Slasher Summer(46)
Squeaks and scrapes followed Freddy from the kitchen, as the Slasher struggled to get to his feet among the discarded dishes and salami. Time for Freddy to execute his original plan. Logic dictated that he should run out the door instead of staying in the cabin. But if he went outside, the Slasher would definitely follow. He needed to hide instead. His friends were due back any minute and they’d lure the Slasher away from the cabin with their main character energy.
Freddy would never again judge girls who ran up the stairs instead of outside in horror movies. He flung the front door open. A classic misdirection. He’d written a similar scene in his screenplay, except in his movie, the hero janitor took down the screen of a ceiling vent before hiding in a broom closet. Brilliant. The screen door banged noisily shut, and Freddy quietly raced up the staircase, thankful the soft rubber soles of his skateboard sneakers hardly made any noise.
He just had to find someplace to hide. Fuck, he should’ve stopped to pick up more of that smoked gouda.
He passed a bathroom first, suppressing a yelp when he saw the bloody handprints on the shower curtain. Had Russ already been here? Which one of his friends had been killed? Someone always died in or after a shower, usually a girl. If this were a movie, it would be Tiffany, since she was the hot blonde. Freddy crept across the tile, avoiding the dark spatters on the bathmat. He dragged back the shower curtain, half turning his face away, dreading what and who he might find.
The bathtub was empty. Freddy let the curtain fall back in place and realized the blood was printed on the vinyl. He took a great, shuddering breath, in relief and also annoyance at what felt like a sick joke. Any other time he would’ve appreciated a Psycho-themed bathroom, but not today.
Unfortunately, the bathroom door didn’t have a lock. Not that a lock would stop an axe, but it would make Freddy feel more secure. He loped down the hall to the next door, turning the doorknob with a sweaty hand. A linen closet. Crap. He flung open the next door. A room that might as well be another closet, its only contents a large duffel bag on a narrow camping cot. Nowhere to hide, and no lock, either.
Freddy tried another door, revealing twin bunkbeds and an open concept wardrobe. His breath surged sharply in his lungs and he wished he had time to take a hit from his vape. He had to find a hiding spot fast. The Slasher would be on his feet by now, shaking it off and picking up that axe.
The next room seemed promising. A pink hardshell suitcase and a black overnight bag patterned with skulls stood at the foot of a double bed. If Tiffany and Jen were staying here, they’d need space to hang up their clothes. To Freddy’s dismay, there was a dresser instead of a closet, and the door also didn’t have a lock. Fuck!
The last room left was the main bedroom. A beige carpet, floral wallpaper, and ruffles on everything, even the window dressing and the shade of a floor lamp. Eighties chic straight out of Nightmare on Elm Street.
Patrick’s sleek but sensible gray suitcase stood by the plump queen bed. Freddy knew it would already be empty and all the clothing hung up or neatly folded in the dresser. The only thing out of place was a buckled leather case with a handle, sitting on a bedside table. Freddy’s pulse sped up. He’d seen lots of movies in which assassins carry guns in innocuous cases. It wasn’t long enough for a sniper rifle, and he doubted Patrick had taken up the flute at Harvard. But if Patrick was packing heat, why wouldn’t he have taken it when they were heading out to look for Mikey?
Freddy had never touched a firearm in his life, but these were trying times. Even Sidney Prescott had fired guns. It wasn’t enough anymore for a Final Girl to get lucky with a machete. Freddy plopped the promisingly heavy case on the bed and hurriedly undid the buckles. It would be good research for his screenplay, if nothing else.
The case unrolled in a whiff of oil and fresh leather, and Freddy found himself staring at a buffet of knives.
“Jesus, Patrick!” Freddy breathed.
The knives were shiny and well-cared for, like all of Patrick’s possessions, and neatly organized from the largest to smallest like surgical tools, the blades all facing in the same direction. A sudden wave of unease flooded Freddy’s gut. Patrick had invited the Jumpscare Society to the cabin and insisted they stay when everything started going sideways. Did he intend to make prosciutto out of everyone? He certainly could. These knives looked like they could cut through flesh like warm butter.
Freddy carefully slid out the largest knife, weighing it in his hand. Damn, Patrick had good taste. Freddy felt smugly satisfied. If only Jen could see him now, after she’d taken what they’d thought was the only good knife in the kitchen. This beauty made that one look like a toy. He swished it around like Inigo Montoya in front of the vanity mirror. Maybe the janitor in his screenplay should have a fancy knife roll like this, left over from his old life as a hit man—
Freddy stopped mid-swish. Slow, heavy footsteps were trudging upstairs, the wooden steps creaking a warning. Shit! Had his ruse not worked?
Freddy quickly rolled up the remaining knives and shoved them under the bed. Unfortunately there wasn’t enough room for him, not like the undercarriage of Russ’s car. He looked wildly around for another place to hide. The master bedroom didn’t have a lock on it, so as cliché as it was, he chose the closet.
Freddy slipped between the narrow louvered doors, grateful for Patrick’s careful unpacking. The wall of Oxford shirts and khakis should keep him hidden. He untied the hoodie from his waist and laid it on the carpeted floor of the closet, afraid the rasp of the swinging zipper would give him away. If the gently swaying hangers or his jackhammering heart didn’t betray him first.