Drake jumped out of his chair and turned to face his stepfather, hiding the black glove behind his back. He gulped.
"You're home," Walter said. "Good."
He didn't response. He had to get out of there immediately, but the man was blocking his path to the door. His entire body tensed when Walter approached him.
"You okay?" He was standing uncomfortably close. He reached out and touched the boy's cheek with the outside of his bent fingers, the movement causing his stepson's breathing to hitch, then he placed his palm against Drake's forehead. "You feel kinda hot," he said with furrowed brows. He wiped the teen's bangs out of his eyes, then pet his hair.
Drake cringed at his touch, but he was too afraid to pull away. He couldn't even look him in the eyes — not after what he'd found on his laptop, and not after what had happened to him in the sports shed. His felt like crying. He involuntarily backed against the desk further, practically sitting on it.
"Are you okay? You look pale." Walter then placed his hand under the boy's chin, lifting his head for him. "Are you getting sick?"
"I'm okay," Drake said, averting his eyes.
His stepfather's hand lingered on him a little too long, but finally, he turned away and crossed the room to the dresser. "Where's your sister?" he asked as he set his briefcase down. When his son didn't answer, he looked at him with a suspicious gaze. "Drake?"
He said nothing, and Walter knew that something was up. He was acting too weird.
"What do you have there?" the man asked, pointing. "Behind your back?"
"Nothing."
"You got your pipe out of here earlier to take to the party so you could get high with your friends, and now you're trying to sneak it back?"
His answer was delayed, which made his stepfather all the more suspicious that he was high. "No, sir—"
"Give it here." He waved him over. When the boy didn't move, he repeated himself. "Drake, I said give it to me."
Instead, he continued to watch him apprehensively, but when Walter marched over, his body tensed and he shrank slightly. "It's nothing—" he tried meekly.
Walter reached around him. His body was pressed up against the teen now, and Drake was so uncomfortable that he let go of the glove in hopes the creep would back away. He did, staring at the cloth in his hand for a moment before making eye contact again, which his stepson couldn't keep.
"Where's Megan?" he asked again, but now it was out of place and jarring. When he got no answer, he said, "She better not be at that teenage party."
Still nothing.
The man's confusion was transitioning into anger fast. "I want you to call your sister and tell her to come home now."
Drake didn't move. No way would he lure Megan here so their stepfather could easily murder them both. Maybe Drake was a lost cause, but Walter couldn't have his little sister. He wouldn't allow it.
"Did you hear me?"
He stayed still. His heart was pounding so hard in his chest that he swore the man could hear it.
"NOW!" Walter yelled, and his stepson flinched with fear at his ferocious voice, his knees shaking now. The man pulled his own cell phone out of his pocket. "I don't know what the hell has gotten into you—"
"No!" he interjected. "I'll call her." He retrieved his phone. "I'll call her." His hands shook as he found her name and clicked the call button. Every second that passed bought him closer to death. Time would run out soon.
"Hello?"
"Megan?"
"Drake, where are you?"
Walter was glaring at him with rage, and that look alone made him cower slightly. Any minute now...
"Whatever you do," he said into the phone, "don't come home."
"What?" she asked with confusion.
"Drake!" Walter exclaimed, brows sharp. "You do as I say!"
"You were right, okay?" the boy said into the phone. "Do you understand what I'm saying to you? You were right."
"Give me the phone!" Walter commanded, moving closer now.
Meanwhile, Megan's face scrunched up, and she put her index finger in her free ear to muffle the loud music her friend was playing in order to drown out the trash emanating from downstairs. "Drake, what—"
"Don't come home!" her brother yelled, then the line went dead.
"What the hell is the matter with you?!" Walter exclaimed. When his stepson tried to squeeze his way around him, he grabbed the boy's bicep, holding him in place.
"Let go!" Drake resisted, but was only pulled closer. His mind started to take him back to the shed — back to the moment the killer had pressed his body against him like this. He'd done nothing at the time. There wasn't anything he could do. He'd had a knife to his throat and the weight of his classmates' lives on his shoulders. All he could do was stand there and accept the assault while Huntley watched it all happen — heard the dirty words he was forced to say. It was fucking gross. He couldn't go through that again. He refused. Drake gave his arm a yank, freeing himself, and he hit the floor.
"What the fuck is your problem?!" Walter raged.
The boy couldn't tell if he was putting up a facade on the off chance that his stepson hadn't figured out his secret, or if he really was that clueless. The killer did have a cocky air about him. He probably thought that Drake was too stupid to figure it out. He wasn't wrong. Had his sister not warned him first, he never would've put two and two together. God, he hoped she understood his words and contacted the police. They should be running to his rescue any second now.
"Drake, I don't know what the hell has gotten into you, but—" He went silent.
Drake followed his eyes to the laptop bag. Sticking out of it was the white ghost mask that had been terrorizing him all week. There it was. One hundred percent confirmation — confirmation that Walter was the killer, that Drake knew, and that Walter knew that Drake knew.
The two locked eyes for what felt like an eternity. Drake didn't know what to do. Should he make a break for it, or should he wait for his stepfather to make the first move and dodge it, giving himself more time to get away while Walter reset?
The decision was made for him. The man made a grab for him. Drake stabbed his heels into the carpet, backing himself up, but Walter got one hand around his ankle, then the other hand.
"No!" Drake felt himself being dragged closer to the deranged murderer. He kicked his feet, trying to free himself, but couldn't. He rolled onto his side, searching for something to grab onto. Instead, he saw the gun. It was just a couple feet away, partly sticking out from underneath the bed skirt, exactly where he'd left it when hiding it from Megan. Drake clutched the weapon in his hands, then aimed it at his stepfather.
"Whoa!" the man exclaimed, his eyes wide. He let the boy go and backed away.
Drake got onto his feet, never taking his eyes off of him, still aiming the weapon at him.
"What are you doing?"
"What are you doing?!" he retaliated.
Walter continued to slowly add distance between himself and the kid with the gun. The further he got, the more his bravery grew. His fear transitioned to anger before Drake's eyes. A smug smirk appeared on his face. "Go ahead. Do it."
