Chapter Text
Our little town fell into a state of shock.
A lot of people were saying things that made little sense.
Then the next thing you know,
the head of Handyman Joe
was found in the fountain of the Mayor’s residence.
Roseville Mall Parking Lot, Monday, January 25th, 1993.
You can’t help staring up at the street light as tiny glittery specks dance in and out of view. This was the first time in many, many years that you could remember snow falling. Roseville was north enough in the pan handle that it was theoretically possible, but it was still an exceedingly rare occurrence[1].
It’s late at night, after 11pm, while you walk home from the motel. Today wasn’t so bad. Sleepy, like usual. Glory had even gotten everyone (you, her, Beth, and Nick) pizza and cranked the heat on despite a sure increase to the motel’s electricity bill. The few guests that did check in were pleasant enough, all heading east to Tallahassee or even further south to Orlando. All in all a decent, boring day.
You hum while walking under light poles across the lot, producing the few dim beams that haze out the darkness. The only other sound is the squelch below your Gummy Oxfords as they plod across the barely wet pavement[2]. Little snowflakes gather in your hair. The light of the waning moon makes the black puddles seem iridescent.
As you cross more parking spaces, you’re a little uneasy, only one earbud attached to the Sony Discman[3]. It’s much faster to walk through the almost nonexistent shopping section of Roseville than to take the major roads across town so you do it anyways. Besides, you walked this way all the time, but… That was before the Ghost Face had arrived. Now everyone was uneasy.
But you were safe. You were plain. You were alone in the night.
The next song starts to play and you bob your head along appreciatively[4]. A little skip enters your step.
“I'm blind every mile that you burn
There's a rider that's fallen and
It's clear there's no time to return
I nearly, I nearly lost you there
And it's taken us somewhere
I nearly lost you there
Well let's try to sleep now.”
You turn at the edge of the empty strip mall, staring through the empty Quality Rite windows. Everything is so dark and quiet and ghostly at night, besides pulsing yellow lights lining the shop fronts. They still have a Christmas tree up, no lights or anything so the teens must have been too lazy to take it down yet.
The next window is a small sandwich shop, the red scroll says “#1 Subs!”. And they are, thanks to the best shaved turkey, just the right thickness. A yummy savory edging. Such a simple thing, a good sandwich, but that was how small towns worked. You knew Marcus. You knew him your whole life, and his daughter June and his wife and his son. And so Marcus’s sandwiches always won out to those chains. The power of familiarity and loyalty.
You make a mental note to stop by tomorrow when you take this same route back to work. Wednesday was your next day off and it always felt like you were waiting for those days to come. As soon as they ended, you were hoping to be off again.
You pass another couple store fronts slowly. Then you hear something. Small at first. But steady like a distant drum. Tiny branches rattle and crack. You freeze, breath completely stops in its tracks. You can’t bring yourself to turn towards the crunch of grass across the parking lot. A shiver slides up your spine, slowly.
Calm, calm. It could be anything. It could be nothing.
You force a cautious step forward, dragging your trembling left hand along the rough brick. Its the only thing keeping you upright as your head swims with nervousness. The windows glint as light refracts from them. A glass pane goes from transparent to mirroring. You see the trees behind you, the empty sprawl of the parking lot. Then, behind the scraggly trees: a flash of white, illuminating through the darkness. A gross, sinister manufactured screaming face turns to you slowly. It freezes. Then you watch a black leg step over a short bush. The mask is getting closer.
Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. That’s him. He sees me? Could he get here before I screamed ‘Help’? Am I a fucking idiot goner?
Your stomach is churning the greasy pepperonis and soda in your stomach. You probably won’t eat pizza for months. If you live that long.
The white disappears behind taller shrubbery, like a phantom.
You’re going to be sick. It’s unbelievable, that months into a serial killer spree you’d walk home alone at near midnight as if nothing was going on, just because “you have before!” Your hairs are on end. Your skin is clammy and growing slick with sweat that even the falling snow can’t cool. Tears start to well in your wide open eyes, staring back at your ashen, gasping face in the reflection. You pray a mantra:
It’s okay. Come on, it’s okay. You’re okay. It’s okay.
A deep breath in. A look of determination to the you in the mirror. She gives it back. He isn’t behind you.
It was now or you’d stand here until he did shove a knife through your neck. So, you glance over your shoulder. Nothing is there. For sure. The bushes are empty.
And so you beeline it.
You’d never run so fast in your whole entire life, not even in high school gym class. Not even when you ran away from Joey and Michael that time in 6th grade when they chased you with a dead bird they’d found. That was a horrible memory and this was so going to be much worse.
Your legs move almost of their own accord, the muscles so taut you can feel their every flex as your feet pound into pavement. It’s like you’re trying to jump into outer space. Your Discman clatters behind you but you don’t even notice its fall. You exist as running and running, just running. You can barely breathe in the air; lungs burn hot.
You trip over a curb stop, tumble forward but catch yourself. You will not be the girl in the horror movie that stumbles right in front of the killer. Just a few blocks away is a neighborhood with nice houses and nice people and nice dogs behind their nice picket fences. If you can get there, you’ll be safe, right? The Ghost Face, he’s stealthy. He’s secretive. He doesn’t grab people blatantly off the streets.
The snow mixes with your drying tears as you pant from the adrenaline and insane exertion. There there there, so close. You’re out of the parking lot, across the sidewalk, and into a little alley. Your lips are moving but you don’t even realize it. Your voice is puffing out but you’re not speaking.
“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay. You’re okay.”
