In another part of town, only a short distance from the mall where Lincoln was fumbling to explain his most drastic life choice to Stella, there was a thin, squat apartment building. It wasn't an especially nice place; the exterior of the building was fine, but stepping inside would reveal a bleak image of poverty. Paint peeled from the walls, a rotten smell wafted from an unknown source, and the muffled sounds of domestic abuse and shouting echoed through the lobby.
The door opened, and someone stepped into the building.
Their entire body was covered and hidden: they wore shoes clearly too large for them; pants that covered every inch of the legs; and a black hoodie, with their hands jammed into the front pockets. The person hunched their back and jutted their upper body forwards, so that their face was hidden behind the shadows of their hood (which may have been unnecessary, seeing how they also wore a medical mask to hide their features). Everything about them was obscured; it was almost like there wasn't even a person underneath those clothes.
Or, more likely,… that they were trying to hide their identity.
Normally a guard would be there to stop such a suspicious-looking figure, but he was away for now. The hoodied one had made sure of it. They had stalked the building for almost an hour, peering inside and waiting for the portly man at the counter to leave. The moment he did, they sauntered inside.
With shuffled paces, they went to the elevator and hit the UP button. The button didn't light up, and the figure snarled with anger. "Come on," they growled. Their voice was distinctly feminine, so whoever it was underneath those garbs, it was clearly not a man.
The woman mashed the button with her thumb several more times until it finally started to glow its orange glow. When the elevator arrived, she hurriedly rushed in and selected the floor she wanted. With a slow hum, the doors of the lift began to come together, and the woman waited for them to close with bated breath. Perhaps I should have taken the stairs, she thought.
No matter. She waited patiently for the elevator to reach the second floor. When it did, the doors opened with a loud DING that hurt the woman's ears. Forcing herself to quickly get over it, she stepped out of the lift and began walking down the long, desolate hall. The woman didn't even raise her face from the ground to check the numbers labeling the rooms; she knew which room she needed to be in.
The last one on the right, down at the end of the hall.
When she reached the last door in the hall, she lifted her fist to knock, but stopped just before she did. She brought her hand back down into her pocket, feeling around for her supplies. Something soft and wet… something cold and metallic… some money to get inside…
The mysterious woman grinned. Perfect.
With that reassurance, she knocked on the door.
The sounds of someone stumbling over resounded from the other side, followed by footsteps scurrying towards the door. It opened, revealing a brunette woman in her mid-twenties, clad in a skimpy purple dress.
The woman lifted an eyebrow when she saw the hooded figure. She pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a puff of smoke. Craning against the door, she muttered, "So whaddya want?"
"Cookie?" the hooded woman asked. "Cookie Carmichael?"
"That's my name. Don't wear it out."
Cookie Carmichael: once an aspiring young woman with a wealthy background and a bright spirit that sought to conquer tomorrow. But as the saying goes, time makes kings out of beggars and beggars out of kings. Cookie was unfortunately in the latter category. She had, in high school, dated a shifty young man named Chandler, who introduced her to the world of needles. She developed an addiction quickly, began to steal in order to get money to supply her needs, and was finally thrown out of her home after she had threatened her younger siblings with a knife during a bender. When she woke up the next morning, she realized what she had done and regretted it, but it was too late: her father wouldn't let her return until she fixed her problem. She had no plans to do so, so she stayed away. She considered calling the cops, but considering that she was a thief and a druggie… yeah, that wasn't an option.
With no family or police to turn to, the pimps and prostitutes found her, and made her one of their own. That was partly why she didn't give a second glance at someone showing up to her door with their face pretty much hidden. Her apartment was a place of shame, after all. Who wants to wear their real face when they sin?
The hooded woman handed Cookie a crisp hundred dollar bill. Cookie frowned. "I don't do girls," she told her.
The hooded woman reached back into her pocket and revealed more dollar bills. She waved them in front of Cookie's painted face. The brunette smiled, and took the money. "Did I ever tell you how much I love doing girls?"
