddamn floor kept pitching like the deck of a ship and the room twisted back and forth, back and forth, making her dizzy.
At the bottom of the stairs, she clutched the banister and held on as she ascended. Shadows crowded the second floor and when she found a switch on the wall, she flicked it only for nothing to happen. "Don't you change your light bulbs?" she asked aloud and felt her way along the wall; she'd been here before and knew roundabout where the bathroom was...she thought.
Reaching the end of the hall, she felt for the doorknob, found it, and went in, snapping the light on.
She stiffened in shock at what she saw.
A girl with curly red head knelt in the middle of a bed, a boy behind her and pumping furiously with a rhythmic and fleshy slap-slap-slap. They both looked up at her, and horror crossed their faces.
Coming alive, she whipped her head away and held up her hand. "Sorry, wrong room!" She took a step back, rammed her shoulder into the frame, and almost went down. She grabbed the handle and pulled the door closed; the boy pumped and the girl threw herself back into his thrusts, both apparently deciding that getting off was more important than trying to preserve their modesty.
Stumbling away, Lana grinned into the darkness. She liked doggystyle herself; when she bowed her head and lifted her butt, Stuart hit so deep it felt like he was going to come out the other end. The one thing she didn't like was how...detached it was. Maybe she was cheesy or something, but she wanted to look at his face when they had sex, not the goddamn wall. She also liked kissing him and staring into his eyes when they did it; it made her orgasms much, much better.
She found another door, pushed it open, and flicked the switch, wincing in expectation of finding another couple knocking boots.
A tub, toilet, and sink spread out before her.
"There you are," she said like a woman happily greeting an old friend. She stepped in, closed the door, and crossed to the commode. Pulling down her pants, she lifted the lid and sat, her elbows propping on her knees and her face resting in her upturned palms.
Thinking back to Stuart, she sighed contentedly. She was kinda sappy when it came to him, no use trying to lie. How could she not be, though? He was her first in everything - first boy she liked, first hand she held, first kiss, first time. They'd been together forever, and she got the same fluttery, heart-stopping feeling when he kissed her that she did when she was eleven-years-old.
She was gonna marry that boy one day.
Done, she wiped, flushed the toilet, and went back into the hall, her light-adjusted eyes blind in the dark. She followed faint light to the head of the stairs and went down, passing a couple on the way up, the girl leading the boy by the hand and glancing sexily over her shoulder. Have fun in your comfy little bed, me and my man are gonna roll in the hay. Literally.
She snickered to herself.
In the kitchen, Debbie sat at the table with her head bowed and rolling back and forth. Looked like all that beer hit her at once. Ha. Lana felt fine. Guess that meant she won. She clapped her friend on the shoulder and leaned into her ear. Shouting to be heard over Jason Aldean, she said, "Looks like you looooose."
Debbie looked up at her, eyes bleary and lips pursed. "I didn't lose," she slurred, "I'm still here." She lifted a can of Natty and held it up as though she were proposing a toast.
"Not for long by the looks of it," Lana grinned.
Debbie's face darkened and she leaned over. "Fuck you, bitch."
"You too, hun," Lana chirped. She stood, patted Debbie on the top of her head, and turned, grabbing a beer from the counter as she passed. At the door, she popped the tab then went outside.
Warm when she got there, the night had grown cold, and she shivered against a needling gust of wind. The barn stood roughly five hundred feet away in a grove of twisted trees that uncomfortably reminded Lana of skeletal fingers rising from a grave. In the ghostly light of the moon, its sagging facade was revealed like the face of a rotting corpse. Narrow windows flanked a wide door, and in them Lana spotted a flicker of feeble firelight. Every haunted house movie she'd ever seen came back to her, and her stomach clutched with inexplicable dread, the warm, beery haze in her brain blowing away on a chilly breath of disquiet.
For some reason she couldn't explain, the urge to turn around and go back inside gripped her, and she almost did, but damned herself as a fool. Ghosts aren't real and neither is the bogeyman.
