Slasher Summer(44)

“Main characters, man,” Freddy muttered as he slipped inside the darkened cabin alone. Main characters made poor choices. Not him. There was a reason why horror film characters didn’t just leave or hide out until things were safe. Otherwise they wouldn’t be in a movie. The audience wouldn’t be clutching their friends’ arms and yelling, Turn around! and Run, you dumb bitch! at the screen.

Well, the joke was on Russ. Freddy was going to write himself out of this movie. Cut, and fade to black.





15



Freddy

    The interior of the cabin seemed extra dark to Freddy after Carrie had pointed the flashlight in his face. Nonsensical shadowy shapes swum in the front room. Freddy rubbed his eyes. The vape wasn’t that strong.

One shape did come clear. A tall figure loomed in the corner. Shit! The Slasher was inside! Freddy stepped backward and tripped over a throw pillow. On the bright side, it softened his fall. But that meant nothing since he was now laid out like a smorgasbord for Russ’s murderous urges. Would he use the knife or the axe? Freddy quickly squirmed into a sitting position, anticipating the drop of steel, and realized the figure hadn’t moved. In fact, it was curiously still. And flat.

Freddy’s eyes slowly adjusted. Holy fuck. He’d nearly pissed his pants because of a Slasher standee. Thank God no one was around to witness his mistake. Jen would’ve never let him live that down.

Freddy struggled to his feet and took stock of his surroundings. It looked like a tornado had swept through. A dining chair stood by the door, cushions were scattered everywhere except the sofa, and the striped blanket was missing. The draft coming from the open windows had washed away some of the pine-scented air freshener, but Freddy’s nose still tickled, along with the back of his neck. What the fuck had happened here?

A crystal paperweight sat upside down on the table next to the rotary telephone, jogging his memory. Oh. Right. He and his friends had torn the place apart before Russ arrived. He dove for the phone. Maybe it was working now and he could call 911.

He picked up the receiver. Silence. At least that was better than the Slasher’s gravelly warning. You’re all going to die tonight. Freddy shivered. He prayed it was a crank call and not a prophecy. He checked his cell phone, too. Still no signal. That would’ve been too much of a miracle. Miracles never happened in horror movies. You had to earn your survival.

Soft light glowed through the open windows. It was a full moon, like in Friday the 13th. A chill passed down Freddy’s back. Ugh, he shouldn’t have made that association. His brain brought up other movies that featured a full moon. An American Werewolf in London. The Witch.

“Shut up, brain, shut up!” he muttered to himself. Why did every horror movie have to have a full moon? Probably because they often took place at night, and the characters needed to be seen on-camera. Also, full moons were magnets for werewolves and witches and other monsters.

Moonstruck! That was safe. Nothing scary about that movie. Though with the antler chandelier casting trippy shadows on the ground, it was hard to think of young, romantic Nicolas Cage and not the blood-soaked avenger he’d played in Mandy.

Freddy shuddered and turned away, just as a gentle sigh fluttered through the empty room.

Terror wrapped around his throat like a noose. He spun around—and nearly fell over with relief when he saw it was only the curtains, billowing around an open window. Fuck, he was an idiot. He’d fallen for a classic fake-out jumpscare from the horror playbook.

The air currents changed direction and the curtains flattened against the wall as Freddy passed. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. The sensation of being watched had returned, stronger than ever. Freddy urgently scanned the room—

—and found himself nose-to-nose with a face behind the curtain.

Freddy yelped and grabbed the crystal paperweight he’d left on the table. Arm swinging, he struck out at the Slasher, crying out when his knuckles hit wood paneling. The paperweight dropped to the floor.

“Ow! What the fuck?” Freddy rubbed his bruised knuckles. He swore Russ had been standing there! He wasn’t that high.

He wrenched the gauzy curtain aside. A plain white mask hung to the side of the window, judging him with its blank cutout eyes.

Freddy let out a nervous laugh. The mask was made of ceramic, not the plastic of a cosplay imitation. He should’ve known. In Slasher, a flashback showed how odd little Timmy Thompson, the boy who became the Slasher, had fixated on a decorative theater mask his mother had loved. Then, as an adult, he’d stolen a similar mask and put it on, before wreaking his bloody revenge on the cabin’s hapless inhabitants.

A rumbling noise breached the silence, and Freddy flinched again. Oh wait. That was his stomach. Freaking out was hungry work, man. The greasy plate Patrick had brought in from the barbecue still sat on the dining table. There was one burger left. Score! He’d wolf that down before finding someplace to hide.

“Come to papa,” Freddy said, gazing lovingly at the cold burger. He straightened the top half of the bun. Was there time to look for condiments? He could check the fridge and—

The side table suddenly wobbled. Freddy jumped about five feet in the air. He grabbed one of the dining chairs and held it out in front of him like a lion tamer in a circus, his breath scraping his lungs.

Then he yelled as a large, furry lump waddled over his toes. The lump climbed up on an adjacent chair and snatched the beef patty and the top half of the bun. Freddy clutched at his wildly beating heart like he could slow it down. A cat? He laughed nervously, a little embarrassed he’d been tricked into another old chestnut of a jumpscare.