Even though he was standing face-to-face with the man who had caused so much pain, Drake struggled to pull the trigger. Ending someone's life wasn't something he'd ever be able to get over, even if it was for the greater good. Plus, this was his stepfather. They never had a good relationship, or really any relationship at all, but there was still some part of Drake that respected him, feared him, loved him. It was all the same, wasn't it?
"Come on. Try it," the man taunted.
The boy's hand was shaking around the metal. He added his other hand as an attempt to keep it still.
On the contrary, Walter felt confident enough to stop walking, and he stood his ground. "I hid the bullets," he said, no longer able to contain himself, so he spoiled the surprise.
Well, Drake had a surprise of his own. He'd found the bullets after his suicide attempt — after the first, second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth suicide attempt, to be more exact. To think that, had Megan not shown up when she did, he would've ended his life and left her alone with this creep. In a way, she had saved them both.
"It's useless. What are you gonna do? Shoot me with imaginary bullets?"
Drake immediately aimed at the dresser mirror and pressed down on the trigger. A POP! filled the room, and glass shattered. It was so loud that even he winced, but he brushed that to the side and pointed the gun at his shocked stepfather again. The man was sweating now, and he was on the move again. He was scared.
"You're gonna kill your father?" he asked, and although he tried to remain tough, his desperation showed.
"You're not my father."
"I'm not your father?" Walter seemed genuinely hurt by those words. "Are you serious?"
Before Drake could respond, the man, who had backed all the way to the threshold at this point, turned and bolted out of the room. His stepson hurried after him, but Walter was already halfway down the steps. The boy followed behind, unable to pull the trigger but unwilling to let the killer out of his sight until the cops showed.
Just as he rounded the corner to follow Walter towards the front door, he felt an explosion of pain in his right knee and hit the floor, dropping the revolver and landing in front of the entrance to the kitchen on the opposite wall. He yelled out, and a swear left his lips, but he knew he couldn't stay there. He had to get away.
Drake attempted to straighten his leg out, but it was locked in a bent position. That's when he knew his kneecap had popped out of its socket again. A pair of brown Oxford shoes moved into his line of sight. He lifted his eyes to see his stepfather holding a lamp stand high above his head, clearly ready to bring it down against the boy any second.
"Please," he begged, and there seemed to be a shift in Walter's eyes — a sadness. Was there still some semblance of sympathy somewhere inside him? "Please," he said again, and the man continued to hesitate.
Drake wasn't sure how much longer this would work, so he aimed his body towards the dining table. The back door was a good distance away, but it's all he could do. He used his elbows, army-crawling across the floor, dragging his legs along with him. He was a rather lazy teen, and he never exercised, so it took quite a bit of work on his part.
Before he had the chance to exhaust himself, however, Walter got on top of him and grabbed his wrist. He pulled that hand behind the boy's back, then the other. Drake fought it as best as he could, but his attacker pressed his knee against the back of Drake's injured one to keep him compliant, and it worked. The frightened young man cried out, freezing immediately as pain shot through his body.
"I'm sorry," Walter said, and he began wrapping the lamp's power cord around Drake's wrists, tying his hands behind his back.
"Don't," his stepson begged, teary-eyed.
"I have to do this. I'm sorry," he said. "You know I would never want to hurt you."
"Then don't," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "You don't have to do this."
"Yes, I do," Walter said. "I can't let you hurt anyone else."
Drake choked out a sob before the man's words registered in his mind, and even then, he had so much of his focus on the pain he was feeling in his knee, so his brain was foggy. In addition to that, Walter's heavy weight pressing him into the hardwood floor made it hard for him to breathe. Strange... He was much heavier than Drake remembered him to be during the first attack.
"Your friend Vance tried to warn me, but I didn't listen, and I should have."
"What?" What the hell was he on about?
"I know you're upset about what happened to your mother, but killing people isn't going to take that anger and pain away."
He was struggling to make sense of the words. Killing people? Does he think...does he think I did it?
"I'm sorry I have to tie you up like this, but I can't let you go. I have to turn you in," Walter said. "You need help, son."
Confused, he uncomfortably stretched his neck around so that he could see Walter's eyes and study their sincerity. However, when he did this, he saw the masked and cloaked man from his nightmares standing behind his stepfather.
"Behind you!" he tried, but it was too late. The pointed blade was already inserted into the center of the man's spine. His eyes moved to Walter's, and the look of innocent, childlike confusion within them shattered his heart. "Stop!" Drake yelled, but the murderer was raising his arm up and down like a jackhammer, viciously attacking him, and Walter was already dead.
It became even harder to breathe when the full of the man's weight pressed against his back, his body lying limply on top of him. Drake struggled against his restraints, but with Walter's plump belly affixing his hands to his back, he was immobilized. He fearfully gazed up at the towering terror, and he could just barely see him at the edge of his vision.
"Help!" Drake called out, to no avail. "Help me!"
A distorted laughter reached his ears, quiet at first, but it became joyous and hearty the more Drake struggled. The psycho was loving this, and it made the boy sick. Drake mustered all of his strength, grunting through clenched teeth, the killer's bellowing encouraging him, and finally, he managed to get on his side. Walter's butchered body slid off of him. He wasn't sure if it was help from the hand of God or if it was just a rush of adrenaline, but he was free of the dead weight now.
In his peripheral vision, he saw a black boot step forward. He lifted his eyes, taking in the flowing black cloak, the white mask with the long mouth, and the blood-covered knife in his hand. The killer's elbows were pointed outward as he gripped the blade with one gloved hand, then he swiped across it from the thick end to the dauntingly curved point in a sharp, swift motion, ridding it of his stepfather's blood so that it was ready to go again.
Drake wiggled his arms. His restraints were loose, for a power cord wasn't the best alternative for rope. He had to make a decision, and he had to do it fast. He could either attempt to free his hands, or he could work on putting distance between himself and the man who wanted him dead. His immediate instinct was to get away, but he knew that he wouldn't get far with his hands secured behind his back. Drake jiggled his arms, trying to widen the loop that his wrists were stuck in. He felt around with his fingers, using his sense of touch to envision what the knot looked like and where the weakest point was. Meanwhile, the black boots came nearer.
Drake planted his left foot in the kitchen doorway and pushed off, negating the progress the killer had made. The man paused, cocking his head to the side with what looked like amusement. Despite his rage, Drake went back to his restraints.