She tittered to herself, and the stark sound of it unnerved her even more. She took a fortifying drink and started toward the barn, the tall grass whispering as she passed like the urgent pleas of a thousand phantoms. Turn back, turn back, turn back…
No more horror movies with Lucy, she told herself and forged ahead.
At the door, which stood slightly ajar, she peeked through the crack. Empty stalls flanked a wide aisle, the dusty plank floor was covered in a matted layer of hay. Oil lamps lined the wall, tattered strands of cobwebs fluttering in stale drafts like dancing specters celebrating their return from the dead.
Jesus, girl, you are Lucy, Lana thought with a shiver.
To the left, a rickety wooden ladder accessed a loft that stretched from one end of the building to the other. A railing ran along its length and low light throbbed from an unseen source. More lamps, she figured, or, maybe, from Stuart's passion.
She snickered to herself and slipped through the gap. Talk about cheesy. At this rate she'd be writing romance novels by the time she was twenty. That thought made her gag, but the prospect of romance writer money gave her pause. Sell a million books at thirty bucks a pop and never have to work again.
I know what I'm doing with my life.
Somewhere in the loft above, something moved, boards creaking like the pained cry of a damned soul. A knowing grin ran across Lana's face and she crept to the ladder, shoulders hunched and her tip-toe steps exaggeratedly long, lending her the resemblance of Elmer Fudd hunting wabbits. She laid her hands on one of the rungs and craned her neck back; darkness nestled in the rafters overhead and errant rays of pulsing light fleetingly painted the eaves in amber hues.
Thump.
Her smile widened and she imagined Stuart hurrying to find a place to hide and being clumsy. When she went up there, he'd jump out from behind a support beam or from an alcove and cry boo...then she'd pounce him like a hungry lioness and maw his face with passionate kisses. She reached over her head, grabbed a rung, and started to climb, trying to be as quiet as possible and wincing at every creak she made. Damn rusty nails, why you gotta do me like that?
She reached the top and looked around. Hay covered the floor and an oil lamp sat on a window ledge, its illumination spreading out and skimming the darkness. To either side, deep shadows pooled in the wings, support beams looming forward like emaciated ghouls from a nightmare. A sharp pang of apprehension cut through Lana's stomach and her throat went dry. Kinda creepy up here. She lingered on the ladder for a moment, reluctant, then climbed off and stood there, her head turning from side to side, her eyes squinting to make out Stuart but finding only the night.
When something clattered to her left, like a metal pan hitting the kitchen floor, she jumped and uttered a high, frightened squeak. Alright, that's enough. "Stuart, knock it off," she said, succeeding in keeping the rising trepidation from her voice. "You're being dumb."
No reply save for the wind moaning in the eaves; a cold draft washed over her and made the flame shudder; the light dimmed and her heart blasted. "I-I'm being serious," she said. This time her tone was low and breaking with panic. She threw a longing glance over her shoulder and seriously considered climbing back down and walking away. If he wanted to play, he could stay up here and play with himself.
The only thing that stopped her was pride. He'd never let her live it down if she got scared and ran away like a little girl from a scary sound. He could be worse than Debbie sometimes, and though his taunts were never cruel, she couldn't stand the thought of him thinking she was a ninny. She was going to be with him forever and that's a mighty long time to get teased about that one time you got spooked by a damn hayloft.
Steeling her resolve, she took a deep breath and started toward the spot from which the sound came, her muscles tensing and her hands balling into fists. "Stuart, this isn't funny," she said, her voice sounding small and weak. "I'm gonna kick your ass if you keep it up."
Thump.
"You know I will," Lana said, almost pleading. "You wanna do it or not? I'm about to leave."
Her eyes were beginning to adjust to the gloom, and a form took shape on her left. She whipped her head around, and there he was, his arms thrown around a support beam and his head hung. She relaxed and let out a pent-up breath she wasn't aware she was holding. "I can see you, jerk," she said, unamused.
Stuart didn't move.
"You can give it up now," she said.
The wind blew and the light scattered. He still didn't move, and annoyance pinched Lana's chest. She was this close from slapping him in the back of his dumb head.
