The figure before him wore a black cloak with a white mask, its black mouth and eyes melting off its face like hot wax. Drake knew it wasn't his sister because this person was a bit taller than he was. He felt it immediately in his gut that this wasn't a prank. Despite the danger he knew he was in, he couldn't move. Alarms sounded in his head. His brain sent a jolt down his body and into his fingertips, urging for a response like electric paddles to a still heart. He knew that he needed to run or shield himself or attack, but his fear kept him as still as a corpse. He didn't realize until now just how hard it was to breathe, and the small dimensions of the bathroom didn't help, nor did the dryness that took over his mouth in a matter of seconds. This was actually happening, and even more alarming, it was actually happening to him.
The peril he was in was confirmed when the masked intruder revealed that he was armed with a knife. Without allowing for anymore suspense, he dashed towards Drake.
With just the sink counter, toilet and shower, the bathroom was already cramped, and even more so when it was occupied by one person. Now however, there were two, so the fact that Drake managed to dodge the attack was incredible. They had now switched spots, and Drake was behind the door. Again, the figure came at him, so he leaned back — or, more correctly, threw himself — against the wall to avoid the swipe of the knife. Drake kicked the cloaked abdomen before the figure could get any closer. Tripping over the tub, the killer fell inside, taking the crimson red shower curtain with him.
Drake was so scared that his trembling hands struggled to get hold of the doorknob. The masked man was getting up quickly, although the curtain slowed him slightly. Part of Drake wanted to drop to the floor and curl up with his head hidden behind his arms as if shielding his view of his attacker meant that he couldn't be harmed. Thankfully, the logical side of his brain kept him from folding in on himself and instead forced him to focus on getting away.
Finally, the boy got the door open and ran for the front exit. However, that knob wouldn't turn either, and he remembered locking it just minutes earlier after finding the door wide open. That must be how this psychopath got inside in the first place. Had he not locked the door upon arriving home from school? He couldn't remember, but he'd been so out of it that he wouldn't put it past himself to leave the front door unlocked when his murderer-rapist father was on the loose and looking for revenge.
He started with the chain, which rattled as his trembling fingers slid it through the designated pathway, then he twisted the deadbolt. Movement in his periphery caught his attention: an image of the intruder behind him reflecting in the frosted glass window of the door. He had time to dodge the swing of the knife, then he took off in the opposite direction, unable to find time to twist the final lock. After Audrey's murder, his stepfather had installed these locks as added protection. Never would anyone have guessed that they'd cause more harm than good.
Drake knew he wouldn't make it to the back door injury-free without first getting some separation in between himself and the Michael Myers wannabe, so he took a sharp left into the kitchen. He thought the attacker would have too much momentum to follow and would therefore have to backtrack, giving Drake the space he needed to make his escape, but instead, his assailant met him at the kitchen's other door, which led to the living room. This sudden meeting came as such a surprise to him that, moving too quickly, he collided with the killer. This knocked him onto his bottom, but luckily left him with nothing more than a sore tailbone. He shoved his heels against the floor speedily, as if he was still running, but his slippery socks hindered his progress. The figure stepped closer, and Drake stabbed his bones into the ground more frantically, trying desperately to push himself away.
Next to him was the small dining table he had left so abruptly upon Walter's entrance this morning. He grabbed one of the chair legs and slung it with great strength as a grunt left his lips. This tripped up his attacker — only for a couple seconds, but it was all the time he needed to get onto his feet. Drake turned back and went around the island, standing opposite the stranger now. Despite now having some distance, he didn't feel any safer because he was trapped.
"Leave me alone!" he yelled, his voice shaking. His path was blocked, and the guy was waiting for him to make the first move. "Help!" Drake cried, hoping that someone would hear him, but he knew no one would. There was no one else home, and he doubted he could be heard from a neighbor's house if no one had heard his mother's screams. He had to save himself. He had to figure a way out alone.
On the island was a bowl of fruit. Drake reached for an apple and hurled it at the attacker, which made him step back. He grabbed an orange and wound his arm back, then pitched it, too. Drake knew he couldn't hold him off much longer before he got tired of being hit and lunged at him, so he grabbed the whole bowl and slung it, along with all of its contents, then he picked up a can of Manwich, their dinner tonight, and threw it at him. The fruit flying in all directions and the hard blow from the metal can was enough to distract the masked killer, so Drake took off. He knew he wouldn't have time to finish undoing the lock, so the boy dashed across the foyer and made a turn so sharp that he hit the wall. This hardly slowed him down. He took the stairs two at a time, using the banister to aid in slingshotting himself up. Drake managed to make it just over halfway before his foot was grabbed. This tripped him, and he fell. The first thing to make contact was his right knee, and it hit the corner of one of the steps with the force of all of his weight. Despite the sound his body made when he hit the hard surface, he could still distinctly hear the popping in his knee. He screamed with pain, frozen for a moment, but just a moment, for his ankles were grabbed.
"No! No!" Drake screeched as he was dragged down the stairs, and warm water stung his eyes. He started to kick his feet but had to stop because the pain in his leg was excruciating. He dug his fingernails into each wooden step, trying hard to get some sort of grip or leverage so that he could pull himself back up, but he only left white scratches on the golden oak. "Stop! Help!" Once at the bottom of the staircase, Drake was lifted up by his shirt collar, then tossed into the foyer again. He landed on his back, his head colliding with the hardwood floor. "Ah!" He squeezed his eyes closed at the pain and clutched the back of his head. "Mmm..." he groaned.
Like before, he knew that his life was in jeopardy, but he couldn't think of a solution or even a measly action he could take to delay his horrible fate until his mind was clearer. This time, his inaction was caused by dizziness rather than fear, though make no mistake, he sure felt the fear. The cloaked intruder walked toward him casually, as if hoping Drake would get up and fight him a little more. It was all a game to him, and the more opposition he faced, the more fun he had. Drake didn't want this fucker to have the pleasure of playing a cat and mouse game with him, but he also didn't want to appear weak. Was this the same monster who had killed Linny and Johnny, and if so, had they fought harder than he was now?