Although it was a bit loose, the knot was way more complicated than he'd anticipated. He felt frustrated that his stepfather had actually believed that he was capable of committing the horrible acts that had shocked their small town of Woodsboro, but he knew it wasn't the man's fault. He wasn't sure when Vance had approached Walter, but he'd planted doubts about Drake in his head, just as Megan had done to him about their stepfather. Everyone had their own list of suspects. Earlier this week, his biological father had been at the top of his, but now, after hearing what Vance had to say about the people he trusted most in his life, he wasn't so sure.
The killer came closer, and Drake pressed his foot against the door frame. It was a tiny fraction of the width of the kitchen opening, so his shoe slid right off without pushing him along. He cursed under his breath. Panicked, he pressed his shoulder into the floor and used that to pull himself away. He didn't make nearly as much progress as before, and it was much more tiring, for he then had to jam his hip against the hardwood to move his shoulder further. He repeated the process, inching away like a worm. If his right knee wasn't dislocated and forced to lazily rest on top of his other leg, he might've been able to somehow maneuver his way onto his feet, but that was impossible now.
A scream left Drake's lips when his injured leg was grabbed and yanked. "Fuck!" he growled, trying to keep his tears back. "Fuck you!" He was snatched much more violently now, and he involuntarily screeched at the top of his lungs.
Suddenly, everything felt wet and sticky, and as he was flipped onto his back, he realized that he was now laying in a pool of his stepfather's blood. Pushing his repulsion aside for now, he lifted his good leg and rammed the bottom of his tennis shoes into his opponent's knee. Unfortunately, the man landed directly on top of him, but he dropped the knife in the process. Weaponless, the murderer was left with only his hands, a luxury which Drake still didn't have the ability to use. The boy felt those familiar fingers wrap around his throat.
"Just like old times, huh, Drake?" came that distorted voice he'd heard only a few times despite it being so prevalent in his dreams.
The teen squirmed beneath him, gasping for breath, but his rapid movements made him lose air even faster. This wasn't working. He calmed himself as much as he could, then went back to work on his wrists, for he had to save his energy and conserve what little oxygen he had left. He was laying on top of his arms, and the psychopath was on top of him, so it was harder to move now, but he joggled his arms as best he could. Thanks to the blood all over his skin, one of his wrists slipped right out of the loop. He'd caught a lucky break.
Drake tugged at the gloved hands, trying to free his neck, and because he caught the maniac off guard, he was able to loosen them slightly and take a deep breath. The killer doubled down now, putting more of his muscles into it. It was intimidating to realize the man had only been using a portion of his power while Drake was using every bit of strength he had in him. This was useless. He had to work smarter, not harder. What would Josh do?
A stroke of genius struck him. He let go of the killer and tugged on the power cord. The small but heavy lamp stand slid across the floor, moving towards him. If he could just reach it, maybe he could hit the killer with it. Surely that would give him enough time to make his way to the bathroom, like before. The metal scratched the wood, making a noise that gained his opponent's attention. Just then, the stand came to a stop. It had hit an obstacle. The cord's path went underneath his attacker's leg, but the stand was unable to follow. The mask turned back to him, and Drake knew there was a smug grin hiding beneath it.
The killer swiftly shifted his position, lifting himself enough so that he could put his foot where his leg had been, then he suddenly jerked it down, taking the lamp stand with him. Because Drake's left wrist was still tangled in the cord, his hand was forced in that direction as well, and the further the murderer pushed the stand away, the more it stretched the boy's arm.
Drake's plan had backfired, leaving him in an even worse position. Now he only had one hand to protest with. He pitifully pried at the many fingers around his throat with half the capabilities he'd had before. Meanwhile, the cord was so tight around his left wrist that he could feel his bones beginning to shift. His heels involuntarily slid against the floor as an attempt to push himself away, further smearing the blood. He fought as much as he could, but still, he wasn't strong enough.
As if by some miracle, the killer suddenly loosened his grip and fell forward as shattered glass rained down upon Drake. Towering over them was Ja'won, his hand bleeding from a fresh cut he'd received after smashing a vase against the attacker's head. He was shaking as he looked down at his friend, who was so covered in blood that he looked as though he had taken a bath in it. His wide eyes then moved to the dead corpse of his best friend's stepfather.
"Jesus..." he mumbled.
Drake pushed the cloaked figure off of himself, then erupted into a fit of coughs as he gasped for air. Knowing he had no time to rest, he got his hand loose from the power cord, then he turned onto his side and began pushing himself onto his good foot, but his shoe slipped in the blood, and his hip bone crashed against the wooden floor hard. He was too exhausted and weak.
Finally, Ja'won snapped back to reality and helped him onto his feet. During this, Drake spotted the gun and he grabbed it. At the same time, the masked murderer managed to find his weapon, too, and he offered Drake a good slice from his belly button all the way to his right side. The boy yelled, but somehow, his feet kept moving as Ja'won led him away.
"Holy shit, Drake!" Ja'won exclaimed, struggling to process what was happening.
"How—" His coughing started up again when he attempted to use his voice.
They were halfway up the staircase when Drake tripped and shrieked at the pain in his knee, dropping the gun in the process. He just managed to pick it up and stick it into the waistband of his jeans before Ja'won snatched him onto his feet and practically dragged him up the remaining steps. His friend opened the door of the first room they came to, then they entered the closet — the same one he and his stepbrother had hidden in the last time the psycho had broken into his home. Once inside, he dropped onto the floor, and Ja'won quickly closed the doors behind them.
"How did you know I was in trouble?" Drake tried again, and this time, he could speak, although strained.
"I didn't. I was just coming to check on you," Ja'won said. "That prank they pulled was fucked up."
Drake clenched his teeth together and growled as he tried to move his injured leg into a comfortable position. "Oh fuck!" he exclaimed as quietly as he could, one hand balled into a fist against the carpet and the other cradling the spot under his bent knee so that the pressure of resting his heel on the floor didn't push the bone even more out of place. "Fuck! Fuck!"
Ja'won turned to him. "What's wrong?"
