Russ had been in detention for showing up to school with a knife.
With ameatcleaver.
No, it had to be a coincidence. Yet it didn’t sit well in Patrick’s gut.Something doesn’t feel right,Carrie had said after they’d gotten that crank call. Patrick added anothershould haveto his long list of regrets. He should’ve listened to her worries. They all should have. But he hadn’t wanted to stop the party, after all the effort he’d put into organizing the weekend.
No one ever took the Final Girl seriously. The solemn and sedate girl, who has reservations about everything. Had there been a girl like that at Clare’s sorority, who’d felt the vibes were off? Or maybe Clare herself had been unsettled. Maybe there’d been an unlocked window, or a piece of furniture out of place. Or the lingering scent of a stranger’s aftershave. Nothing that could be put into words at the time, and that lack of eloquence had cost Clare’s life. The thought filled Patrick with sorrow.
He noted the time before tucking the phone back in his pocket. It was much later in the night than he would’ve liked. There was no point in trying to find out where his friends had landed. Thecycle of splitting up and reuniting was raising his anxiety levels. Herding cats again. Why hadn’t they listened to him and stayed at the cabin? Then they wouldn’t be in this mess. Patrick ran his hands through his hair in frustration, nearly screaming when he dislodged something that fell to the ground and crawled away on too many legs.
Patrick bent over, his pounding heart threatening to jump right out of his mouth, and drew air into his lungs to calm himself. A plan. He needed a plan. Without one he was cast adrift on a turbulent sea.
Jason had accused him of not living in the present. But what good was living in the now if your future included a blade lodged in your belly?
The cabin. He’d return to the cabin. He had to trust that everyone would head back as well. At least Jason would. The prospect of seeing Jason again was enough to start his feet moving. Because there’d be safety in numbers, he told himself. Not because he wanted Jason to hold his hands again. Not really.
Patrick studied the compass and headed west. After a few minutes the woods began to thin, and his spirits lifted a little. The peaked roof of the cabin rose in the distance. He was closer than he’d thought. The sight filled him with a giddy hope. He prayed that Russ had given up, taken his car and left.
The woods spat him out onto the road. Russ could run him down in his car, so Patrick kept to the shoulder, turning off his flashlight and listening for the telltale rumble of an engine. No one came roaring out of the dark to meet him. The Park Services SUV sat in front of the cabin, alongside their abandoned cars. Shit. Ranger Russ was still at large. On foot, but at large.
“Jason?” Patrick whispered. “Carrie? Tiffany? Anyone?”
No one answered. He was alone.
The cabin’s windows were dark. Patrick crept forward and listened carefully near one of the open panes. He didn’t hear any stirring inside. It was probably safe to go in. He climbed up theporch steps, wincing as the screen door’s hinges shrieked in the silence.
Inside, the pine-scented air freshener tickled his sensitive nose, but there were other scents mixed in. Something coppery yet organic, and slightly fetid, like spoiled meat. It was a feral smell that had no rules. A buzz hummed faintly in his ears, and Patrick hoped the power had come back on.
No such luck. Nothing happened as he flicked a light switch. He turned on his flashlight instead, figuring it was safe. If Russ was lurking, he would’ve shown himself by now.
The flashlight’s weak beam picked up a familiar shiny shape lying next to the staircase. “What the hell?” Patrick said, forgetting he was trying to keep quiet.
What was one of his knives doing on the floor? That was the Japanese carbon steel chef’s knife that cost more than the rest of his kit combined. Patrick was going to kill someone if it was ruined. Though it would serve him right for making all these big, elaborate plans for the weekend. He’d wanted to surprise his friends with his newfound skills.
After surviving his freshman year on takeout and instant ramen, Patrick had taught himself how to cook via YouTube. Surprisingly, he’d discovered he loved cooking. So much so that he’d taken a leap six months ago and enrolled in a few night classes at a local culinary school. During the day he found himself dreaming about delighting friends with perfectly butterflied chicken or hasselbacked potatoes. Cooking for people made him feel like he had when he’d hosted the Jumpscare Society. He was sharing something he loved. It was the same high as running around onstage at the Rialto, making an audience scream and laugh. His economics classes couldn’t compare. Financial risk analysis had probably never brought tears of joy to anyone’s eyes.
Patrick padded closer to the knife, the sweat on his skin turning to ice. It was lacquered with something thick and dark, like a molesauce. He crouched down to pick it up, and his pulse raced as his fingers registered the stickiness.
It was blood. The knife was covered in blood.
An explosive sneeze took over Patrick’s face, jarring him out of his shock. He wiped his itching nose with the back of the hand that held the flashlight. Sniffling away the tickle, he was able to identify the other scents. Sandalwood and pot. Classic eau de Freddy. Patrick’s nerves lit up with alarm. Carrie had been afraid of Freddy, and Patrick had just found one of his prized knives on the floor, covered in blood. What had Freddy done with it?
A buzz suddenly crescendoed in his left ear. He jerked in surprise, and swatted at a fly that must have gotten in through the open windows. That was the source of the hum he’d heard earlier. As he moved, he jerked again as something warm dripped onto his head and slid through his curls to his scalp. Was there a leak in the cabin’s roof? He touched the damp spot and stared at the dark stain on his fingertips.
Slowly, very slowly, he looked up.
One of the cooking classes Patrick had taken was butchery fundamentals. He’d learned how to break down poultry and pigs into cuts of meat that were unrecognizable from the animal they’d come from. He’d cracked bones, pulled sinews free, separated muscles from fat. He’d thrust his hand into many a wet, gaping cavity and emerged with slippery fistfuls of offal.
It was different—and yet not so different—when the parts were human.
A body hung over the banister like a wet towel. It seemed to Patrick that the quiet cabin had become deafeningly loud. A heady thrum filled his ears, and he forced the arm that held the flashlight to move. The light illuminated mussed black hair and staring brown eyes that didn’t squint at the sudden brightness.
“No,” Patrick croaked.
Freddy’s striped T-shirt had ridden up to his chest, and his mouthgaped almost as wide as the incision across his belly. Glossy loops of intestine had spilled free, dangling in parallel with his hanging arms, as if Patrick’s presence below was drawing them out. A handful of flies crawled down these lengths, tasting their shine. So much blood. More than Patrick had ever seen on a cutting board.
The Slasher, he slashes,Freddy screeched in Patrick’s head. The Slasher certainly had.
Freddy was never going to finish his screenplay now. The knife dropped from Patrick’s limp fingers and bile surged in the back of his throat. “Oh God, no.”
