The Final Girl Read online

  That's the way their relationship went. He was the eternal optimist. She was the eternal pessimist. She almost hated herself for it. But she knew why she did it. She knew why she almost always presented herself with the worst-case scenario. It was her security blanket. If she set herself up for the worst possible outcome, the blow wouldn't hurt quite as much if the worst possible outcome was handed to her. And anything short of the worst possible outcome would be some kind of victory.

  Lowered expectations. It seemed like a chickenshit way to go through life, but it worked for her. It had been working for her for the past two years. No, she hadn't always been a glass-is-half-empty kind of gal. She had once been the eternal optimist, just like good old Harry. But then the center of her universe was ripped away from her, and from that point forward, expecting the worst was all she could do to keep from losing her mind.

  But that was why she needed Harry in her life. It couldn't be all darkness all the time. She needed a little balance, and Harry was the yin to her yang.

  "I wanna talk to her," she said.

  "Maybe not the best idea in the world."

  "I think it's a great idea."

  Harry hesitated. "You don't have to do this."

  "I do," she said. "I really do."

  "No, you don't. You really don't."

  "She's the only eyewitness to whatever the hell happened here. The faster we get her story, the better."

  "But why does it have to be you?"

  "Because this is gonna be our case, Harry."

  Harry furrowed his brow. "And you know this, how? We're just getting started here. The lieutenant hasn't assigned anybody to the case yet."

  "He's gonna assign us," Darlene said.

  "You sure about that?"

  "I am if you talk him into it."

  He regarded her for a moment. "You really want this case, don't you?"

  She shook her head. "I need it, Harry."

  Silence. An unspoken acknowledgment passing between them. "All right, go to the hospital. Be there when the girl wakes up. I'll talk to the lieutenant."

  "Thanks, Harry."

  Harry nodded. "Just do me a favor?"

  "What's that?"

  "Be careful."

  She hesitated. "What do you mean?" But she knew what he meant.

  "I mean take care of yourself," he said. "If you think you need to step away―"

  "I'll be okay, Harry," she interjected. "But if I need to step away, I will."

  Chapter Three

  She was slipping in and out of consciousness, and all the while, whether in the light of the waking world or the dark of unconsciousness, she saw those eyes. They were hovering over her, peering down at her from that pushed-in face. So she fought to stay awake because at least out here in the waking world, she knew it wasn't real anymore. In there, in the dark of unconsciousness, she was back there, at the campsite, surrounded by the blood, surrounded by the dead. And those eyes, they peered down at her, and she didn't know it wasn't real. Unconscious, she was back there again, and back there was all too real.

  She fought to stay awake, and at times, she was awake long enough to take notice of her environment. There was so much commotion in this confined space. Blurry people sitting nearby, leaning over her, sticking her with things, flashing lights in her eyes. There was something over her nose and mouth.

  Yes, they were sticking her with things. Just like The Man with the Pushed-in Face. He'd stuck her with something, stuck her with a knife, right in the belly. And it hurt. Oh boy, did it hurt. But not anymore. It was just numb now. Her whole body was numb. And cold. But when it did hurt, when The Man with the Pushed-in Face was there, when he was really there, she somehow knew that she would survive this thing.

  And believed that she shouldn't.

  It just wouldn't be fair. They were all dead, all four of them. She should've been dead, too. But The Man with the Pushed-in Face hadn't cut her throat like the others, hadn't stabbed her repeatedly. He'd stabbed her once in the stomach, on the right side, where she would have a chance at survival.

  Why?

  Because she was the final girl. And the final girl lives to tell the tale. That's why he didn't cut her throat. That's why he didn't stab her repeatedly. That's how she knew that she would make it through this.

  But the only problem she had with being the final girl was the unresolved ending. She didn't get the killer. Even in horror franchises like Halloween and Friday the 13th, when the killer returns again and again to keep killing, the final girl gets the killer at the end of each movie. But that didn't happen here. She didn't get the killer. The killer got her and let her live. That wasn't a very satisfying conclusion.

  But this wasn't a horror movie. This was the real life of a teenage girl who had been stabbed in the stomach and wasn't thinking clearly.

  Back to the real world.

  Why did he let her live? Why did he really let her live?

  Because she knew him. And he knew her. He was there for her. Not to kill her, but to save her. And to teach her a lesson: She should not have been spending time with the sullied. She should not have been sullying herself.

  But she didn't want to believe it was him, just like she didn't want to believe that he had been stalking her for the past three months. But it was becoming harder and harder to deny. She'd seen him up close. She'd looked up into his pushed-in face as he stuck the knife into her belly.

  And she was rocked.

  Her whole world was rocking. Up and down. Side to side. A siren bellowed outside. An ambulance, of course. Then the ambulance stopped, the doors were yanked open, and she was pulled into the morning air. It was just barely morning. The darkness had lifted ever so slightly. And it felt like a sign. She was leaving the night behind and starting a new day. She just might make it through this.