"My fucking knee," he said, the situation causing him to swear more than normal as well. "It's fucking dislocated." His voice cracked when he said it, and once it entered that higher octave, it didn't return. He choked out a sob before he realized that it was coming, but he caught the rest and locked them within his throat. "And my stomach fucking burns. Fuck."
Ja'won kneeled down next to him to check on the wound he had received. "Let me see." He lifted the victim's shirt, causing him to hiss through his teeth. After a moment, he said, "You need to go to the hospital."
"Yeah, no fucking shit." Drake's bloody fingers shook as he mustered the nerve to apply pressure to the wound. He squeezed his eyes closed and cursed.
"Shh!" Ja'won was shaking, too.
"Where's your phone?"
A bit of relief filled the boy's face, and he patted his pockets, then he cursed. "I left it at the party. Vance asked to use it so he could call his parents and check in. Where's yours?"
"I..." Drake checked his pockets with his bloody hand. "I don't know."
"Shit!"
"Why didn't Vance use his own phone?"
"Someone spilled beer on him. He said he couldn't get it to turn on."
"Am I gonna bleed out?"
"No, no," Ja'won assured. "I think it probably feels worse than it is. It didn't look deep at all."
Drake couldn't tell whether he was telling the truth or just trying to comfort him, but he hoped he was being honest. "What do we do?" he asked, childlike and afraid. His brain needed a break, so he was taking the backseat. He hated that Ja'won was now in danger, but he was glad that he wasn't alone with a serial killer anymore. He wasn't strong enough to beat him, and he wasn't smart enough to outwit him. Ja'won, on the other hand, had both strength and intelligence.
Ja'won went quiet. Drake could see his gears spinning, so he gave him time to think without interrupting. As he waited, he decided to scoot backwards a bit so he could lean against the wall. This way, he could give his abdominal muscles a break while he tended to his wounds. Cautiously, he twisted his body until most of his weight was on his left hip, then he carefully lifted his hurt leg and rested it on top of the other. When that was done, he pressed his elbow against the floor to lift his side up, scooting himself along until he was too close to the wall to continue this way. He was exhausted and breathing hard, but he wasn't in place just yet. He sat up, then looked back, measuring the distance now that he was no longer able to move in a horizontal position.
He placed his palms on the ground, then tried to lift himself, but because he was leaning against his left hip with both hands to the left of his body, his balance was off, and he couldn't lift himself. He moved his hands around to different spots, testing out new angles, but he knew what he had to do. He needed to put one hand on each side of him and move that way, as if he was paddling a boat. He positioned himself properly, and because he was seated on his bottom now, the moment he lifted himself, his injured leg slipped off of the other. Relatively, there was very little movement, but even shifting a centimeter left him in excruciating pain, and this was way more than that.
He couldn't stop the yelp that left his lips. In an instant, he slapped his hands over his lips, muffling his cries and curses in an attempt to stay quiet. Ja'won was pulled from his thoughts, and he watched his friend with sympathy as tears left Drake's eyes. The sobbing continued, and it was so hard that there were moments when the boy couldn't catch his breath. Ja'won covered his ears with his hands and paced the small space they were confined within. He felt like giving up. He was panicked and terrified, and he wanted to lay down in the fetal position and wait for all this to magically end. He was having an anxiety attack, and the harder his friend cried, the harder it was for him to think about anything except the fact that they were trapped in a closet with no lock and no weapon and the killer would find him and he would never see his mom again and she would never see her baby boy again and that would destroy her... He was spiraling, and he had gained so much momentum that he couldn't stop.
That is, until he looked over at Drake again. It was the sound of him unbuckling his belt that earned his attention. Drake pulled it out of the loops, then folded it and bit down on it. He was breathing hard because he knew the pain that would come. He planted his palms against the carpet again, then lifted his bottom up and scooted himself backwards. He clenched the belt even tighter with his teeth as several strangled sobs left his throat. He didn't stop for a break. He kept going, bawling all the more as he went, dragging his leg along behind him, with his heel acting almost as an anchor at times, which unfolded his limb more and more, causing extreme pain. He was doing what he had to do to give himself the best possible shot at survival, and Ja'won had never seen such strength in his life.
Once Drake was tucked away in a corner, he removed the belt from his mouth and tossed it to the side with so much disdain that he screamed through his clenched teeth with victory before his sobs continued. His face was contorted into a tight frown as he cradled his leg once again and bent it until it was in a more comfortable position. He held it there, then with his other hand, he reached up and grabbed one of Walter's shirts: a thin, gray-blue tee. He placed the bottom of it between his teeth, then pulled in the opposite direction, until he tore off a long, thin strip of cloth. He let go of his leg now and pulled up his shirt, then he wrapped the piece he'd ripped from his stepfather's top around his torso. He tied the ends together, then breathed deeply through pursed lips to prepare for the pain that was to come. Without warning, Ja'won watched him pull the ends apart, tightening the knot over the long cut on his stomach. He didn't react to this as much as his friend had expected, but perhaps the sting from the shallow knife wound was nothing compared to the agony he felt in his knee. The teen went back to cradling it as he wept.
Ja'won swallowed his fear. Witnessing Drake's incredible strength filled him with bravery. He knew what he had to do. He had a plan now.
"Okay, listen. This is what we're gonna do," he said. "You stay here, and I'm gonna run for help."
"No," Drake said, and despite his previous display of courage, his voice was still childlike.
"I'll be really fast."
"Don't leave me," he pleaded pitifully.
Ja'won kneeled in front of him, getting on his level. "Drake, we can't both sit here. One of us has to go, and you're not gonna make it on your leg," he reasoned. "Those cops are sitting outside. I'll go to them, and then I'll come right back. I'll come right back, okay?"
He didn't want Ja'won to go, but he was right. They were sitting ducks here, so he nodded. His eyes followed Ja'won as he stood up and stepped in front of the door — the door with the three bullet holes that Josh had caused the day before. Yesterday felt so far away now. So much had changed since then. Walter was alive yesterday, for one, and so was Huntley. And...
Actually, that's all he could think of. In fact, maybe today and yesterday had a lot more in common than he realized. Huntley and his crew had jumped him both days. Several other students bullied him as well, although not as violently. He'd had conversations with parents who were grieving the loss of a son on both days. He'd had mental breakdowns. He'd cried in front of Josh multiple times over the last two days. He'd almost been killed both days, and although his stepbrother's premature bullet had been one of his near-death experiences, it still counted. Speaking of, he'd ended up in this very same closet with this very same gun both days.