Cookie stepped aside, letting the stiff stranger into her home. "Just give me a few minutes to freshen up," she called. The cloaked woman said nothing. She just walked in, closed the door behind her… and locked it.
Cookie was in her room now, money in hand. She reached for a small box she kept hidden underneath her bed, and stuffed the bills inside. She had saved up an impressive amount – what can she say? Business was booming – so she paused for a moment as she greedily began leafing through the various ones, tens, fifties, and hundreds in her mitts. "Three hundred… four hundred… four-fifty..."
She didn't notice the stranger she had just let in standing right behind her.
She didn't notice the stranger dip her hand into her hoodie's pocket and retrieve a pure white handkerchief.
She did notice, with cold shock, when the stranger grabbed her from behind and covered her mouth and nose with the handkerchief.
No… no… NO!
Survival instincts burst into Cookie's mind. She began wiggling and squirming in the stranger's grasp. She began jabbing her elbow back into the face and body of her attacker. The stranger, fortunately, had a weak grip, and Cookie heard her scream as she fell to the ground. But just as Cookie was getting up off the ground, ready to flee, the stranger's hand shot out and grabbed her by the ankle and pulled her back down to the ground.
"LET GO OF ME!" Cookie screamed. "SOMEONE HELP!"
Deep down, she knew no one was coming to help. No one ever came to help her neighbors when they cried out for it. Hell, maybe no one even heard her.
Cookie twirled her head to look at her assailant. She didn't see much of her face (even underneath the hood it was obscured by a medical mask) but she did notice her eyes…
Brown eyes. Wide. Wild. Angry.
Those words raced through Cookie's mind as the woman held her down and pinned the chloroformed cloth to her face.
She weakly struggled and tried not to breathe, but it was a losing battle. The other woman was stronger… or maybe it was Cookie that was weaker from years of substance abuse. It didn't help to dwell on that as Cookie's eyes began to water, filling with tears.
I'm… g-going to die, she thought. I'm going to die h-here… alone…
Her life began to flash before her eyes. Cookie saw herself as a happy little girl, trailing behind her smiling father and beaming mother. She saw her wide-eyed younger siblings looking up at her like she was the greatest, most amazing person in the world. At that moment, Cookie would've given up anything to see them one last time.
Her teary eyes began to close, and her arms fell to the ground.
"Fuck," the other woman growled. She fell back on her butt, panting as she watched her victim's body go limp. Her bosoms rose and fell with every strained breath she took. It was only until several seconds passed that the woman crawled over to Cookie's body. She put her fingers to the prostitute's neck to check for heartbeat. She felt the faint pounding, and her lips peeled back from her teeth in the form of a twisted smile.
She jammed her hand back into her pocket, and pulled out a long, thin, metallic knife. Blood was caked along the blade, the ruddy brown clashing with the shiny, pristine silver.
The woman clutched the knife with both of her hands, and raised it above her head. She looked down at Cookie with no sympathy, no remorse. Exhaling a cold breath, she brought the blade down and jammed it into Cookie's throat.
Blood spurted from the wound. The unconscious body shuddered and shook as the life began to seep from it. But it was a useless endeavor: within minutes, Cookie Carmichael was dead. Her blood spilled onto the carpet, and the woman licked her lips hungrily as she watched it flow.
Taking the knife, she sawed off a small piece of Cookie's neck. Taking the bloody meat in hand, she dipped it into her mouth and began to chew, smiling as she savored the flavor of human flesh.
"Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. I've almost forgotten how… satisfying a meal can be when you hunt it yourself."
She wasted no time in cutting off other pieces of Cookie's body – mostly taking from the neck, but also slicing pieces from the arms and legs – and putting them inside a plastic baggie. She cleaned herself up, tampered with the evidence like she had been taught to, then made a quick escape from the apartment.
Going down the elevator, the woman grinned the entire ride down. Her teeth were stained with the color of her sin.
The Royal Woods Wendigo strikes again.