  But then what? The Man with the Pushed-in Face was still out there, wasn't he? Surely, the police hadn't caught him just yet. They wouldn't even be looking for him, would they? No, they would blame this whole thing on Richard Caulfield because he'd been wearing a ski mask, and the knife had come from his kitchen. And if they didn't go looking for The Man with the Pushed-in Face, they wouldn't catch him, and if they didn't catch him, he would come back for her. To finish the job.

  To kill her.

  To kill the final girl.

  The beginning of a new day. The beginning of a new movie. The final girl lives to face the killer in the much-anticipated sequel. That's why he let her live. He didn't want to kill her; he wanted to terrorize her. He wanted to leave her as the final girl to terrorize her another day, in the next movie.

  Come back to reality, Jill. Come back to reality.

  What did The Man with the Pushed-in Face want? What did he really want?

  He wanted to punish her, to teach her a lesson. But what if she didn't learn her lesson? What if she was already sullied beyond redemption? He would have to punish her again. And this time, the punishment would be more severe. But what punishment could be more severe than lying on a gurney, teetering on the verge of death? Well, the answer was obvious. There was only one punishment fit for a teenage girl sullied beyond redemption.

  "Jill?" Her stretcher was racing through the corridors of a hospital, one glaring light after another passing overhead, and that voice was racing right alongside her. "Jill? Jill, honey. It's me. It's Mom. I'm here."

  The voice, her mother's, it was there, but it was fading back amid the prompting of the hospital staff telling her to give them some room, that they were going to do everything in their power to help her daughter.

  Jill was at that age in which she was subtly rebelling. She wanted to be on her own, do her own thing. Most of the time, she didn't want her mother's help. But damn, she was glad her mother was there. Her mother probably couldn't protect her from killers with pushed-in faces, but she was still that motherly security blanket, and it would feel so good to wrap herself in it.

  Once she woke up.

  She was going into surgery
. She was in a big, bright room. The lights in this room were so much brighter than the lights in the corridors. They were sliding her onto a table and removing her clothing. She heard them talking. They were going to operate on her. They had to put her to sleep. They were removing one mask and putting on another. This mask would pump her full of gas and send her back to that place with the blood and the bodies and The Man with the Pushed-in Face.

  She raised her head to object. A soft hand touched her forehead.

  "Shh." The nice female nurse gently pushed her head down. "It's gonna be all right."

  She raised her head again. "I down want to go back there."

  The nice female nurse placed the mask over her mouth and nose. "It's gonna be okay, honey. Just try to relax."

  And Jill saw those eyes again, peering down at her from that pushed-in face. She knew they weren't real, but they would follow her―back to that dark place where everything was real to her, where she would have to live the horror all over again.

  Chapter Four

  He returned to his lair. It was dark. It was dank. And it was home. The town's sewer system had been his residence for the past few days. It wasn't easy to move about with a face like his, but the sewers afforded him privacy. The tunnels were dark, the only light provided by the gaps in the manhole covers. But he didn't need the light. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness quite nicely. He was comfortable. He didn't need to leave the sanctuary of the sewers. The miles of dirty rainwater running along the bottoms of the tunnels kept his beaten-up body hydrated, and the rats provided him with all the sustenance he would need.

  Even in the tunnels, he could smell her. And she could smell him. Not literally, of course. They had a connection. They could sense each other. He and Jill Turner were cut from the same cloth, but they were cut from opposite sides of the cloth. She was cut from the light; he was cut from the darkness. She was an angel sent from Heaven; he was a demon sent from Hell. And this connection had pitted them against one another. Who else could be pitted against them? They were cut from the same cloth, so they had the same abilities. They were evenly matched.

  He'd been watching the girl for quite some time, but he'd only gotten close to her last night when he'd sliced up her little friends. And as he slid the knife into her stomach, he knew that he would not kill her. He placed the blade in at just the right spot to inflict pain, to punish, but not to kill. She would be just fine. The final girl would live to fight another day.

  He was the killer in his very own slasher flick, but his strayed from the traditional slasher flick in that the police thought they had their man. That worked for him. They weren't out looking for the real killer. They weren't on high alert. It would make it so much easier to go on terrorizing her. But he would bide his time. He would give her a chance to recover. He would give her a chance to ruminate. He wouldn't go straight to the hospital to kill his Laurie Strode as Michael Myers had.

  He didn't even want to kill her, not yet. He wanted to have his fun first. And there were so many ways to have fun. But he would have to wait until she was out of surgery, and he would have to give the sedatives a little time to wear off. She would be a little loopy for a while. Sedatives worked for Michael Myers because he simply wanted to kill Laurie Strode, and a sedated Laurie Strode would be easier to kill, but sedatives weren't ideal for terrorizing Jill Turner. He wanted her fully alert when he put his next scare into her.

  Come to think of it, the sedatives didn't work for Michael Myers, did they? Laurie Strode was all doped up in Halloween II, and she still came out on top. Why? Because she was the final girl.

  But when it was all said and done, when this horror movie finally came to an end, it wouldn't work out that way for Jill Turner. Because this was his horror movie; he was the writer, director, and star. And in his horror movie, the old final girl trope was going out the window. That would be his twist, his unique take on the genre. In his horror movie, the killer would turn the tables on the final girl. In his horror movie, the killer would come out on top. Jill Turner would indeed be the final girl. After he killed everybody else, she would be the last one standing.