In fact…
Baring her teeth, she stalked over and lifted her hand to do just that, but stopped when her foot slipped in something. She looked down and furrowed her brow: A puddle of dark, sticky liquid soaked into the floorboards, the light reflecting on its surface like moonbeams on a midnight tide.
Frowning in confusion, she looked up at Stuart. "What -?"
Her words cut off and her heart dropped into her stomach. From afar - and coming over - she didn't see the long metal bar rammed through his back and pinning his limp, lifeless body to the column...but she did now. A throat-ripping scream of horror burst from her lips and she stumbled back, her hands flying up as if to bat the terrible image away. A heavy footfall sounded behind her, and she whipped around, her blood freezing when a creature stepped from the shadows, its terrible countenance revealed in low, hellish half-light. It was tall and lank, its emaciated frame clad in a baggy jumpsuit.
Lana's wide, petrified eyes went to the long, wickedly sharp ax in its hands.
Then back to its fevered eyes.
In a flash of mind-bending terror, she realized that it was wearing Stuart's face like a mask.
The air left her lungs in a rush and her body clamped up, her heart slamming a frantic, fearful tempo against her breast. The thing took a shuffling step forward. "He's mine," it hissed in a voice like grating of stones. "He belongs to me."
When it lifted the ax, Lana's paralysis broke and she fell dumbly back, her feet tangling and spilling her to the floor. The thing approached, and alarm exploded in the center of Lana's chest. Screaming, she rolled to her knees and tried to push herself up, her hand slipping in the blood. The thing came slowly and inexorably closer like Death itself, its black eyes shimmering with madness inside Stuart's gaping sockets. Lana howled and got to her feet, her shoe sliding in the blood and her wildly throbbing heart leaping into her throat. Hunched and shaking, her steps jittery and shaking, she staggered aimlessly away, tears standing in her eyes and sobs blasting from her throat. Her mind was blank, numb, her primal instincts overriding her thoughts. She threw a frightened glance over her shoulder and wailed as the thing closed in, its lips curling into an evil smile.
She reached the window and spun to face the killer, an animal backed into a corner, no help, no escape. Panic ripped at her with icy claws and she started to cry in earnest, like a lost little girl for the safe and comforting embrace of her mother. Lana always thought she was tough and strong - that she could take care of herself is someone messed with her - but as she collapsed into a trembling heap before the monster, the revelation that she was wrong stuck in her heart like an icepick.
The creature towered over her, staring down in seething hatred. Lana wrapped her arms around her chest and tried to speak, but uttered a strangled sob instead. Through the blurry sheen of her tears, she saw the creature's smile widen - a cat closing in on a wounded mouse.
"P-Please," Lana managed, her voice hitching, "please don't hurt me." She broke down and hugged herself tight, rocking back and forth on her butt. "P-Please."
The creature cocked its head as if considering her plea, and for a hopeful moment, Lana thought it was going to let her go.
Instead, it brought the ax over its head in a swift, fluid motion, and the back of Lana's neck tingled in awful anticipation. She screamed, and the ax fell, its blade smashing into the center of her head; excruciating agony detonated in her skull and her scream turned into a hysterical, high-pitched mewl as bone shattered and cold steel sliced soft, pink brain. Blood gushed down her face and stung her rapidly fading eyes. The creature jammed one foot flat against her chest and yanked the ax out. Spasming as her butchered brain misfired and sent freneic and nonsensical knee-jerk orders to her nerves, Lana toppled over and convulsed on the floor like a fish flopping on a dock, blood and thick, chunky brain matter oozing from her head. The coldness of coming death flooded her body and her vision began to gray.
The monster lifted the ax over its head. "He's mine," it rattled, "Lincoln...is...mine."
An image emerged from the mist in her mind: Her and Stuart married and happy, a baby in her arms and smiles on their faces. That's what she wanted...not Lincoln.
Letting loose a crazed yell, the killer brought the ax down hard, and what Lana wanted ceased to matter.