Just as Ja'won reached for the knob, Drake stopped him. "Wait." He reached into the back of his waistband and gripped the revolver, then held it out with the barrel safely pointed at the ground. He knew how Ja'won felt about guns. Honestly, he felt the same way, but things were a little different now.
"You should keep it so you can defend yourself in case—"
"If you don't get help, neither of us will stand a chance. Take it," he said, forcing the weapon into his hand. "Just please hurry. Please," he said, his desperation showing. If the killer found him before Ja'won came back... He didn't even want to think about it.
The teen was examining the weapon in his grip, probably questioning what his life had come to, how he ended up here, how surprisingly heavy the gun was, how much the weight of what he might have to do was.
"And...if something happens to me..." His lip quivered, but once he was able to stiffen it, he continued. "...just tell Megan and Josh...that I love them."
"And if something happens to me, you let my parents know the same."
Drake nodded, trying his damnedest to stay strong, but his face contorted, and he broke into sobs. "I love you, man. I'm sorry I was such a dick—"
"You don't have to apologize. I know you just wanted to protect me. I was the one who acted like a petty jerk."
"I'm sorry Walter was the reason your dad got arrested. I didn't know."
"What are you talking about?"
"When he was arrested for armed robbery," Drake reminded. "I didn't know it was because of Walter. I didn't know he was a witness."
"He wasn't," Ja'won said with confusion.
"But...Vance just told me...that your dad was in prison because of Walter."
"There was only one witness present, and it definitely wasn't Walter. It was an Asian lady. She was working in the store alone."
Drake was perplexed to say the least.
"Look, that's not important right now. We'll talk about it later. We just have to get out of here first," Ja'won said. "You've gotta stay focused."
He nodded with agreement, yet he switched to another subject. "Thank you for coming to check on me," the young man said. "You saved my life."
"Thank me when this is over," he said. They didn't have time for this heart-to-heart, but Drake needed the comfort, and Ja'won could use the encouragement. He squatted down and wrapped his arms around his best friend. "I love you, too." When he pulled away, he looked Drake directly in the eyes and said, "I'm coming back."
Drake nodded trustingly. Ja'won stood and placed his hand on the knob, taking nervous breaths to prepare himself. Should he make a break for it, or should he go for a slow and steady approach? He hadn't thought that far ahead. Because he had no idea where the masked villain currently was, stealth was the better option. The killer was probably waiting for him.
Drake watched him exhale nervously, hyping himself up, and then he opened the door and was gone. Immobile and alone, the boy tried to gather himself. He wiped his nose with his hand, but that only rubbed Walter's blood onto his face. He used his shirt collar to clear the salty tears from his eyes and cheeks. Afterwards, he rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes, slowing his breathing. It's gonna be okay, he told himself. It's gonna be okay. Megan's safe. Josh is safe.
The thought of his stepbrother sent a wave of nausea through him. How was he supposed to tell his best friend that he'd gotten his father killed? How could he explain it to him in a way that he would be understanding? It was impossible. If he told the truth — and he owed Josh that much — there was no way to break the news without telling him that it was his fault. He never should've questioned his family. He was the one that had drilled that into Megan, but her words had gotten to him. Vance had gotten to him. If he wouldn't have panicked, he and Walter could've had a calm conversation assuring each other that neither owned a replica of the killer's costume and that someone must've planted it. The murderer had already broken in twice — and that was just the times they knew about. Who knew what kind of things he had been up to this week?
Was Walter's death planned? Or was it a spur of the moment decision? Had Drake not turned around and saw the cloaked figure behind him, would the killer have left without harming anyone? Why would he kill Walter after planting so much evidence against him? The costume and the...the creepy spy cams. Drake cringed at the memory. What sick fuck was watching him? And how could he have fallen for the trap? How could he have ever believed his stepfather could do something so depraved?
And how long has this been going on? Months at least, but he didn't get the chance to scroll all the way to the first date before the laptop battery died. How long has this disgusting pervert been watching him? And why? What has he seen? What was he looking for?
He wanted to throw up. He shook his head, visibly ridding his mind of his current train of thought. It's been a while since Ja'won had left. He wondered whether he'd made it out yet. Hopefully, he was already in contact with the police and they were formulating their plans for a rescue mission.
But no one came. He waited five minutes — or what felt like five minutes (he didn't have a clock available) — and no one ever showed. What happened? Did the killer get him? Did he leave Drake to fend for himself? No, he wouldn't do that. Something had to've gone wrong.
He was starting to panic again. What was weird was that not only had Ja'won not returned, but the killer hadn't found him either. His chaser had watched him go upstairs. You wouldn't think it'd take this long to search the second floor of the house. Plus, his parents' bedroom was the first door. It would be stupid not to check here first as not to allow anyone to slip by, and if Drake was only sure of one thing, it was that the killer wasn't stupid. Something was amiss.
Yesterday, Josh had hidden in this very closet, and his attacker had been close enough to warrant a few shots through the door. The killer definitely knew this spot existed, and if one of the home's occupants had hidden in it, wasn't there a high possibility that another would also. It's a dumb spot. There's not even a lock on the door. Had he not been in so much pain at the time of their flee, he would've told Ja'won to go somewhere else.
At that moment, Drake noticed blood all over the carpet. Not his. It was Walter's. His entire backside — from his hair to the sole's of his shoes — was covered in it. He had definitely left a trail of footprints leading directly to his unfortified hiding spot...so why hadn't the killer made his move yet?
Maybe he'd learned his lesson with Josh. Did he think Drake had the gun in here? Maybe he was hoping the boy would come out on his own accord. If that was the case, then Ja'won must be safe. Otherwise, he would know the other teen was in possession of the weapon.
Pop! Drake flinched at the sudden gunshot. It was so loud that he couldn't quite tell from where in the house it was coming from. Pop! Pop! His heart was pounding in his chest. This must've meant that Ja'won had run into some trouble. However, he had a gun, and the killer only had a knife, so maybe he could exterminate the masked maniac and come back to rescue Drake.
