Chapter 5

Mort had never actually been a people person unless he needed to be. But after being alone for so long, he was glad for Alex's company. She was a laugh, easy to talk to, and having another person around made him feel more comfortable in his own home then he'd felt for a while. Mort had been delighted at discovery of her ambitions to become a writer; it was nice to exchange ideas and insight with someone who was able to give astute responses.

It was just after two-thirty in the morning, and they were both still chortling over a story Alex had been telling about one of her friends. Mort was sitting in his armchair, his shoulders shaking with laughter and his face in his hands. Alex, having donned the clothes Mort had offered to her, was sprawled across his sofa (now dry thanks to an old hair dryer Mort discovered in a box in his bathroom), her sprained ankle propped on the armrest. She was trying and failing horribly not to laugh during the telling of her anecdote.

"…She went completely red, and I thought she was going to die of embarrassment. You can bet she never did that again," Alex finished, sniggering at the memory.

A final chuckle escaped Mort's lips as he leaned back against his chair, sighing in satisfaction. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed so hard. Or laughed at all.

He glanced at his watch and noticed how late it was.

"Shit, its past two-thirty. I mean -" he looked at Alex quickly to see if she had been offended by his language. She had not.

"Wow," she said, turning to look at the clock on his bookshelf. "So it is. I'm sorry!" She looked away, ashamed that she'd kept him up so late. "I hope you don't have to be anywhere tomorrow…"

"Nope," Mort said.

"I suppose we should be going to bed, then?" she asked.

"I suppose that we should," Mort said, smiling. "Let's keep our fingers crossed that the storm blows itself out tonight."

"Agreed," Alex said. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Mort replied with a small smile as he turned towards the staircase. He really didn't want to go back up to his room, but what choice did he have? In any other case, after a visit from Shooter he would have slept on his sofa, but he couldn't very well do that.

His heart pounded as he walked up the stairs and across the floor, stopping in front of his bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. He pushed on it reluctantly, and it opened with a loud creak, making him jump.

He reached around the doorframe and flicked the light switch, feeling very childish at that moment, being afraid to go into his bedroom without plenty of light. Mort peeked his head in; he found his room deserted. There was glass on the floor, and it made him glad he was wearing his slippers as he stepped inside, carefully avoiding the larger pieces and hoping he wouldn't track any tiny shards to other places in the house.

The blankets on his bed sported large patches of splattered blood. He pulled them off and threw them on the floor for the time being. He certainly did not want to go into the pitch-black bathroom closet to get more. After taking a different blanket off the shelf in his closet, he lay on his bed and curled up with his back against the wall, pulling the covers up to his chin. He knew he was being foolish, but he felt safer with the blanket covering him, and he hadn't bothered to turn off the light.

Unable to sleep, he lay there, pondering the day's events.

If only if it hadn't been for Shooter, maybe he could be enjoying a visit with a new person. That knife was still missing, and it made Mort extremely uneasy. Especially after what Shooter had said to him…

Why had he let her stay with him anyway? He was a murderer. Alexandra was in danger every moment she spent here. He kicked himself mentally for realizing this only now. He should have driven her home anyways, the weather notwithstanding. He felt tremendously guilty for putting Alexandra in this situation, but he couldn't do anything about it now.

A creak outside his door made his heart hammer in his chest, and his whole body tensed. But it seemed to have been nothing, and he gradually relaxed once again.

Mort supposed that he had just been craving some human company, after such an extensive amount of time being completely alone. He hadn't trusted himself around people for the longest time after he'd come to terms with what he'd did, so he stayed out here, at his cabin, and had only ventured out for groceries and whatnot. Even then, he'd gone to the city where nobody knew him.

After a few months everything had died down. The police hadn't had enough evidence to prosecute him, and Shooter had only come back periodically. He'd thought he was safe.

Until now.

Mort couldn't fall asleep. He lay awake silently, staring at his ceiling, still jumping at every sound he heard, and let these thoughts run over and over through his head.

XXXX

Alex couldn't seem to fall asleep, either. She didn't know if it was the fact that she was staying the night in a total stranger's home, the fact that she couldn't move properly because of her swollen ankle, or the fact that that African mask was still freaking her out. The stupid thing was still staring at her.

She turned over, away from the mask, and closed her eyes, letting her mind drift. The first thing that popped into her head was Mort. She'd become more comfortable around him after getting to know him a bit, and he definitely didn't seem like one of those usual creepy men that lived alone like she'd goaded herself into believing he would be. He seemed to be a nice enough person, and he was a lot better than some of her ever-partying friends for having an intelligent conversation with. He was even a writer!

However, she was still anxious about her missing car. Why hadn't anyone from the tow company come for her? Had something gone wrong? The weather hadn't been bad at all until she'd arrived at Mort's cabin for the second time.

Alex sighed and opened her eyes to roll over again – only to see a tall, pale man standing over her with a knife, a maniacal glint in his eye.

"Hello, darlin'," he drawled.

She screamed.