Your hair and oversized flannel shirt both flap in the air you’re cutting through. Your mouth is clenched so hard you’d worry your teeth would crack if your brain was even on right now. The alleyway opens into the main drag, deserted like a nightmare. A yellow shingle Victorian home peeks from a line of hedged greenery, maybe a football field ahead[5]. The rest of the street is empty except for the lights that create little circles you are chasing down one by one. Each distance is harder and harder to cover.
You can’t help the pain in your chest that you need to slow down. You don’t see or hear anything and hopefully Ghost Face was still on the other end of the buildings, oblivious to your escape. You take the chance, throw a hesitant look over your shoulder. The street is empty. The sky is a soft grey. The greenery doesn’t move or moan. The clomp clomp clomp of his black combat boots were left behind at the mall lot. The pumping of your arms relaxes and your speed just barely slows, just enough that you won’t heave to suffocation or vomiting.
Maybe you got away. Maybe he just turned but never saw you across the way at all.
Nothing good lasts forever. Everything shatters. The world falls apart. It screeches to a violent, shuddering halt.
The Ghost Face leaps right in front of you onto the road. You scream and collapse backwards, scrambling wildly on your elbows, breaking skin across rocks and pavement. He takes the smallest step forward and pulls the knife out. It’s almost comically huge for having been stored somewhere on his person but there’s nothing to laugh about now. You’re going to die, cold in the January snow, all because you wanted to save a few minutes getting home. And your corpse will sit in this street rotting until the sun comes up and either a little old man sees you and passes out or a fox comes to nibble on your fingers.
Oh my God.
The Ghost Face squats down, his wispy black cowl arms swish gently. You can’t see anything behind that stupid white mask but you can feel his eyes on you. His elbows rest on his knees, wrists slack so the knife dangles and sways lightly. He’s drinking you up as you hyperventilate, sobbing and slobbering and wanting to black out for self-preservation. He reaches forward and you fall completely, head bouncing on the asphalt as you go prone. A cub showing its belly to beg for mercy.
He points the knife directly at your chest. You close your eyes and wait for the blade to sink into your rib cage and rip out the other side. You’re crying. You’re crying so hard and you just wish your mom was here.
Time moves. You don’t feel anything. You don’t hear anything. Nothing. More nothing. Even more nothing.
Maybe, maybe this is all a dream? You peek open your eyes to check.
But he’s still right there. Head cocked innocently to the side[6]. The hood has fallen forward more than normal and obstructs most of the top of the mask. Blankets his eyes in an even deeper darkness. He hobbles forward in a smell set of steps while still staying crouched. Its like a bizarre horrifying alien crab crawl.
You open your mouth to scream but he wags the knife in front of you then boops the tip against your nose.
“Ah ah ah,” he taunts. You start to cry again.
“Sir, Ghost Face –“. All at once he yanks up the knife, elbow bent and the tip now staring right into your eye. Ready to strike. You focus on the blade, how the light glistens, the only light you can see on this whole street now.
His hands clap loud and dramatically as if celebrating a circus show, the knife bouncing as the handle is jostled back and forth. “It’s okay its okay itsokay itsoay ioay.” The mirthful almost desperate mimicking of your own words makes you shudder at first but he doesn’t move. He puts the knife down. “You’re okay!”
You can’t help the questioning, hopeful expression that comes over you. He nods up and down vigorously, like an enthused child. You gasp and moan, watching him, cautiously. Nothing. He gives you a more deliberate, larger nod, as if using the crown of his head to dig through all the humid air between you.
Your mouth splits into a smile.
He’s letting me go.
He stands and reaches out a gloved hand to you as you start an insane chuckle under your breath. Your body won’t be able to hold you up but you grasp his fingers anyways. He yanks you forward until your legs of jelly catch. The leather is oddly soft in your palm and his hand is unbelievably warm. The Ghost Face mask tilts in the other direction, sizing you up. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking when only a white scream looks at you. But you can imagine the sickly smirk below it. Like a Cheshire grin. A vicious sick thing.
He giggles alongside you in earnest, shaking your hand up and down as if sharing a hello shake. You can’t even imagine what this looks like. He suddenly squeezes so hard that your knuckles crunch together and it breaks you out of this frozen panic attack, and you go slack from the searing pain building in your hand. Your mouth closes but lips tremble, teeth clacking because you can’t stop shaking now. His eyes must be slits of resentment now.
The hand drops yours and Ghost Face bends forward at the navel, encroaching more on the little bubble you wanted to keep safe around you. His neck tilts dramatically so that he can face up to stare at you. It feels weird, being above him in any way. You must be a deer in headlights, dripping in snow and tears and snot and spittle. When he rises, he’s holding the knife towards you again.
“Here,” he rumbles.
The sharp edge kisses at the skin in front of your ear and then drags forward slowly. Your breath hitches in your throat. It’s like a soft kiss. Until he pulls back with such speed and force that the blade pierces meaty skin and slices through your cheek and you yelp in pain.
Then the edge of the knife is pressed tight to your throat and the pressure makes your heart beat drum right there and ring in your ears. “Don’t ever let me see you again. Or I’ll cut your esophagus right out.”
And then he shoves you so hard you yowl as your back slams against the asphalt and your head feels like it splits open.
He laughs, pretends to wipe a tear away from his cloth eye holes, gives you an exaggerated wave, and prances back out into the tree line.
You can feel a little blush of wetness at the apex of your thigh. You taste blood weeping slowly from a bite inside your cheek.
You turn your face to stare at the bright yellow double line for several minutes. Silent, steadying your body and your heart.
When you don’t feel like you’re dying slowly, you roll onto your side. You curl up in the fetal position, grabbing your knees and rocking back and forth even with the pebbled ground scraping against your skin. The street line never leaves your view. Yellow in a dark sea. A light to call you home.
You black out, hugging your own quaking and exhausted body in a deadly embrace.