Pop! It was followed by a shuffling...banging...and then silence. Drake was panting, unaware that the stress had caused him to hyperventilate. Either Ja'won defeated their enemy and it was safe to come out, or the anonymous killer murdered yet another of Drake's friends. In which case, he would find Drake soon. He couldn't stay here.
He didn't give himself a chance to think about what he knew he had to do because he was pretty sure he would completely shut down due to his fear. He snatched the belt up, refolded it, then shoved it in between his teeth yet again. Next, he went to work on his leg.
The way the paramedic had fixed it last time was by giving it a sudden yank. Drake wasn't in any position to do it that way because there was no one here to pull it in the opposite direction, but maybe he could work something out? Hopefully?
He had to get his leg straightened out. That was the first thing he wanted to do. He searched the closet. What he wanted was something smooth to set his foot on so that he could slide it across the floor with ease, but it also had to be thin because it was going to be a struggle to lift his limb up. He reached for the stack of boxes in the neighboring corner, tore the lid off of the first one, and dumped out its contents. There was nothing useful inside. It looked like a random collection of old baseball memorabilia, dusty photos of what had to be Walter's great-grandparents (with newly broken frames — oops), and other junk. He went in on the next box, and right on top was a pornographic magazine that looked just as old as the random items in the previous box. Perfect.
Part of him wanted to do a quick flip-through to see what kind of weird shit his stepfather was into, but he didn't have time for that. He tossed the book towards his feet, then used his good heel to slide it into place. Drake had to lift his bent leg ever so slightly to get his right foot onto the magazine, but he got it done quickly.
Slowly, the boy stretched his leg. He thought the gradual movement would keep it from hurting so much, but he was wrong. If anything, he was prolonging the pain. A few nervous sobs left his lips, muffled by the belt. Drake reached for his calf to speed up the process. The pain was indescribable, and he was crying again. He cradled his knee and pulled it back up, canceling out all the progress he had made. He let the belt fall out of his mouth. His back jerked as he bawled.
"Oh fuck," he whined. "I can't. I can't do it."
But if he didn't, he would die here, and he knew that. His stalker could've killed him at any moment, but he didn't, and that was because he had something more in store for Drake. He wanted the boy to suffer. He wanted to hurt him as much as he possibly could before finally ending his life. That's the only reason Drake wasn't dead yet. No matter what, there would be plenty of pain ahead. Either he could inflict it himself now, or he could wait for the killer to strike, and he was sure the hurt he would feel then would be more severe than anything he had ever felt before.
He continued sobbing as he picked up the belt again. He clamped his teeth down on it one final time, then he reached for his calf again.
For a moment, it didn't hurt as much as the last time, but once he pushed further than he'd made it before, it hit him like a freight train. He growled through clenched teeth, watching as his knee got lower and lower until he couldn't take it anymore. He folded it back up and swore up a storm. Although none of his dirty words could be understood thanks to the belt, his English teacher would've been proud of his extensive and creative vocabulary.
After his little tantrum, he gave it another go, and this time, he managed to endure it long enough that his leg was mostly straight. There was still a bit of a bend at his knee, but this was as good as it was going to get for the time being.
Now that he had it in this position, he gave himself a moment to breathe and get used to the current placement. There must've been some sort of shift he hadn't noticed, because now that he had it stretched out like this, he could no longer bend his knee back. Maybe that was a good thing? Maybe it was going back in? Hopefully he wasn't causing further damage.
Drake wasn't sure what to do from this point. His best guess was to try to get rid of the hill his knee made. It had disappeared completely when the paramedic had yanked his leg back into place. The young man blew air through his clenched teeth, sucked it back in, then exhaled again. He lifted the heel of his other foot, then gently touched his kneecap. There was no new pain. Relieved, he applied a small amount of pressure, and the feeling was just that: pressure. Maybe he was close. Maybe he could do this. He felt reassured.
Drake slowly pressed down with his heel harder and harder, and his injured leg gradually straightened until, finally, he was surprised with a muffled pop. For a moment, he froze, shocked by what he had done, then he carefully bent his leg ever so slightly to test it. He removed the belt from his lips.
"Holy shit, I did it," he whispered. "Holy shit." Drake planted his opposite foot firmly on the ground and placed his hands on the wall behind him, pushing himself to his feet. Once there, he took a step, then a few more, testing out the durability of his knee. All pain was gone. It felt as good as new — just slightly loose. He would have to be extremely cautious and avoid falling on it at all costs, but he was ready to go.
He peered through one of the bullet holes, checking for movement, but it looked okay. Quietly, he pushed the door open a bit — just enough to peek through. There was no sign of the black cloak. He opened the closet fully and moved towards the bedroom door. Once again, he cracked it, looking to see if the coast was clear. With that confirmed, he stepped out, then started down the stairs.
He tried to go silently, but he couldn't help how loud he was breathing. He had his hand on the railing, ready to twirl around and slingshot himself back up at the first sign of that white mask.
When he reached the bottom, he peeked around the corner. The masked maniac wasn't where he had left him. Instead, in his place lay Ja'won, a very prominent stab wound in his stomach. Drake choked out a sob and covered his mouth with the back of his bloody hand as an attempt to keep quiet. For a moment, his feet were lead. He was hesitant to approach the boy — afraid of the confirmation he would receive. If he remained here, he could go on believing that Ja'won was still alive.
However, he couldn't stay much longer. He needed to run for help while he could, and he could see the gun sticking out from underneath the boy's leg. If he had possession of that, he was untouchable. He tiptoed forward and kneeled next to the body of his best friend.
"Hey?" he said quietly, his voice cracking. He shook Ja'won's shoulder. "Hey?" No response. His face twisted into an ugly frown as he weakly leaned forwards until his head rested on his friend's chest. "I'm sorry," he squeaked between his sobs.
He didn't understand why any of this was happening. Why was God punishing him like this, and why were his loved ones having to suffer for him? He would gladly endure the horrid Chinese torture technique the killer had threatened him with earlier today if it meant that the lives of those who died due to his selfishness and negligence could be spared. One would think he would've learned his lesson after what had happened to his mother, yet here he was, repeating the same mistakes.