As if reading his thoughts, the man said, "Come on, even your Jesus freak ex put up more of a fight than you."
Drake didn't recognize the voice, but he didn't think it was his attacker's real voice anyway. Just before the cloaked figure had spoken, his gloved hand had moved upwards to the side of the mask, then a tiny, faint red light turned on. Drake was pretty sure it was a voice-changer.
The murderer got on top of him. Drake felt the added weight, and it became hard to breathe. He saw two masks above him, so he blinked until his vision was back to normal. He knew the odds weren't good for him in this position, so he tried to wiggle and fight and punch the man's chest. A sudden and aggressive gloved hand gripped his throat and squeezed. The boy's eyes went wide as his access to oxygen was hindered.
"Kjjtt!" Drake pried at the strong fingers as he gasped for air. "Sksss!" The grip was unbudging, and he realized that his attacker's desire to hurt him was for more than just sport. There was an anger that took over the masked man's body, giving him strength like no other. Drake felt that rage when his neck was squeezed tighter. His tears finally left him and dripped down the sides of his face. He gasped, choked out a strangled sob, then gasped again. Drake's toes were clenched and his heels frantically rubbed against the floor, even the one on his hurt leg. He knew that this was it: the big finale. The pain shooting up his knee was terrible, but he wouldn't get another chance. It was fight or die, and he didn't want to die. Still, he continued trying to pry at the man's fingers. "Gggkk! Fffkk!"
His attacker then added his other hand, now strangling him with twice the strength even though he didn't need to. Desperate noises could no longer leave Drake's lips. He was silenced, and his air supply was now cut off completely. His face was red now, like the color of blood.
His fingers shook as he clawed at the arms of the strangler, but it didn't do any good. The cloth was a nice, thick material, and Drake's nails were bent and broken after digging so hard into the wooden steps. He knew he wasn't strong enough to get away. He realized that he wasn't going to survive, and more tears flooded his face. It also occurred to him that the eerie ghost mask would be the last thing he ever saw. Suddenly, somehow, that became more important than getting his neck free. He reached up, ready to look into the eyes of his murderer, but as his fingertips touched the rubber, his head was lifted up, then shoved against the hard floor.
He could see darkness at the edge of his vision and knew that death was coming for him. As he clutched the killer's wrists in a death grip — more out of a need for comfort and companionship in his final moments rather than a last attempt at saving himself — his blurry eyes caught sight of the picture hanging on the wall behind the cloaked figure. It was a family photo, which had been taken two years ago. Audrey and Walter stood in the back, while Drake and Josh sat on either side before them, and Megan stood in the middle of her brothers. After he succumbed to his unfortunate death, Megan would be left alone with the Nichols family, who had just moved in only two and a half years ago. He felt bad about leaving her behind, but he supposed he had done that already some time ago. What he would give if he could go back and change things...
Black spots began to fill his vision now, and he became too weak to fight. He froze underneath him, with the sleeves of his murderer's cloak bunched up in his fists. His feet gradually stopped their protest as he grew weaker and weaker. Drake felt as if his pupils were about to explode, which was almost true. His watery eyes became a reddish-purple as some of the blood vessels within them burst. His white-knuckled fingers began to loosen their grip on the cloth as every bit of what was left of his strength finally left him.
As his mind started to slip away, he could swear he felt a stiffness pushing against his torso. The man was getting aroused by this, and it sickened him. He hated that this memory — this captured image in that psychopath's mind — would forever be stored in his brain, retrieved time and time again whenever he needed good material to beat off to. Drake would forever be trapped in service to his killer, his duty to please and arouse him, but as much as he despised knowing that, there was nothing he could do about it. It was almost over...
It was almost...
Drake inhaled loudly and obnoxiously when the hands left his throat. His eyes, which had been drooping and nearly empty before, were now wide with panic. He kept gasping for air, but it didn't seem like enough. His breathing was broken up by crying and coughing, and the weight of his attacker on top of him wasn't helping things either. He felt light-headed as oxygen returned to him. His body felt heavy and exhausted, so it took some time before he found the strength to lift his hands and clutch his own neck, as if he had to feel for himself that he was free from the maniac's grasp. He wanted so badly to turn onto his side or even stand up. He felt like he could catch his breath better that way, but the man kept pushing his shoulders against the floor each time he tried, watching with what was sure to be amusement. Despite the mask never changing expressions, Drake felt well-acquainted enough now that he understood which emotions were hidden behind it. He had seen the rage, the hatred, the lust, the joy.
His breathing was just beginning to get back to some sort of normalcy when he saw the knife again. He shook wildly as the flat part caressed the side of his face and cheek tauntingly. He turned his head away, not wanting to watch, but his chin was grabbed and violently pointed towards the masked man.
Drake felt pressure under his left eye when the blade poked at the bottom lid, a clear threat that the man was considering carving out his eyes as if he were a jack o'lantern. Silent sobs erupted from the terrified victim, and snot dripped from his nostrils as he continued taking short, quivering breaths. His bottom lip trembled like that of a baby. His fear was so great that he lost control of his bladder, and as it soaked through his pant leg, he felt ashamed.
Finally, his eyes were left alone, and, instead, the knife was moved down to his swollen neck. He felt the curved tip break skin.
"Please..." he tried, but he found that he couldn't speak. He's had nightmares like this before — ones where he needed to scream but was unable to find his voice, needed to run but couldn't muster more than a walk. This wasn't one of those, though. Once this ended, he wouldn't be waking up in the safety of his bed. This time, when things went dark, they would remain that way...forever.
Although his voice had failed him, the masked figure knew what he was trying to say, and he gave him a reply. "That's exactly what your mother said...right before I stabbed her to death. Are you ready to join her...Drake?"
