Page 9 of Horror and Chill

Shit.

I turn and run, camera bouncing with every step, my breath loud in the mic, heart pounding. He’s fast. Too fast.

He chases me through the woods, the sound of his footsteps growing louder behind me until I’m sure he’s close enough to grab the back of my dress. I swerve around a tree, leap over a root, and finally dive behind a thick trunk to catch my breath.

“I think I lost him,” I pant, trying to keep the camera steady. “Fuck. I thought I was alone out here. I was going to give you guys a sexy little picnic table video with fun toys. This isn't what I had in mind. I need to get back to my car?—”

A hand clamps over my mouth. Another wraps around my arm.

And then I’m shoved hard. My back slams into the tree. Bark bites into my spine. My phone nearly slips from my fingers. Before me stands a tall, masked figure.

The mask catches the moonlight and I take in its craftsmanship. One side is dark onyx black, the other silver, streaked with black slashes like the paint is weeping. The eyes are wrong, one is covered by mesh, the other a jagged wound in the metal. The mouth is an exaggerated, bleeding grin, curved up like a corpse that died laughing.

4

Him

She thinks she’s alone.She thinks she’s in control. That’s her favorite illusion, and we don’t mind letting her wear it a little longer. She stands at the edge of the trees, checking her phone, pacing like a girl waiting for a date. Except her date isn’t going to show up.

We’ll make sure of that.

A motion alert pings silently on our phone. We keep the screen dimmed; learned that lesson a long time ago.

Camera Three. Movement.

We tap the feed.

There he is. Her co-star. Right on time.

Perfect.

The dumb bastard doesn’t even try to be subtle. He stomps through the brush like he’s never walked in the woods before. We could track him blindfolded just by the sound of his feet alone. He doesn’t belong out here. He’s prey pretending to be a predator, and it’s almost insulting. But that’s okay. Prey serves its purpose.

He stops when we step into the path, blocking his way.

“Hey, man,” he says, holding up his hands. “I don’t want trouble. I’m just here to see my girl.”

His voice shakes, and so does the hand gripping the mask. He’s already halfway broken, and we haven’t even touched him yet.

We don’t give him time to beg.

One clean swipe across the throat. Fast, practiced, purposeful. He gasps, gurgles, tries to cover the wound like he thinks he can hold the life in. We ease him to the ground, watching the light dim in his eyes. There’s always that one last second of disbelief before it goes out. That moment ofwait, this can’t be happening.

But it is.

We’re all already dressed in black, blending into the dark, but we grab the mask and turn it over in our hands, then pull it down over our face.

That’s all we need.

She won’t know the difference.

Not yet.

We cut through the trees, moving carefully, each step silent over the forest floor. We know exactly where she said she’d be. She always gives just enough to tease her viewers, just enough to draw the wolves close.

And there she is.

A clearing opens ahead of us, pale light spilling over her shoulders. She stands alone, backlit by the moon, phone lifted high, lips curling as she speaks to the camera. She’s already filming. Already performing.