Santana was curled in a ball as she slept next to Brittany, whose parents were out of town.
"What do you want?"
"Your death."
He threw a knife and it hit her eye. He pulled out a gun and shot at her shins, so she couldn't run away. He tied a rope around her wrists.
His face kept changing.
"You slut. You think you're so great. Look how easily I got you."
She spit at him. He raised a knife to her throat. He cut in ever so slightly, only enough that a tiny bit of blood was drawn. She winced. He walked around to her back. She had tears streaming down her face as he plunged a dagger into her shoulder blades.
He untied her wrists and lay her down in the clearing. He rolled up her shirt and cut around her abs. He pulled back and with one final motion set her on fire.
Black.
Santana woke up when she felt a slap to her face.
Brittany was sitting in the corner of the bed, her arms around one knee.
"You were shaking and screaming." She said.
Their phones buzzed.
Brittany moved to answer hers, but Santana held her arm back.
She slowly looked at the text and screamed.
This is what happens when you ask the wrong questions. This is rather Depressing, don't you think? Only five left. Four deaths.
When everyone was asleep, the killer had struck.
The club each received a picture with it of Puck and Sugar, in the clearing. Puck had a knife in his head, in the middle of his Mohawk, and Sugar was covered in bullet holes.
There were only five club members left.
This time Santana lead the conference call, and included Mr. Schue.
They agreed to meet in the clearing.
/
Artie got there first. Next was Blaine and Finn, then Brittany and Santana, and then Mr. Schue.
They all were staring at the grotesque forms of Puck and his cousin.
"Any new information, other than this?" Mr. Schue finally asked.
Artie shifted.
To everyone's shock, he stood up.
"I can walk." He told them. The club's mouths popped open in an o.
"I got those treatments Tina was talking about. They started to work…and now I have full control over my legs."
Well, this was certainly new. Now no one could be ruled out.
/
The victim walked home as the club's meeting adjourned.
The killer followed behind him. This one would be simple.
The killer pulled a revolver from his pocket, and a knife from the other. He handed the victim a postcard and they walked to the clearing.
The victim sat helplessly while the killer cut an x on his back with the knife, barely wincing. The killer backed up and shot.
"X marks the spot, homo."
Only four. Tsk, tsk, you guys are too easy to kill. Myself included.