Even more tears left Drake's eyes with those hurtful words. Being reminded of his mother left him with feelings of extreme guilt. This must've been how his mom had felt, and just like back then, yelling for help was useless. Both had been left alone in the house, only Audrey wasn't supposed to be. Drake should've been there. He should've come to her rescue. Or maybe he was supposed to die that day, too, and like in those Final Destination movies his friends loved so much, Death was coming to collect. He wasn't sure which was worse: being killed alongside his mom or dying alone.
Again, he tried to beg, but no words came out. He choked out a quiet sob when the intruder lifted his weapon into the air — with both hands, just like he had strangled him with both hands. The boy lay sprawled out on the floor, hopelessly staring up at the shiny silver. Perhaps he deserved this. Perhaps it was his karma.
The room filled with light, and for a moment, Drake thought he had died and that this was the light everyone always talked about. However, there were two separate lights moving parallel, and they drifted across the ceiling, then disappeared. Maybe headlights? The masked man must've been thinking the same thing, for he turned towards the glass door. When he looked back at Drake, in a rush to get the job done, the boy gave him a hard punch. It caught him off guard, so when his victim shoved him, he fell over.
Drake still felt weak after being strangled, so he was practically having to drag himself across the floor while resting his hurt knee on top of the other. The closest place he could go to was the bathroom, so that's where he went, returning to the spot where this encounter had first begun. Once inside, he started to close the door, but a black-sleeved arm appeared, the gloved hand wielding a knife. It stabbed around aimlessly. Drake screamed, but no sound came out. He sat up and kept his back against the door, trying to keep the killer out. The young man placed the flattened foot on his good leg against the bottom of the sink counter across from him and pushed with all of his might. His body jerked forwards when his attacker rammed the door, then he planted his foot even firmer and pushed back. He added the other, hoping to bear through the pain so that he could put an end to this once and for all, but the moment pressure was applied, his whole body seemed to crumple. He leaned forward and cradled his knee, pressing his forehead against his thigh as he gritted his teeth. His back jerked as he silently sobbed.
Again, the door was rammed, and with his guard down, it opened dangerously far before he shoved himself backward so hard he hit his head. He pressed the bottoms of his palms into the tile to aid in scooting himself back. He searched the bathroom in a panic, hoping to find something he could use to keep the door from opening. On the floor in front of the bathtub, he saw his cell phone. He must've dropped it earlier, but he couldn't get to it now.
The next ram came with so much force that it pushed Drake forward. He hardly had time to fix his position before the door jolted violently again, hitting the back of his head. The killer quickly charged the door again, giving Drake no time to better his stance. He couldn't hold him back much longer. He knew that psycho would burst through any second and finish what he had started. By running, Drake had only prolonged his torture, and probably even pissed the murderer off. Maybe to punish him, he'll really carve out his eyes this time and leave him looking like that guy from Jeepers Creepers.
Drake's good leg was getting exhausted, but he kept it pressed against the sink counter and leaned back against the door with closed eyes, clenched teeth and shaking hands. "Please!" he tried again, but still, he made no sound.
However, as if he had heard him and had suddenly found a soft spot for him, the killer's arm slipped out, taking the knife with it, and the door closed.
Drake no longer heard anything on the other side of the door, but he wasn't about to check. He reached up to lock it but found that it was broken. With no other options, he laid on his right side and reached for his phone. Once it was in his hand, he sat up and braced himself, then quickly dialed 9-1-1. It wasn't long before he received an answer, but when asked for his location, he couldn't speak.
"Hello? Are you there?"
His throat hurt, but he tried his best to get something out. However, because he had been strangled so aggressively, no sound left him.
"Hello? Is this an emergency?"
Drake was frustrated that he wasn't able to contact rescue, so he banged his fist against the wall to make a noise, hoping that she would somehow realize that he was there and just couldn't talk.
"Are you there? Hello?"
Just then, he felt the bathroom door push against his back. His eyes went wide and he dropped his phone. Again, he planted his foot more firmly and pushed against the counter. He was so fatigued and worn out that he couldn't hold it back this time. He screamed with fear, but all that came out was a quiet squeak.
"Drake, what are you do—what's wrong?!" It was Walter. "What happened?!" he asked when he saw the boy's frantic, tearful, bloodshot eyes.
All Drake could do was pick up the phone and pass it to him. The man was confused when he saw the number on the screen. He put it to his ear.
"Hello?"
"Hello," the woman on the line said. "You have reached Woodsboro Police Department. Do you have an emergency?"
"I'm not sure. I just got home, and my son handed me the phone."
"What is your location?" When he told her, she asked, "What's your name?"
"Walter Nichols."
"How old is your son, Mr. Nichols."
"Sixteen. Drake, what happened?" He squatted down in front of him. "Can you talk to me?"
"Is your son still conscious and breathing?"
"Yes." Walter's brows were furrowed as he examined the boy, who seemed to be trying to tell him something. He got a look at Drake's neck when his chin was lifted, and he saw that it was swollen. He relayed this information over the phone. "Maybe he had an allergic reaction."
While the telecommunicator asked if the teen had any known allergies, Drake grabbed his stepdad's arm to get his attention, then shook his head no. He put his hands around his neck to show that he had been choked.
"Was someone strangling you?"
Drake nodded.
"Someone was here in the house?!"
He nodded again.
"Oh my God!"
"Sir, what did he say?"
"Someone broke in and was trying to kill him!" Walter said, his voice now filled with fear. "Oh my God! Are you okay?!" He petted the boy's hair, then pulled him against his chest.
"We have units on the way. Are you someplace safe?"
"We're in the bathroom." Walter moved to the side so that he could shut the door. He saw that it wouldn't lock, so he sat down next to Drake and pushed his back against it, too. Afterwards, he pulled his son against him again and could feel him shaking.
"Lock yourselves in and stay there. If he stops breathing or loses consciousness, call us back. Don't give him any food or water because it can make him sick." She gave some other instructions, but Walter was too frazzled to hear them. She ended with, "Someone will be there soon," then she ended the call.
