Page 7 of The Killing Game

Sam is on the couch at the head of the room. She’s buried deep in a fuzzy, black blanket. Soft sobs come from her direction. She’s handling it the worst out of all of us. She went into a full blown panic attack when we realized the mask could be real. It took both boys to drag her up to the cabin for safety.

Am I next?! I was the one who found the mask. We can’t be. We survived senior year! This isn’t fair! I don’t want to die. I can’t. I have too much work to do. I have my mom. She wouldn’t be able to handle me gone. I can’t leave her! I can’t!

For what feels like the first time in history, Jason is quiet. No dirty jokes. No crude remarks. He’s sitting on the other end of the couch like a statue. He hasn’t taken his eyes off of me since we got inside. It makes me uneasy. This isn’t the same lustful stare I got earlier from him, this is darker. More accusing and sinister. Like he’s hiding something…or he thinks I’m hiding something. His hands are resting on his thighs. Occasionally, I can see his fingers twitch, like he wants to grab me by my throat and shove me against the wall until he gets answers. That would be an interesting way to pass the time while we wait; I’m not even going to lie. It’s better than the awkward stillness we’re sitting in now.

I already tried reasoning with the group. Sure, I love gore and guts, but why in the world would I stage this as a prank? I’m still respectful of the trauma that infects this town like a plague. It’s hard to ignore when we’re reminded of the Slayer’s killings constantly. Every year, a curfew is created for the six weeks before graduation. Every year, the school reminds the graduating class that the senior assassin game is banned from school grounds, quoting they don’t want to tempt the killer further. Every year, police presence is magnified in public spaces. Yet, every year, one senior still goes missing. Every year, I honor the fallen by adding another installment to my horror romance collection and updating the crime database for the local newspaper.

The police department tried to argue at one point that my earlier books were reckless since they contained so much information about the original killings. They went so far as to accuse me of newer murders because I have such an intimate knowledge of how to recreate the Slayer’s iconic kill scenes. Which, fair, because I was able to dig up information most civilians wouldn’t be able to find, but that was a form of therapy for me. Hell, it was cheaper than therapy and actually made me money in return. I couldn’t get any other stories on paper until I got the town’s story, secretly my story, out of my mind. The first book was more of a dramatized non-fiction. Since I was the only one brave enough, or crazy, depending on who you ask, to write about our town’s history, it blew up. The local press for that release was ridiculous.

“Graveslake Resident Reveals All of Town’s Secrets”

“Rumors Spread About New Author’s Connection to Slayer”

“Ashe Nikko Has a Death Wish: What You Need to Know About the Killer New Author”

I was promoting my writings on Instagram and TikTok. For a whole month, all anyone wanted from me was my process for writing that book. My following grew from 500 to 500,000 overnight. That might not seem a lot for the average social influencer, but that’s a big market for an Indie author who’s just starting out. I talked about the slayings so much I became numb to the topic. I could recite every crime scene in detail. I knew every victim by name. Even though everyone was always asking for me details on the killer, I made sure to keep the victims front and center. They deserved to be remembered. That’s how I would want to be remembered if the killer had his way with me. I never told a soul about the event that changed my life senior year. I almost became a Senior Slayer victim myself.

I was on my way home from the library one night after a grueling study session. It was spring and finals were a week away. All anyone cared about was graduating…and surviving. Whispers of the Senior Slayer’s return drifted through the town. Everyone knew the killing was inevitable. It was just a matter of when and who. Most seniors kept in packs towards the end of the year, safety in numbers and all that. I was cocky enough, or stupid enough, to think I was immune to falling victim. As the resident crime junkie, I was confident I could survive on my own. I had been preparing for this my whole life.

My cockiness almost got me killed.

2 YEARS EARLIER

The night is brisk with the faint smell of blooming flowers in the distance. The promise of a new beginning and warm Summer nights hang in the air. The sun just set when the library locked up for the night. Crickets chirp in the distance as I quickly make my way to my car. I was almost ready to unlock my door when the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. I freeze. My intuition had never steered me wrong before. My ears strain to hear something or someone off in the distance. Dread bubbles in the pit of my stomach as the atmosphere becomes eerily quiet. Even the crickets stopped their nighttime serenade.

