Slasher Summer(49)
The flashlight’s glow carved out the space in front of her like she was viewing it through an eighties soft focus lens. The killer’s POV, outlined by the eyeholes of his mask, or the slats of a closet door or horizontal blind. The shadows beyond merely became part of the scenery framing Jen’s hiding place.
There was power in not being seen until the last minute. That was the joy of being a slasher. Not the killing itself. The voyeurism was heady. Jen was the one behind the camera, searching for her first victim. Maybe it would be Mikey. Or maybe she’d stumble on Jason hooking up with Tiffany, just like Derek and Cindy in Slasher. Or maybe it would be Jason with Patrick. Wouldn’t that be an unexpected twist.
Elevating mundane lives to grim tragedy—that was more glorious than Jen’s usual playbook of breaking hearts and taking names. She grinned maniacally, holding the flashlight arrow-straight in front of her, ready to spotlight her unsuspecting victims.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” she crooned.
A tall, dark figure stepped out from behind a tree.
Jen’s body went rigid, and she snapped out of the imaginary horror movie she’d been starring in. “Patrick?”
The figure didn’t move, as frozen as she was. Because she was sneaking around the woods with a knife, Jen reminded herself gleefully.
She didn’t lower the knife, enjoying the moment of power. Directing the flashlight at the person’s face, she stepped closer. They didn’t flinch. Jen expected to see someone she recognized—Patrick, Mikey, even Ranger Russ—but the features were smooth and blank.
Like a mask.
The smooth, white mask of the Slasher.
Jen’s scalp prickled. The person had gone all out with the cosplay. The heavy jeans and boots, the buffalo plaid coat and gray hoodie with the hood pulled up over their masked head. Even the stance was accurate. Shoulders back, legs planted slightly apart, arms straight by their side like a foot soldier from ancient times. Ready to plod powerfully through the night and wreak revenge on those who’d wronged him and his mother.
Although Jen had seen the Slasher hundreds of times before—on-screen, or as fan cosplay or the masked special guest at the Rialto—the sight stole her breath. It was one thing to see him on grainy film stock, or as a half-assed costume. It was another to see him in the woods.
No wonder Freddy had freaked out when he’d seen the Slasher standing in the middle of the road. Why hadn’t she taken him seriously?
Jen forced herself to breathe. The person had to be a fan who’d arrived early for Slasher Summer, and was roaming about in search of the famed cabin. It was too late for her to melt back into the shadows anyhow. “Hey there,” she called out. “Killer costume. If you’re looking for the Slasher cabin, I’m afraid it’s already been rented for the weekend. The power’s out anyway. There’s a motel just east of here if you need someplace to stay. They’ll probably have vacancy since they’re outside of town.”
The Slasher said nothing. Jen blew a stray strand of hair out of her face in annoyance. Some people just didn’t want to be helped. “Suit yourself. Sleep in the woods if you want.”
The Slasher finally stirred, slowly bringing his hands up and revealing what he’d been holding by his side.
Leather-gloved fingers curled and uncurled around the handle of an axe.
Jen’s pulse began to drum. That was unusual. The Slasher didn’t kill anyone with an axe until Slasher 2, when he started getting more creative with his kills. Maybe this guy was cosplaying as sequel Slasher. Which was an unconventional choice, since most fans preferred the original, but not unheard of.
Although the Slasher had never worn gloves.
Jen’s stomach lurched. Who wore leather gloves in the summer? Killers in giallo films, that’s who.
Or criminals worried about fingerprints.
The Slasher raised his axe, and the blade sliced through the air in a graceful, brutal arc.
Jen turned and ran, certain she could feel the steel edge julienning her spine even though the Slasher was at least fifty paces away. She gulped air into her straining lungs, and surprised herself when it blasted out of her throat in a scream. Jennifer de la Fuente, badass, had never screamed for anyone. She would’ve been disappointed in herself if she’d had time to stop and think about it. All the times she’d watched classic slashers with the Jumpscare Society, rolling her eyes at the hysterical girls who fell to the killer’s attacks, and it turned out she was just like them.
She’d never thought of herself as a scream queen. She’d believed that she walked in Death’s shadow and would shake his hand when they finally met. But her body had known what to do in the face of danger. Just as it knew it had to get as far away as possible from the threat.
She swung her arms wildly, trying to propel herself forward, the light from the flashlight jerking back and forth. Her Docs felt like lead weights on her feet. They were meant for shit-kicking, not a life-or-death chase. Twigs snagged her fishnet tights. Cedar needles scratched her hair and cheeks like curious fingers, cool from the rain. Splintered branches attempted to slide under the skin of her bare arms. God, she was starting to hate trees. If she made it to Europe she was going to move to a former Communist stronghold with lots of Brutalist concrete and no wildlife.
All the while the heavy trudge-trudge-trudge of the Slasher followed. Lungs aching and a stitch in her side, Jen regretted spending her Sunday mornings hungover in someone else’s bed instead of hitting the gym on campus. Yet the fear compelled her legs to move while she clutched the knife like it was a security blanket. Though the knife was little comfort now, compared to the axe.