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A sack hood… like the masks of scarecrows. Two eye-slits cut into the textured material at an angle, slanted and misaligned.
The burlap sack drips at its torn hem with what looks like fresh blood, stained in splotches with dark brown spatter…Blood from the dead.
The burn of bile creeps up her throat. She swallows it back, never tearing her wide eyes from the motionless masked man in the dark.
Her hands grip the arms of the chair so tight that theripppof fabric breaks through the thick silence. She should be shaking. She should be trembling like a leaf in a tornado. But she’s as still as the masked man watching her.
Every muscle in her body has clamped and bolted to the bone. Unmovable. A statue on an armchair facing a statue in the dark.
It’s still and silent for the longest of moments. Then—
Blood Hood is the first to move.
Her heart jumps up into her throat and chokes her.
Toes curling in her socks, she can only watch as he slowly lifts an arm. And in his raised, gloved hand, he grips the hilt of the black knife. The kind with a serrated edge, the kind for hunting… the kind for butchering game and cutting muscle from bone.
Like a fear switch flips inside of her, Billie snaps out of it and jolts out of the armchair—
She stands, wide eyes on the hooded man. He tilts his head… then waves the black knife at her, like some sort of fucked up greeting.
In a blink, in a mere heartbeat, he runs for her—
Scream caught in her throat, Billie scrambles for the couch and kicks herself over the back of it. She lands on the floor with a thud, knees aching instantly. Doesn’t stop her, doesn’t slow her down—she barrels into the kitchen and throws herself at the swing door.
Don’t look back.
She spills into the hall that runs alongside the staircase. Her socks slide over the floorboards as she turns for the front door.
Don’t look back.
All she can suddenly think of is Gigi. Hanging, initials carved into her flesh. The image flashes in her mind, a wave of assault as she bolts for the door—
Never look back.
Before she can even reach out a hand for the door, for her safety, her escape, there’s a crash from the living room, then a dark figure barrels into her.
A cry catches in her throat as she’s knocked off her feet.
Billie lands with a hard thud on the floorboards. The side of her head cracks off the hard wood, exploding a burst of white lights in her sight.
He didn’t chase her through the kitchen, he turned back through the lounge to cut her off.
Blinking against the blinding pain searing behind her eyes, Billie rolls onto her side. And she sees the first step of the staircase flickering white and dark.
Behind her, she hears the song of a blade.
A threat.
Blood Hood strolls towards her, his bootsteps slow and purposeful. Menacing.
Craning her neck, she looks over her shoulder with teary eyes at the tall figure. Dressed in all black, loose-fitted clothes, combat boots—and gloved fingers that turn the hunting knife over and over and over.
The blood-stained hood shifts as he turns his head to the side. Watching her again. Toying with her.
Please.
Please don’t kill me.