Walter knew that something really had happened because Drake hugged him and wept. Drake rarely cried, and he never hugged him.
"It's okay," he said soothingly. "You're safe now. You're okay."
It was nighttime, so the red and blue lights — the same color as blood and bruises — were blinding. Walter counted seven police cars, but that didn't include the emergency vehicles hidden past the tree line that divided their yard from the neighbor's yard. There was an ambulance out front, with its back doors wide open so that he could see his stepson wearing an oxygen mask while a paramedic examined the back of his head. Walter turned back to the small puddle of blood on the foyer floor, and images of Drake fighting for his life flashed in his mind.
He had already experienced more than his fair share of loss and grief in the last few years, what with his first wife Kylie and his second wife Audrey both dying — or more correctly, getting killed. However, whereas Audrey had been killed by her abusive ex-husband (allegedly), Kylie had ended her own life. He and his family had been through enough pain for one lifetime.
There was a bright flash behind him, which caught his attention. He turned and saw a man standing to the right of the door, with a camera pointed at the frame. Walter stepped closer to see what he had found. There was an imperfection in the wood — one that hadn't previously been there. It was made by a knife, but he didn't have much time to ponder on it before another man approached, this one wearing a dark blue blazer and matching trousers. His hair was disheveled, like he had just gotten out of bed, and his black tie was crooked.
"Find something?" he asked the man with the camera.
"A laceration. Definitely a hunting knife."
The word hunting made Walter's skin crawl.
"Possibly a Buck 120, but I can't be sure."
"Huh," the detective said thoughtfully.
"What?" asked the photographer.
The man was quiet for a moment as he looked around, as if seeing Drake's struggle with the psycho killer play out in front of him. "So the kid is standing here trying to get the door unlocked, and then the killer comes up behind him with the knife?"
"Yeah?" He didn't know where the detective was going with this.
"Why so high?"
"What?"
"Drake's probably...5'8"? 5'9"?" He lifted his fist into the air as if holding a knife, then moved his arm in a downward motion. He knew the knife had made contact with the wood this way due to where the ridge was shallow and where it went in deeper. He looked over at the open glass door and could just see his reflection. "I'm sure Drake saw him coming and ducked out of the way, but even if he hadn't, this wouldn't have hit him."
"So the killer was just fucking with him and didn't actually intend to murder him?"
"Maybe," he said, his eyes still searching the wood as if the answer was hidden somewhere in the paint. "Or maybe he was just toying with him first. I'll have to talk to the kid and see how he got away. It's possible he was never going to die tonight no matter what he did. If that's the case, then the killer will be back."
"Excuse me, sir?"
Walter looked over at the cop who had approached him.
"I'm Officer Reznick." He said this to his notepad rather than to the man in front of him. "I have a few questions, Mr...?
"Nichols."
"Mr. Nichols," he repeated, writing. "Were you here when the attack happened?"
"No, I was on my way home from work."
"And where do you work?"
Walter didn't care for fame, but still, he always felt slightly dejected when he wasn't recognized. "I'm a weatherman."
Finally, Reznick lifted his eyes, but he didn't find the public figure to be familiar. He went back to scribbling on his pad. "What time did you leave work?"
"Around six or six-fifteen."
"Is this normally when you get off work?"
"Well, no. I had to stay a couple hours late," he said, then added, "for a meeting."
"Hm."
Walter didn't like the sound of that. "What?"
"Nothing. Your stepson's very lucky that you happened to show up at exactly the right time." Despite the innocence he was displaying in his voice, it was clear that he was suspicious of the victim's stepfather. "Your wife was killed a year ago, right?"
The question was so sudden and insinuating that it caught Walter off guard. He felt angry, but he didn't want to give this man any other reason to feel skeptical of him. "It'll be a year on Friday."
"Mr. Nichols, were you aware that Drake ditched school early today?"
Walter was confused by how quickly this man was able to bounce from topic to topic, and each thing he said surprised him for one reason or another. "I was not aware of that, no."
As if this line of questioning wasn't discombobulated and informative enough, the officer said, "Did Drake tell you he was informed today that his biological father, Winston Parker, escaped prison two days ago?"
"What?!"
It was so loud that his stepdaughter Megan could hear from where she sat on the couch. She had arrived not long after the police, having been dropped off by a friend's mom after band practice, where she played oboe. Walter had been so scatterbrained that he forgot to call, so when Megan arrived home to the bright lights and buzz of nosy neighbors gossiping on the sidewalks, she instantly felt sick to her stomach. It was like last year all over again. Her friend's mother, a normally cocky, high-maintenance woman who loathed the days when she had to carpool her daughter's band friends around, told Megan to wait in the car while she went to find out what was happening. It was an unexpected sympathetic action, and seeing this materialistic woman suddenly acting like a protective mother reminded Megan of her own mom for a while, until she considered the idea that her friend's mother only did this out of curiosity.
Soon after, Walter exited the house. Megan had mixed emotions. Of course she didn't want anything to happen to Walter, but she'd rather lose him than one of her brothers, even if they weren't that close. When she saw him, that meant that either Drake or Josh had to be in trouble — possibly injured...possibly worse. Drake was her biological brother. She's known him all her life. Part of her hoped that whatever bad thing had happened, happened to Josh, but then she remembered last year, and the fact that it was Drake's fault.
"I just don't understand how the hell you knew Winston broke out of prison and didn't think it was something you should've warned us about!" Walter yelled at the officer, in a rage. "He's on trial for murdering his ex-wife, and his son was the one who put him there, and you didn't think he needed protection?!"
"Sir, I'm gonna need you to calm down."
"And I'm gonna need you to learn how to do your fucking job!"