Something zings by my face and made contact with the driver side window. The glass shattered into a melodic cascade of sparkling shards. I scramble to reach for my taser in my backpack. I feel my hand wrap around the device when a warmness creeps up behind me. Strong hands cover my eyes. The scent of leather seeps into my nostrils. I try to scream, but it’s muffled by a gag being shoved into my mouth. Coarse fibers scratch across my tongue and rub my lips raw at the contact. Arms and legs flail against my capture, anything to try to break free. Screams continued to flow from my throat until I’m hoarse. My mouth strained against the gag. I can feel my lungs start to hyperventilate. The lack of air make my attempts to escape weaker with each struggle, tears pooling in my eyes clouding my vision.

I’m the true crime fanatic. The weird girl who was intrigued by death. How could I be so stupid to think I couldn’t be a target? I wanted so badly to be a final girl that I made myself a target. I mentally berate myself as the killer drags me away to what I could only assume was the woods behind the library. Sticks snap under our feet and leaves crinkle around us as we push deeper into the woods. Grunts escape from the unknown person behind me as I continue to thrash against their hold. Time moves slowly. Each minute feels like an eternity while I wait for my fate. We stop after what felt like a mile of trekking through the woods.

My captor throws me to the ground against a tree. My head makes contact with the rough trunk with a deadening thud, leaving me stunned. Tree bark bites into my right cheek and upper lip, exposing the soft tissue underneath. Blood quickly begins welling up from the cuts. Warm, sticky wetness trickles to the ground beneath me. Before I can process what is happening, a steel-toed shoe makes contact with my stomach. I wheeze as the wind gets knocked out of me. Coughs erupt from the gag as I try to catch my breath. Another blow makes contact to my rib cage. The distinct crack of a bone is deafening in the silence of the woods. A guttural scream rips through me as I clutch my side.

I lay there in the fetal position, trying to cover the most intimate parts of my body being exposed to the assault. Suddenly, a hand wraps around the back of my head. The assailant grips a fistful of hair, holding me upright. The gag is swiftly ripped from my face, leaving my mouth raw from the fabric. I blink away tears as I look up at my torturer. A mask covers his features, similar to The Senior Slayer, but his body is familiar. He crouches down, removing the bloodied mask and revealing his true face. It takes a second for my brain to register who is standing in front of me. I blink a few times, expecting them to disappear like a bad dream.

“Tristan?” I rasp out.

Tristan is one of the sweetest guys in our grade. I only had a few classes with him, but our school was small. Everyone knows everyone in some way. He’s the president of our high school’s Honor Society and set to be our valedictorian. He’s seen every weekend volunteering at the local animal shelter. A church-going, good boy. Someone any parent would be proud to see their child dating. Someone no one would assume had these demons crawling inside poisoning his mind.

Tristan transforms as a devilish smirk spreads across his face with my realization. He tightens his grip on the back of my head, making me whimper in pain. My head makes contact with the tree again as he slams me against the trunk. I crumble as the air forcefully leaves my body. I start gasping for breath. He chuckles at my torment.

“You’re not the killer, Tristan,” I plead with him. “You’re a good kid. Just walk away. I won’t tell if you let me go. I promise.”

Tristan peers at me with a blank stare. His eyes are dark as he watches me try to regain my strength. I fight with his hand against the back of my head as I try to break free. Tristan forces me upright, dragging my back against the rough bark. Each inch slices a new cut into the flesh on my back. Blood soaks through my shirt and I can feel the warm liquid drip down my legs.

Standing face to face, Tristan releases his grip. He walks a few paces away before turning back to me. My body is frozen, but my mind continues to race thinking of a way to escape.

“That’s the thing, Ashe. I can’t walk away. He’s here, you know. The Senior Slayer. He’s always been here.”

Tristan begins stalking closer to me. I can see the faint glimmer of something metallic in his hand.

“Tristan, please,” I begin to plead again. “I know you don’t have to do this.”

“Oh, but I do. It’s a part of the game. Senior Assassin might have ended the year the killer showed up, but he created a new game. All those seniors that have died since? They’re a dedication.”

“What the fuck do you mean ‘a dedication’?” I ask, inching around the tree trunk to find a space to run.

Tristan quickly stands in my way, my legs pinned between his large frame and the hard tree behind me. He raises a knife to my cheek, inspecting the cut that formed from being shoved against the harsh tree bark. The knife plays across the soft skin on my cupid’s bow to my other cheek. Without warning, Tristan slices through the tender flesh on the other cheek into a matching cut.

I cry out. My hands instinctively reach to my face to cover the fresh cut. My fingers sink into the wound with ease. Blood weeps over my hand as I try to close the gap.