Drake straightened. As much as he wanted to stay here and dwell on his self-depreciating thoughts, he had to go for help. He wasn't sure if Megan understood his message, and it didn't seem like his classmates had called the cops on him after he'd swung a bat at that one kid's cranium, so it was up to him to clue the police in on what was happening. That way, no one else would have to lose their life. He was so close already. The cops were parked on the curb. All he had to do was get their attention, then they would radio it in, and the entire precinct would be here, hunting the hunter.
He took one final somber examination of Ja'won's body. This was probably the last time he'd ever get to see it. No one would want him at the funeral.
One of the last things his friend had said to him echoed in his mind. "Thank me when this is over." For Ja'won it was over. It was over for Drake as well because he was ending this right now.
"Thank you," he said quietly, and just when he was about to stand, there was movement in his periphery — a figure exiting the kitchen.
His father.
Winston Parker was similar to Drake in every way, but better, one could say. He was taller, fitter, smarter. Drake had gotten most of his features from him: the same glimmering gaze reminiscent of moonlit reflections on a blade ready to strike; the same nose, the bridge of which like the unforgiving path to the gallows, leading the doomed to their fate; the same jawline, one as unyielding as the bars of a prison cell; the same dimples, two depressions in the flesh like the footprints of a predator stalking its prey, marking the path to destruction; the same bloody...bloody hands...?
And Drake would recognize that knife anywhere. He's seen it used before — has even felt the poke of the point against his own skin.
His father's eyes lowered to the gun that Drake was just now picking up. In an instant, the man threw himself at him, knocking his son onto his back. The knife had fallen from his hands during the ambush, and it slid across the hardwood, past Drake's head and towards the dining room, way out of reach.
"Get the fuck off me!" Drake yelled bravely, the anger of seeing his father again taking precedence over his fear.
He didn't strangle him like he had twice before in this very spot. Instead, he was trying to render his arms useless — trying to assert his dominance. He didn't have to try that hard. He'd already been stronger than his son, and that was before gaining access to the exercise equipment in prison. Now he was an immovable boulder.
"Get the fuck...!" Drake commanded through clenched teeth, struggling to fight back. A growl left him.
The man got both arms pinned to the ground, and he was squeezing his biceps so hard that his unkept fingernails penetrated the skin, drawing blood. "Calm down."
His son refused. If it was anyone else, then maybe he would've (he knew it was a hopeless situation), but because it was his father, a man he had spent too many years fearing, he refused to back down, purely out of spite.
"Fuck you!" Drake spat, and then he literally spat, too, right on the man's face. If he could lift the upper half of his body, he would bite him, head-butt him — whatever he could — but his father's tight grip on his puny muscles forced him flat against the floor.
He blindly checked the area around his hips since he could only move his arms below the elbows. He patted his fingers along the wood in search of the gun. When he brushed by the metal, he attempted to grab it, but it was just barely in reach, and his touch pushed it further. Drake dug his nails into the floor, then bent his fingers, trying his damnedest to pull himself in that direction, but that obviously wouldn't work. His fingers walked along the hardwood...creeping closer to the weapon... He could feel it...
"Stop fucking moving!"
Like a moody, rebellious teenager, Drake, of course, did the opposite, wiggling and squirming even more. Fed up, the man let go of his bicep and brought the full of his palm down against his son's face.
A surprised groan was forced out of him, but he recovered quickly, or at least, he pretended to. "Just like old times, huh, Dad?" he said with snark. He was repeating something the man had said to him from underneath the mask not that many minutes ago, but also, he was referencing the abuse he had suffered as a child under his father's care.
Because Winston let go of one of his biceps so that he could hit him, his son was finally able to reach the revolver. Without hesitation, Drake aimed wherever his limited hand could, pulled back the hammer, then pressed the trigger.
The shot was loud in their ears. For a moment, his father froze, his eyes wide, and then his body went limp. Drake grunted with exhaustion as he pushed him to the side, then he sat up.
I did it, he thought, in shock. I killed him.
He sat there, dazed, his brain struggling to comprehend the magnitude of what that meant. It's over. It's finally over. For a moment, his lips twitched into something that could be considered a smile, but then he looked around him. Blood covered the foyer floor, and three bodies surrounded him — that of his father, his stepfather and his best friend.
He turned towards Ja'won and tried shaking him again. "Hey, wake up," he said, wishing he could celebrate their survival with the boy. Not only that, but even before the death of his mom, he always felt fear towards his father. He'd been too weak to fight him when he was younger, but now he went toe-to-toe with the man he both feared and hated, and he won. He actually won. "Hey? Please wake up," his pitiful voice cracked.
He felt himself getting emotional again. So much had happened, and it was overwhelming now that he had a second to think. Sure, it was over, but so many lives had been lost — had been ripped from their flesh: Walter, Stephen, Ja'won, Linny, Huntley, Johnny, the detective. So much blood was on his hands. How was he supposed to tell another mother that her son was dead? How was he supposed to tell Josh that his father had been murdered because of him? How was he—
Clap... Clap...
Drake went stiff, and an icy chill shot through his spine like a lightening bolt. He could hear heavy boots move across the floor, emanating from the living room, but he couldn't see around the corner from his spot in the foyer. The footsteps taunted him with a speed that was as slow as the—
Clap... Clap...
To his right, he saw movement, but he didn't look in that direction. He was too scared to face what he already knew. He'd gotten the wrong guy...again. A blur of black filled half of his line of sight — no doubt the flowing cloak and the daunting shoes. Drake's heart fell into his stomach. He began hyperventilating harder and harder with each singular—
Clap... Clap...
Finally, he mustered the courage to look, and standing before him was that haunting ghost mask. The claps were followed by patronizing laughter.
"Who are you?" He tried to sound hard, but his nerves were so shot that he struggled to talk without stuttering.
"Congratulations, Drake. I didn't think you had it in you, but now that you've killed your own father, you've become just like me."
"I'm nothing like you."
"His blood is on your hands—" He bent down to pick his weapon up. "—and his fingerprints are on this knife, which he so graciously found for me. Too bad I can't give him a proper thank you. I mean, he did most of the work for me already."
"Who are you?" Drake asked again.
"Oh, you'll find out," the man said, "soon enough."