It wasn't often that Megan heard Walter lose his cool enough to swear. Occasionally, work would stress him out or one of the boys would get in serious trouble, like the time Josh's license were suspended for speeding or when Drake got caught with cigarettes. It was so rare that, when it happened, it was scary. Even Drake had been afraid. He'd avoided the man for weeks after the smoking incident. The same happened when he'd punched his teacher. After hearing her brother's argument, Megan felt as though the teacher deserved it also. Apparently, he had gotten onto Drake for his apathetic attitude in class. An argument started, small at first, but it quickly grew into something bigger. The teacher, Mr. Barnes, blamed his disinterest as the reason why Drake was failing, and it embarrassed the teen that his business was being spread for the rest of the class to hear. He then introduced some rather colorful language, to which Barnes had responded by asking the student what his mom would think if she could see his behavior. Drake reacted accordingly. Multiple students stood up in his defense when the principal was summoned, but in the end, it was the teen with the deceased mother who had gotten in trouble.
The detective approached Walter with the intent on calming him down. "Hi, I'm Detective Abrahamian. I work in homicide, and I'll be investigating this case." He held out his hand for a shake and got one.
"Walter Nichols," the victim's stepfather said. He no longer spoke with anger, but rather confusion. "Wait, did you say homicide?"
"Mr. Nichols, are you aware of the deaths of Woodsboro High's Melanie Tifton and John Derrickson?"
"I heard about it this morning. It's horrible."
"And did you know that your stepson had a relationship with Melanie a few weeks prior to her murder?"
Walter scrunched his forehead. "I did not," he answered. "So you think this was the same guy?"
"It's a possibility, but there isn't enough evidence to say quite yet."
"She was repeatedly stabbed," Walter said, but thinking less about the dead girl and more about what almost happened to his son. "They found her in such a bad state."
Just then, Drake entered the house. He walked somewhat slowly, for his ribs were aching after the fall on the stairs, and his knee, having recently been popped back into place, was still swollen. He had on clean pajama pants now, thanks to his stepfather understanding that he'd want to keep at least some of his dignity before emergency services started to arrive.
Walter noticed him immediately. "Drake, are you okay?"
He nodded.
"What did they say?"
His voice was hoarse when he said, "Just some bruising."
That's for sure. Mr. Nichols could see the oval shaped bruises on his son's neck. He had some scratches there as well from where he had clawed at himself, desperately trying to remove the hands that had once seemed glued to that spot. One of Drake's eyes had a large, bright red splotch, which replaced most of what should've been white — subconjunctival hemorrhage, they'd called it — and the other had purple polka dots in it. This was petechiae. Both were caused by the strangulation, but they said it should go away within a couple days to weeks.
"No concussion?" Walter saw him shake his head.
Detective Abrahamian spoke up. "Drake, I'd like to ask you some questions."
"Are you feeling up to it?" Walter asked, willing to shoo the man away if need be.
Drake nodded but excused himself to the upstairs restroom first. He needed a moment alone to catch his breath and reflect. He made his way up the steps, gripping the right handrail to avoid placing too much weight onto his injured knee. A paramedic had popped it back in place for him, so Drake was able to walk to the ambulance himself, where he was examined and asked tons of questions. Additionally, photos were taken of his injuries. They advised him that going to the hospital to get checked out would be best although nothing seemed life-threatening. He said no to that, so they informed him that, after a knee pops out of the joint once, it's easy for it to happen again. They told him to stick to light activity, then let him go back into the house he had almost been murdered in.
Once in the privacy of the bathroom, Drake closed and locked the door, then paused for a moment, taking in the solitude. He stood in front of the toilet and unzipped his jeans. Although he'd lost control of his bladder during the strangulation, he already had to go again, mostly due to his nervousness. He felt so embarrassed when the paramedic had asked him if he'd vomited, urinated, or defecated, even when the man assured him that it was normal to lose control of your bodily functions in such a situation. Drake answered honestly, and he wondered if Linny had also peed on herself. Part of him hoped she had so he wouldn't feel so weak in comparison, then he felt terrible for even thinking such a thing when the girl was dead and her parents were grieving.
After he finished relieving himself, he secured his jeans, flushed, then moved over to the sink. For a while, he avoided his reflection as he washed his hands, then dried them, but his curiosity got the best of him. Drake lifted his head and looked in the mirror.
He didn't expect to be so surprised. Besides, he's seen this kind of thing before in horror movies. It was different seeing it in real life...on his own body. His lifted his hand and gently placed the fingertips on top of the oval bruises, wondering for a moment what he had looked like through the masked stranger's eyes. Speaking of eyes, they were probably what looked the worst. One was so red that it looked as if it was bleeding. He was told that it would clear up on its own, which gave him some comfort because it looked atrocious. Luckily, he had no issues with his vision.
While everything was still happening, he didn't have much time to think, but in hindsight, he knew that the maniac let him get away — that he had just been toying with him like a tomcat nudging a half-dead mouse to run so that he could have further amusement. It was clear to him now. That's why the killer let him catch his breath. That's why he didn't stab Drake when he had the chance. Sure, Drake had been running on pure adrenaline, but Walter pushed his way into that bathroom without much of a struggle, and that psychopath could have, too. If he'd wanted to.
But he didn't want to. He didn't want to kill Drake. Not yet. He wanted Drake to know that he was coming for him. He wanted the boy to know that he was too weak to fight him. He wanted him to stew in that hopelessness. He wanted Drake to know that he would be back to finish him off, and that there was nothing he could do about it.
A sob left his lips, and Drake lowered his head, ashamed of his sudden tears. Once the first sob slipped out, more followed, and the lump in his throat made it hard to breathe. He leaned against the sink and cried.
In the living room, Megan never moved from her spot on the couch, even when Josh rushed through the front door. After Walter had forgotten to contact Megan, she suggested to her stepfather that they let Josh know what was going on so that he didn't show up unprepared to the frenzied scene outside. Still unable to collect his thoughts, he asked Megan to do it so that he could check on Drake, who had been in the ambulance at the time.