  Then she would die.

  And in the slasher flicks that inspired him, the killers just killed. They didn't take their time; they didn't toy with their victims. That's what set him apart. That would be another unique twist for his horror movie. He wasn't content to simply kill Jill Turner. No, he was going to take his time. He was going to have a little fun with her first.

  Slasher flicks were a dime a dozen, but the handful of legends in the genre had some kind of gimmick, something that set them apart.

  And he had his.

  Jill Turner had given it to him.

  He was The Man with the Pushed-in Face.

  And soon, the whole world would know his name.

  Chapter Five

  "The press is here!" a uniformed officer yelled from the treeline on the other side of the clearing. "One of 'em anyway!"

  Harry waved his gratitude to the officer, knowing full well that whichever news agency pulled into the campgrounds parking lot was just the first of many more to come. In his mind's eye, he could see the news trucks lined up like the vehicles at the end of Field of Dreams.

  If you build a morbid story, they will come.

  He resisted the urge to smile. No smiling when there are four dead bodies behind you.

  The uniformed police officers would do their job. They would keep the press from traipsing all over their crime scene. And they would keep the names of the victims from reaching the press until the police had a chance to contact the families.

  They weren't ready to inform the families just yet, but they would be heading out shortly, within the next couple of hours. Harry was glad that it wouldn't be him. He'd done it before, plenty of times back in the day before he'd made detective. He'd rather deal with the blood and the bodies than deal with the looks on the faces of family members who'd just discovered their world had been shattered. Harry was pretty sure he'd rather take a bullet to the leg than have to deal with that again.

  "Harry." It was Ben Stewart, a crime scene technician. "We have something."

  Harry followed Ben back up the trail and through the crime scene, past the bodies and the blood to a group of technicians standing just inside the treeline at the back of the clearing. "What do ya got?" he asked.

  "Another knife," Ben said, pointing toward the ground.

  A crime scene photographer snapped photos as Harry examined the knife―twelve to thirteen inches with a black, ridged handle and a curved blade caked with blood. A second murder weapon? Possible. But the position of the knife inside the treeline so far from the bodies struck Harry as unusual. And there was something else that struck Harry about the knife. He couldn't put his finger on it at first. It didn't look quite right.

  Or it didn't look quite real.

  When he squatted to take a closer look, he discovered that it wasn't real. It was plastic. A toy.

  "What do you think?" Ben asked.

  Harry rose. "The knife is a fake, and so is the blood."

  He took a step back to allow a technician to bag the evidence.

  A toy knife and fake blood. A real knife buried in the chest of the possible perpetrator. It was like these kids were playing a game and somebody decided to take the game to the next level.

  Harry walked back to the clearing, back to the bodies and the blood. A crime scene photographer was snapping pictures of the boy with the ski mask and the black knife handle sticking out of his chest. It looked to Harry like a kitchen knife. In a moment, the knife would be carefully bagged and transported to the crime lab. The lab technicians would be looking for DNA evidence, fingerprints, clothing fibers, just about anything that would point them in the right direction. They would find plenty of DNA evidence, of course. It was all over the blade and the top of the handle. They might find some clothing fibers. The victims had been stabbed repeatedly through their clothes. If the young man lying in front of him w
as the perp, they probably wouldn't find his fingerprints. He was wearing gloves. But he suspected that they would find Jill Turner's fingerprints. If this young man was the killer, Jill Turner had turned the tables on him. She was alive, and he was dead. She had won. Like the final girl in a horror movie.

  But he wasn't so sure that this case was going to be as cut and dry as all that. He wanted it to be. Surrounded by the blood and the bodies of two boys and two girls, all young enough to be his children if he had any, he would like nothing more than to close this case as quickly as possible. But he had a hunch that it just wasn't going to be that easy. This was not going to be one of those on-the-surface cases, as he liked to call them. Those were the majority of cases in which most of what he needed to know about the case was right there on the surface. Whether or not they got their man―and they usually did―the majority of homicide cases were pretty routine. Killer kills. Killer is out there. Killer gets caught, or not. Killer goes to jail, or not. The cases were almost always black and white. But there were those rare, strange cases that were supposed to be black and white like all the others, but they weren't. Those cases were like a puzzle with a thousand pieces strewn about. You know what the picture is supposed to look like because you have the box top, but as you're trying to put the pieces together, you come to the realization that you don't have all the right pieces. Pieces from another puzzle have been mixed into the batch.

  That was the best analogy he could come up with at the moment.

  Those cases were few and far between, but he'd been a detective long enough to know those cases. He could smell them. And this was shaping up to be one of those cases. It had that peculiar scent.

  Chapter Six

  After making her way past a cadre of uniformed police officers both outside and inside the hospital, Darlene stopped at the nurse's station to find that she had been right; Jill Turner was in surgery and would likely be in surgery for some time. The good news: Physically, she was likely to make a full recovery. The bad news: Emotionally, psychologically, she might never recover. At the very least, she would have a long and tumultuous road ahead of her. But she would have her family to support her, and she would find a good counselor, and she would get through this.