Slasher Summer(38)

A rustle sounded ahead, a little beyond the birdhouse. In the stillness of the night, it sounded like the crash of a tidal wave. Michael stiffened. Were there bears in these woods? Wolves? Wild pigs? He’d read an article recently about feral hogs terrorizing a community. The Jumpscare Society had never worried about local wildlife when hanging out by the Slasher cabin, save for the occasional raccoon raiding their garbage. They always made enough noise and light to scare anything away.

But skulking alone in the dark, Michael was easy prey.

A large shadow shifted in the distance. Michael quickly ducked behind a tree, his pulse racing. He peered out from his hiding spot, trying to make out who—or what—was near. His night vision wasn’t the greatest since he’d had laser eye surgery, and the warm, rainy night had coaxed mist into the air.

The mystery person was tall, and crept with a careful, stooped gait. Michael’s first thought was that it was Ranger Russ. But that couldn’t be right. Russ was in a bloody heap on the floor.

Michael felt in his pocket for the Swiss Army knife Jason had given him for his twelfth birthday, to replace the one he’d bought himself. Dad had pawned it for beer money. In those days, anything that hadn’t been nailed down at the apartment was fair game. Jason had ordered the knife engraved with Mikey so it would be harder to resell. He was disgustingly thoughtful that way.

Michael’s teeth gritted, his clammy fingers tracing the multitool’s edges. The knife blade wasn’t long enough to do any serious damage to a person. Not unless he got really close. What was he going to do, skewer the guy with the toothpick? File his nails?

Wait. There was a precision to the man’s movements that reminded Michael of Patrick. He let out a relieved but shaky breath. What was Patrick doing out in the woods all by himself, sneaking around like he was stalking someone? Unless Jason had sent him out to look for Michael. But why alone? Without even a flashlight or his phone to light his way? That didn’t make sense.

Michael leaned farther out from behind the tree, opening his mouth to call out. A last-minute thought killed the name on his lips.

What if it was Carrie’s ex-boyfriend Daniel?

Michael’s breath thickened. He wished it had actually been Daniel he’d clocked with the poker. He had to get back to Carrie and warn her. With all their cars out of commission, she was as good as stranded at the cabin while her ex circled like a shark.

The shadowy figure suddenly stopped, like something had caught his attention. Michael ducked back behind the tree, afraid he’d been seen. He peeked out from around the trunk, holding his breath. The figure turned. At the last moment the moon disappeared behind the clouds, and Michael couldn’t make out the man’s face.

The man seemed to make up his mind and slipped deeper into the woods, melting into the shadows.

Michael let out the breath he’d been holding and came out of hiding, creeping to the spot where the man had stood. Maybe the mysterious figure had left a clue to his identity, like a footprint in the damp soil. Michael should be able to distinguish the soles of Patrick’s deck shoes from, say, a hiking boot or an aggressive cross-trainer.

The ground was thickly carpeted with stray cedar needles. No footprints. Damn it. In mystery novels, suspects were always dropping gloves, torn tickets, matchbooks. There was no evidence the man had stood here, not even a broken sapling or crushed fern. Michael sniffed the air, hoping for a hint of identifying cologne or aftershave, but the fresh scent of the rain and cedar erased all other scents.

He was about to give up when the clouds shifted again. Moonlight brightened the little clearing, and Michael caught a gleam at the mouth of a hollow log.

A face was looking at him.

His heartbeat began to ratchet upward in speed and volume. Crouching, he saw the smooth ghostlike features of a white mask. A Slasher mask, its plastic surface clean and shiny, as if it had been placed recently inside the log.

The mask sat on top of a hastily folded pile of clothing. Michael pulled out a gray hoodie and red buffalo plaid jacket. Both warm, as if they’d just been taken off. A frisson of dread shivered down Michael’s back. The clothing might have been warm from the rainy summer night.

Or from whoever had just worn them.

They had to belong to the person Freddy had seen in the road, dressed as the Slasher.

Michael set down the jacket and noticed one last thing inside the log. A long rod that appeared too smooth to be a tree branch. Pulse jittering, he pulled it out, mildly surprised by its familiar weight. His hands instinctively slipped into place around it. He’d been holding one like it only a little while ago.

It was a handle.

Of an axe.

Michael sucked in a harsh breath and blood roared in his ears. He thought of the others, helpless back at the cabin.

He had to find his friends, fast.





13



Carrie

    The oncoming storm Carrie had felt after she’d rescued Tiffany from drowning had hit, both literally and figuratively. Her expectations for this reunion had taken a one-eighty, thanks to the sudden downpour, Russ Meachum’s unannounced arrival, and Michael’s impulsive actions. Her hope for finding closure was as rocky as the ground beneath her feet. She’d never imagined they’d be wandering the woods, searching for Michael.

Her therapist had told her there was no need to make herself anxious over possibilities that hadn’t happened yet. She had to learn to adapt and accept the results as they came. Like a Final Girl. That comparison had annoyed Carrie, considering the people of Cedar Lake couldn’t separate her from Jordan Knox, but her therapist had been right. She had to take a lesson from the movies she’d watched with the Jumpscare Society and roll with the punches, and also know when to throw her own.