It was rare that she called her brothers, and she was sure that was pretty clear after the awkward phone conversation she'd had with Drake at the school this morning. They didn't text much either. Heck, they hardly spoke at all. She wasn't sure Josh would answer, although there was no reason to believe that. On the rare occasions that she had called — whether she needed a ride home from somewhere or lazily hoped that he would make her a sandwich and bring it up to her room — he always answered. The same couldn't be said about Drake.
Just like every other time, he picked up, but he whispered with annoyance because she knew he was at work and couldn't talk on the phone. She didn't think he believed her at first, but she couldn't blame him. Megan was always pulling pranks on her older brothers — some of them not so innocent — but it didn't take long to convince him. Perhaps he had enough faith in her to know that she wouldn't joke about something like this — not so close to the anniversary of Audrey's death.
He left work immediately and hurried home. Megan saw his wide eyes spot the small puddle of blood on the foyer floor, then he found his father. Walter gave him a rundown of what little information he had. Josh then asked how and where Drake was, then he started upstairs.
Drake could hear his panicked brother when he'd entered the house, and he knew he was coming up to the second floor now. "Fuck," he whispered as he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He sniffled, then turned on the faucet and quickly splashed water on his cheeks.
There was a knock at the door. "Drake?"
It wasn't too long after the strangulation that his voice started returning to him, but it took a lot of energy out of him to speak, and when he did, his voice was quiet. He knew that Josh wouldn't be able to hear him through the door, so he got some toilet paper and dabbed his cheeks dry, then turned the lock on the knob and opened it.
"Oh my God..." Josh said with a sympathetic frown, noticing his bright red eye first, then the bruising.
"I'm okay," Drake said, wanting to offer reassurance, but his voice cracked, so he coughed and tried again. "I'm okay." He almost broke down again when his stepbrother pulled him into a hug, but he hated crying in front of people and refused to do so now. He took comfort in the embrace, and for a moment, the worries that he had been bawling about minutes before slipped away. He had to force himself to pull free from Josh's grasp, for he didn't want to appear weaker than he already looked.
"You shouldn't have been here by yourself." He wasn't blaming Drake, but rather himself for having not been here.
Drake wasn't sure how much he would be able to say without coughing, so he decided on another, "I'm okay," and hoped that he sounded convincing. He wasn't sure if Josh could tell that he had been crying before, but either way, his stepbrother didn't mention it, and he was grateful for that. Drake knew that, if he stood here with Josh any longer, he might get worked up again, so he cleared his throat and said, "I have to answer some questions."
His younger brother nodded and led him down the steps, which he noticed Drake touch with both feet before moving on to the next one. Walter, Megan, a detective, and the cops from the principal's office were waiting for him in the living room. The father and daughter were on the couch, leaving the closest end unoccupied. The officers were separated, both seated in a recliner on opposite sides of the coffee table. Two chairs had been brought over from the dining table. One was in the space between the empty cushion and Reznick. The other was opposite the couch, facing everyone like a teacher in a classroom.
The two boys joined them. Josh started to sit, but stopped and looked at his brother questioningly when his forearm was grabbed. It wasn't tight. Drake just needed the extra balance to sit without falling, for he wanted to keep his bad leg straight.
Walter saw this and asked, "Do you want me to move the coffee table closer so you can prop your leg up?"
Drake shook his head, and his brother sat down.
"Are you okay?" Megan questioned quietly. She seemed to be in a bit of a daze since her arrival.
Drake gave her a nod, and they left things at that. There was more she wanted to say to him, but they weren't close enough for her to show any vulnerability.
"Can you talk?" Detective Abrahamian asked.
"Yes," the teen said softly.
"Could you tell us what happened?" He said, "Start from the moment you left school."
"I just needed some space." He said this to Walter. He assumed they already informed his stepfather that he'd ditched, so he tried to explain himself as best he could in as few words as possible.
Walter nodded with understanding. Perhaps he would overlook what Drake had done just this once considering the circumstances.
His throat was scratchy, so he cleared it, then continued. "Um—" He coughed again. "I walked home and fell asleep. When I woke up, my phone was gone, so I looked for it. I found the front door open, which was weird, but I just shut it and kept looking for my phone."
"When you got home from school," Officer Reznick said, "do you remember if you locked the door?"
Walter looked at the detective, almost expecting to see anger on his face like in the movies when the different departments and jurisdictions clashed. However, Abrahamian welcomed the question. He was firm and confident enough that his control of the conversation was evident, but he was also open-minded and willing to admit that he didn't have all the answers. Officer Guster was, as usual, taking notes, but Detective Abrahamian had his own pen and pad out. Unlike the other, he made eye contact, showing interest and understanding.
"Um..." Drake shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not sure," he said.
"So you wake up and can't find your phone," the detective regurgitated. "Then what?"
"I called it, and I found it in the tub."
"In the downstairs bathroom?"
Drake nodded, preserving his voice any way he could. "When I picked it up, I got a text."
"From whom?"
"I don't know." He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, opened the message, then passed it along.
"We'll begin with a reign of terror," the man read aloud, puzzled. "Does this mean anything to you?"
Drake shrugged cluelessly.
"It's a quote," Josh chimed in, and everyone turned to look at him. "From a movie. The Invisible Man. The original." He wasn't usually one to speak up, but this was important, and it just so happened to involve something in which he was an expert. Still, he lacked confidence — not because he wasn't sure, but because he felt like being assertive was aggressive. Sometimes he could be too sensitive for his own good. "I mean, I'm pretty sure that's where it's from."
"That's the movie about the woman being terrorized by her abusive ex, but no one believes her because he's supposed to be dead, right?"
"Well, actually, in the original, it's about a scientist who made himself invisible and is trying to become visible again. He goes on a violent rampage, but no one can see him, so the police can't catch him." While everyone took in the weight of those words — violent rampage, police can't catch him — Josh pulled out his phone and did a quick YouTube search. He found the particular scene where the quote came from and played it.