He'd heard those words before. It was on the morning everyone found out about Linny and Johnny. A phone call had woken him — the killer, but that was before he had any knowledge that one was targeting him. He'd thought it was a prank back then. It felt so long ago now.
The cloaked villain stepped forward, cleaning off his knife with a sharp swipe from his glove. Drake had his own menacing weapon. He lifted the gun once again and took aim, then he pressed down on the trigger.
Click! His brows furrowed with confusion. He tried again, then again, but got the same result.
"Shit!" He was on his feet in an instant, but with his first step, he slipped in the puddle of Walter's blood yet again. He collided with the floor so hard that the air was knocked out of him. The front of his clothes was soaked in the crimson. Drake started to push himself onto his feet, his body physically cringing at the sticky feeling of the shirt plastered to his skin.
Before he could stand all the way, the back of his collar was grabbed, and he was carried to the front door. He had just enough time to shield his head before he was tossed through the large oval window, which shattered when he made contact. Drake landed on the brick porch hard, skinning his elbows. He craned his neck, looking back at his attacker. The murderous maniac didn't bother opening the door; he stepped through the hollow oval. Glass crunched underneath his boots.
Panicked, Drake grabbed the edge of the top step, dragging himself through the pointy shards, kicking his feet as he went because he knew he didn't have time to stand. Still, the killer grabbed him before he fully made it to the walkway and yanked him up by his hair.
"Where you going?" he teased playfully.
"Help!" Drake yelled as he was forced along the path. "Help! He's trying to kill me!"
"Maybe the police can help," he offered with excitement, guiding him the rest of the way to their vehicle.
He shoved him against the car so that he could get the door open, and that's when the boy realized he had glass in his shoulder, for it was pushed deeper into his skin. He cried out in pain, then was yanked backwards roughly and pushed forwards into the doorway, the constant movement disorienting him. The back of his calves were kicked, and he dropped to his knees.
"Oh no," the killer faked disappointment. "Looks like they didn't quite make it to the final cut."
Both officers were dead. Reznick had his throat slashed and was leaning limply against the steering wheel. Pearl was gutted — quite literally. His intestines were splayed all over his lap. Drake gagged at the sight.
The masked freak laughed at him, then he forced him closer. Drake put one hand on the doorframe and the other on the dash, hoping to lock himself in place, but his head was pushed closer still. All the while, he heaved and cried, and the psychopath was enjoying every minute of it.
"Don't!" the boy pleaded. "Help!"
"Nobody wants to help you, Drake. When will you get that through that thick skull of yours?" With the mention of his head, he jerked Drake's even closer to the dead cop's entrails.
He was right. No one wanted to help him. If he'd learned anything from today, it's that everyone wanted him dead. Huntley had proven that during the fight at school today, and then there was the whole ordeal on the football field (of which, he only remembered small fragments), and then the party that he was kicked out of. If he wanted to survive, he'd have to do it on his own.
Drake managed to press one of his feet against the doorframe, planting himself so that he could take his hand off the dash. He gripped the jagged glass shard that was sticking out of his left shoulder, then pulled. It hardly budged, for it was lodged in tight like a rusty nail, and his hands were wet with other people's blood. With no other option, he wiggled the glass, attempting to loosen it that way, causing even more damage and pain. He screamed out, and he almost dove face-first into the intestines, for his grip on the doorframe weakened due to his pain, but he caught himself, then continued his work, dislodging the shard with even more violence. He screeched through gritted teeth, but finally, it slipped out.
Drake then stabbed the side of the killer's leg, just below the knee, cutting his hand open in the process. He ignored the burn, for he was finally let go. He crawled across the brick, then the grass, aiming for Vance's house — the party. Maybe most of them would gladly watch him die, but if Josh, Megan, Trevor, or Vance saw him, surely they'd try to help in some way.
"Why, you little—" His stalker snatched the glass out of his leg, attempting to hide his pain with a scary growl.
He went after his prey, who had just gotten onto his unsteady feet. Now it was a race. Sure, the murderer had a hurt leg, but Drake had multiple injuries dating back to earlier in the week. His kneecap felt loose. His bruises ached. His skin was on fire with the splinters and crumbs of shattered glass. He was weakened by the blood-loss from his suicide attempt in the bathroom. Even without all that, it had been days since he'd last eaten. He had little energy.
The cloaked figure caught up to him, then dove for him. They both hit the ground, but neither gave up. Drake kept dragging himself towards the tree-line, and the killer climbed on top of him. The boy's head was shoved into the dirt and held there, stopping him from escaping. Drake dug his fingernails into the ground, attempting to pull himself along, but he only ripped out sharp blades of grass and buried dirt under his nails.
"No fucking way."
Both prey and predator heard the voice, and at the same time, their eyes found the culprit. Walking down the sidewalk was none other than Trevor.
"Hel—" Drake started, but his attacker clasped his gloved hand over his mouth. "Mmm! Mmm!" He fought as hard as he could, but he just wasn't strong enough.
"You wanna see me strangle your friend with that cop's intestines?" the killer threatened quietly. "Huh?"
Drake shook his head hopelessly as tears poured out of his eyes.
"Then I suggest you stay still and be quiet." Just to be sure, he wrapped his legs around Drake's to immobilize him. "Do you understand me?"
His back jerked with his sobs as he nodded.
Trevor continued down the sidewalk, talking into his phone. "How are you gonna ditch me and leave me to deal with those demented little shits by myself? Where did you go?" His nose was bleeding, Drake noticed, and he walked with a limp. "I beat the fuck out of that little basketball prick — whatever his fucking name is. You should've seen it, but then they all jumped me and kicked me out. I just got to Drake's. I'm gonna check on him. I can't believe they fucking did that to him. I know you two have beef, but I'm done picking sides, okay? Plus, you bailed on me. Anyway, I just got here. Call me back!"
Drake wanted Trevor to stay safe, but if he was coming here, he was in danger whether Drake spoke up or not. Once he notices the broken glass and the bodies, the killer will be forced to take action.
The boy yanked at the predator's hand, and it was so suddenly that he managed to free his mouth for just long enough to yell out, "TREVOR, RUN!"
And then his vision went dark. He was confused, aware of nothing other than the excruciating pain in the back of his head, then the killer bashed a rock against his skull once more, knocking him out cold.