Page 22 of The Killing Game

Sam sits, curled up on the couch, across from the fireplace. Her blanket wraps around her like a cocoon as she scans whatever reading material she found in the library. Normally, she’d be doomscrolling on TikTok during times like this. Her favorite way to disassociate. But since we’re expected to lose power at some point, she decided to save her phone for later.

“I rather keep it where I need it than drain the battery. With my luck, the power would go out the minute I go to plug it back in and it dies,” she had said in passing, searching for a book to read.

I envy her ability to disconnect so easily. I haven’t been able to sit still, pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace and picking at my cuticles. Ever since the second note was found, my brain has been running faster than the final girl of a horror movie. While the option that the person leaving us cryptic messages is some crazy kid who found their way back here, it’s not likely. It’s also not likely that it’s Colton or Jason, based on both of their reactions earlier in the kitchen. The little gremlin in the back of my head is screaming at me. I know the answer I’m looking for. The problem is, I don’t want it to be true.

Jason. Fucking Jason.

That’s another problem I need to take care of. I let him get into my head. That shy, little girl that everyone knew in high school died the same night Tristan did. I need to remember that. If Jason wants to get into bed with me, then so be it. It’s just another notch in the headboard of simple men who think they can throw me around. Most of them don’t expect the dominating goddess that emerges once the door closes. Jason doesn’t know what I’ve gone through to create the new person I am. Only two people know that answer and one of them is dead.

I turn on my heels to continue my monotonous circle.

There’s no way The Senior Slayer is here. It’s outside of hunting season. Killers like him have a specific M.O. He’s never deviated from his pattern before…before me.

Reaching the end of the fireplace, I pause, picking at my right thumb. A small piece of stray cuticle hangs from beneath my nail. Gingerly, I place the piece of skin between my front teeth. I bite down and pull as copper lingers on my lips. Removing my hand from my mouth, I look down at my thumb. The hang nail is gone, now replaced by a dribble of blood oozing from the side. I frown, scolding myself. It’s a bad, anxious habit I can’t shake. Wrapping my thumb with the hem of my shirt, I make another turn to continue my march in front of the fireplace.

Technically speaking, I am the finalist of final girls. The one that got away. The one that beat the system. I’ve been living under false pretenses as an up and coming author who struck it big on BookTok. No one knows why I am obsessed over these crimes. No one knows my close encounter with the phantom menace changed my brain chemistry, permanently reliving that day in my head. I began writing to stop the Rolodex of chilling memories in my head as a futile attempt to understand his motives. Slowly, the darkness seeped into every crevice of my mind, leeching its bloody mark into every aspect of my life. It was exhausting keeping the inner voices quiet while constantly looking over my shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Eventually, the only way to find peace was to shove out the noise and lock the demoness away, only allowing her out to play with willing partners.

Reaching, yet again, the far side of the wall, I stop. A heavy sigh leaves my lips. My hands anxiously clap together. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Sam glancing up from her book. A single eyebrow is raised, but she remains silent. I tap my feet while keeping beat with my hands. Anxiety bubbles up from the pit of my stomach. Sam clears her throat and throws me another glance.

“Wanna talk about it?” she asks.

I tap the tops of my fingers together for a few seconds, contemplating how to answer that question. I could tell her I’m the reason there’s potentially a homicidal maniac out to get us. I could also tell her my obsession to get back at Jason simmers just under that bubbly pit of rabid anxiety.

I nod my head, but no words come out.

Sam continues to stare at me, waiting for a response.

“I just— Do you ever— What I’m trying to say—,” I say, stumbling over my words.

Sam purses her lips together.

“You’re really shaken up over all this, huh?” she asks, amusement lacing each word. She places a hand in front of her face to conceal her giggling, the gentle shake of her shoulders giving away her attempts.

I shoot a glare at her. She holds her hands up.

“Forget it. Why aren’t the guys back yet?” I ask.

She shrugs her shoulders before returning to her book.

“Your guess is as good as mine, babes,” she says.

I grumble to myself, scanning the glass doors to the deck. The heavy rain blocks out any sort of view beyond the three feet illuminated by the flood lights. Darkness engulfs the trees just beyond the cabin. The sense that someone is watching puts my nerves on edge. The flight or flight part of my bird brain picks at my insides to take control. I mentally push it down.

A pile of red catches my attention. The table to the right of the doors is cluttered with supplies we had stockpiled for tonight. I don’t remember finding a red flashlight. Wandering over, the object comes into view. It’s Jason’s shibari rope. Tracing the figure eight wrapping of the rope, a thought occurs to me.

Excitement replaces the pit of despair in my stomach.

The corners of my mouth round upward as I grip the bundle in my hand.

“Sam. I’m going to find Jason,” I say. “Someone needs to make sure that idiot didn’t accidentally lock himself in the safe.”

Sam snorts, not looking up from her reading.

Turning to walk towards the stairs, I hear Sam call after me.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she says.

Oh, you sweet, sweet summer child.