It was a black and white film, for it was made in the early thirties. The camera pointed to a man. He had a long surgical bandage wrapped around the entirety of his head, and sunglasses covered his eyes. He sat in a rocking chair, casually moving to and fro. His voice was calm and cool. "We'll begin with a reign of terror, a few murders here and there, murders of great men, murders of little men — well, just to show we make no distinction. I might even wreck a train or two. Just these fingers...around a signalman's throat, that's all."
When he delivered that last sentence, he stopped rocking and leaned forward, then held out his gloved hands as if choking someone. The way he said those words sent a shiver down Drake's spine. It was hard to believe that this was all happening — that some movie-obsessed psycho wanted to kill him. Luckily, Josh was a massive fan of the genre. All his friends were, really, with Josh and Ja'won probably being the most knowledgeable — you know, being geeks and all. Vance was also a horror nerd. He wasn't Drake's friend, but he did collect memorabilia and those lame Funko Pop things, and he had a fairly successful podcast dedicated to the genre. He knew this because his stepbrother sometimes listened to it. He was pretty sure Josh and Vance would make great friends, but thankfully, Josh could tell that Drake's stalker made him uncomfortable, so he stayed away. He was glad for that. The last thing he wanted was Vance hanging out in his room, plundering through his things any time he was left unattended.
Walter wore a look of disgust as he rubbed his stepson's back for support. He wanted to say something about this maniac's love of horror, but he bit his tongue, for he knew that his kids loved scary movies also, even Drake, despite the gruesome things he had seen nearly one year ago, and Megan, who, he was pretty sure, Josh was selling movie tickets to at the Premier despite her not being old enough to get into most of the showings. She had very few nightmares, and he didn't want to get in the way of a brother/sister bonding moment because it was so rare, so he pretended as though he knew nothing of their secret. Parents always know more than they let on, though.
When prompted to continue his story, Drake said, "I heard the door close behind me, and when I turned around, he was standing right there."
"Did you recognize him?"
"He was wearing a mask."
"What about height? Weight?"
"He was a little taller than me. I'm not sure about his weight. He was wearing this...like...gown or cloak or something." He remembered the heavy weight on top of him, but anyone would feel heavy when you're seconds away from death. It's like the gravity of the situation tugs on you, its claws latching on and dragging you six feet underground.
"Can you describe his appearance?" the detective asked.
"I can draw it," Drake offered. His voice needed a break. His throat was burning, and he craved water, but he knew he wouldn't be able to swallow it. When he was given the notepad, he started with the mask and could feel everyone leaning closer to see, especially Guster, who tried to copy the image into his own pad as best he could. Drake could draw it perfectly. He would never forget staring up at that horrid face and thinking it would be the last thing he saw before he died. However, his artistic ability wasn't as great for the cloak, so he described it as he passed his drawing back. "It was black, and it went all the way down to his boots. The bottom was cut in a stringy zigzag shape. There were these long things hanging underneath his arms, too, like wings almost. He was wearing gloves and had a really big knife." Drake started coughing after all of the talking he had just done, and because he couldn't swallow, he had a bit of drool on his mouth. He was grateful when Josh passed him a box of tissues.
"You said he," Abrahamian noticed. "Do you know for sure that the attacker was male?"
He did, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to say that because then they'd ask him how he could be so sure if he hadn't gotten a good look at him. He considered not telling them, but he really wanted this fucker caught, so he needed to give them as much information as he could.
"When he... He got on top of me." Drake looked down at the floor, humiliated. "When he was choking me...I could feel..." Perhaps it would've been easier to admit had his little sister not been present, but not by much. The whole thing left him feeling small, like what had happened reflected more on himself and his character rather than the killer. "He was...like... He was hard..."
"He had an erection?" Reznick said, needing clarification.
Drake nodded at the floor, and Walter gave his shoulder a supportive squeeze before going back to rubbing circles in his back. The teen was wondering if it was supposed to soothe him, or if the round and round motion was more to calm Walter so that he felt he could be of some use. Drake didn't want to be touched, but he didn't have the heart to say that, so he left the man alone.
"Did you hear his voice at all?" Abrahamian asked.
"Something was distorting it. I think he had some type of voice-changer in his mask. I could see this red light..." He drifted off. The details were getting harder to recall.
The detective got them back on track. "So you're in the bathroom, you turn around, and he's there. What happened next?"
"I..." Drake thought for a moment. "I can't remember."
"Think hard," the cop pushed.
He tried but nothing was coming to him. He knew he hadn't blacked out, so why couldn't he remember. Drake shrugged apologetically, almost childlike, as if they were angry with him. "I don't know."
"Memory loss is common after strangulation," said Abrahamian compassionately. "Can you tell us the next thing you do remember?"
"I was on the floor," Drake whispered. His eyes were aimed nowhere in particular, for he wasn't seeing the present anyway. His mind replayed images of the past — that mask...those gloved hands. "I just remember...he was on top of me." Thinking so intensely about the attack made his eyes well up with water. "I couldn't breathe," his voice cracked, then he cleared his throat and came back to the present, unwilling to get caught up in the memory for fear that he'd start crying again.
"What was going through your head when he was choking you?"
Drake paused for a moment, allowing himself a short peek into the past, but he didn't dwell there for long. "I just remember thinking that he was gonna kill me."
Now it was Josh's turn to give his shoulder a supportive squeeze, and Drake felt smothered by the hands that touched him.
"How did you get away?" It was Megan asking this time.
"There was this light..." Now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure if the light had really been there, or if it was the light people say you see before you die. "...I think." Quietly, as if to himself, he whispered, "Or maybe he let me go."
The detective lifted his eyebrows. He was particularly interested in this statement, for it matched an earlier hypothesis he'd had. "You think he let you go?"
Drake was quiet for a moment, and the emotions he'd felt during his meltdown in the upstairs bathroom returned to him. He felt a lump rise in his throat, and no matter how hard he tried to swallow it down, it wouldn't budge. He didn't think he'd be able to speak without crying, so, with downcast eyes, he nodded his head. Admitting this made him feel inferior. His family had thought he'd fought his way to safety, but that wasn't the case. He was only alive because the killer wanted him that way. For now.
"Did he say anything to you?"
The boy cleared his throat, and the lump in his esophagus shrunk, but it didn't go away completely. He opened his mouth as a test to see if he would immediately start sobbing. Feeling as though he had enough control over his emotions for the moment, he answered the question. "He said he killed Linny and Johnny...and my mom."
"He admitted to you that he murdered your classmates?" Officer Reznick questioned.
"He mentioned something about a struggle he had with Linny." He remembered the exact words: that his Jesus-freak ex had put up more of a fight than he had, but he didn't want them to know that. He was embarrassed enough, and it wasn't important anyway. "It was my father," Drake said.
"You're sure?" said the cop.
"It has to be. He said he killed my mom."
"Is there anyone else who might have some sort of grudge against you?" questioned Abrahamian.
The only other person that came to mind was Huntley, but he was fairly certain his murderous father was the masked killer. He felt like it was highly unlikely for a high school jock to try to kill him over something as trivial as a high school fling, and saying Huntley's name would only make his bully angry. They would definitely interrogate him, and he'd know that Drake had said something.
"No," the teen said.
"Alright, well, I think that's all the questions I have for now." The detective looked to Reznick, giving him the floor, but the officer nodded in agreement.
Walter and their guests all stood, and the homeowner led them to the foyer. They were all that was left of the large crew of emergency workers that had arrived earlier.
"Here's my number." Abrahamian passed along a business card. "If anything comes up, give me a call."
"We'll be out front keeping an eye on things and making rounds every fifteen minutes," the lead cop said.
Walter thanked them, then closed the door behind them. When he made his way back to the living room, Megan and Josh sat in awkward silence, and Drake's head pointed downwards. Walter wasn't the best at reading emotions, but he knew that Drake was embarrassed about everything despite there being no reason to feel that way.
"Drake, son—" he started, but he was interrupted when the teen stood.
"I'm gonna go to bed."
"You don't want any dinner?" Walter must've forgotten that the boy couldn't currently swallow.
Drake shook his head, then disappeared upstairs. He climbed into bed cautiously, making sure not to put much weight on his right knee. He wasn't left alone for long. Josh joined him and, of course, tried to ask how he was doing and strike up a conversation, but Drake told him his throat was hurting and that he didn't feel like talking. His stepbrother was understanding. He changed out of his work uniform and put on some comfy pajamas, then turned out the light and crawled into bed. Both of them were ready to call it an early night after the hectic day.
Because he had slept most of his day away, Drake couldn't fall asleep, so he laid there most of the time, replaying today's events in his head. First, he found out his ex-girlfriend was killed, then he learned of his father's escape. Afterwards were the threats from Huntley, and then some psycho in a mask tried to kill him.
He continued obsessively thinking over these things until he forced himself to stop, but not dwelling over those things allowed him to worry about other things, like the fact that the killer would come back for him. He could burst through that door any second. Josh was much closer to the door. His stepbrother wouldn't even have time to react if that were to happen. Graphic images of Josh being stabbed over and over again flashed through his mind. Josh would have that same empty look in his eyes that his mother had. The walls would be painted in his blood, just like his mom's room. Or maybe the killer only wanted Drake. Maybe he would skip right over Josh and come straight for the loft. This fear kept him awake.
At around three that morning, Drake heard a noise outside his window. He felt his body stiffen, and his heartbeat raced. He was so terrified that he was almost frozen in place. This is the moment he had been waiting for all night. This is when the killer would make his grand return. Drake just wanted to ignore it — to lay there and play dead — but he wasn't ready to roll over and die just yet.
The teen quietly got out of bed, made his way down the ladder, tiptoed around the loft to the window at the foot of his bed, then looked through the glass. On the grass below, he saw a light moving around, and a foggy memory of the lights he had seen while being strangled played in his mind. He didn't question why the killer would be sneaking through their yard, but rather why he would be carrying a flashlight with him. The shape of the light got less and less blurry as its carrier got closer to rounding the corner and coming into view. He was holding his breath, although he didn't realize it. Any second now...
Moments later, he saw a police officer turn the corner. It was Officer Guster. Drake had forgotten all about the patrol. Every fifteen minutes, one of the cops would make his way around the house, checking the perimeter for any sign that something had changed. Drake audibly sighed with relief.
He was just being paranoid. He needed to relax and get some sleep. He had to get up early tomorrow, and already, he knew it was going to be hell. The young man turned, and right behind him, just a few inches away, was the masked figure.
"No..." Drake whispered, backing away, but he was trapped against the window. "No!" He slid onto his bottom and covered his head with his arms. He wasn't quite sure if he did it as some measly attempt at protecting himself or if he was shielding his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the knife jerk towards him. Probably the latter, for he knew there was nothing he could do when the killer came for him.
"Drake? Hey, Drake! Wake up."
With a sharp breath, the boy's eyes opened, and he found himself in bed. Josh was on the ladder, shaking him.
"You were having a nightmare," he said.
The teen panted for breath. He was drenched in so much sweat that his hair was matted to his face. He couldn't remember falling asleep, and he wondered how long he'd been out. Drake peeled the comforter off of himself, then sat up and hunched over, holding his head up with his hands.
"Are you okay?" Josh asked gently.
His stepbrother didn't answer him. He didn't want to come off looking any weaker than he already had today, but at the same time, he just wanted to hear someone confidently tell him that everything would be okay.
"Come lay with me," Josh said, nodding his head toward his bed. He took one step down the ladder, then paused to see if Drake would make a move to follow him. He did.
Drake didn't have any more nightmares that night, or if he did, Josh had quickly comforted him during his slumber, so he didn't remember any come morning.
