Page 14

Ivy

I stretch out on Kris's bed, listening to sound of the shower coming from the adjoining bathroom. A lazy smile spreading across my face as I think back on our night at the carnival.

My gaze lands on the open closet door, a thin line of light cutting through the darkness inside catches my eye. That's odd, all the lights are off inside. I prop myself up on my elbows, squinting at the strange glow emanating from the back wall.

I get up from the bed, the wooden floor cold under my bare feet. Inside the closet, his clothes hang in neat rows - mostly flannel shirts and jeans. I push aside Kris's clothes and that's when I see it: a crack of light along the back wall, where the wooden panels meet.

I run my fingers along the seam. It takes me a moment to realize that it's not just a seam—it's a door, slightly ajar. My heart pounds in my chest as I push gently on the panel. It moves silently on well-oiled hinges, opening just enough for me to see there's some kind of room behind it.

I reach to push the door open. Everything in me screams this is wrong, that I'm violating Kris's privacy. I hesitate a moment, listening to the sounds of the shower drifting in from the bathroom.

I have to know what is behind this door. With a deep breath, I swing the door open, revealing a mostly empty room with a lone cabinet and another door. I move towards the cabinet first.

When I open it, I find only one thing inside, a black ceramic box. I pick up the ceramic box first, turning it over in my hands. All the air whooshes out of my lungs when I read the inscription on the side.

Nicholas Kincaid, June 16, 1984 - November 4, 2023

Everything Kris told me about his brother was a lie. A dead man can't be the Huntsman. It has to be Kris.

What's behind the other door? I'm across the room and reaching for the new door's handle before I even realize I'm moving.

I open the door and take in my surroundings. I'm staring into my own bedroom through the wooden slats of my closet doors.

Oh my god. The noises I heard from my closet the other night, it was Kris. He's the one who has been watching me.

I have to get away, but where can I go? I could go to the police, but what would I even say? I have no proof that he’s done anything wrong. If I try to run, he will find me. Damn it, I need to think.

I start to panic when I hear the water shut off in the bathroom. I leave everything as I found it and close the door. I run as fast as I can to Kris’s bed, jumping under the covers and pulling them up to my face. I close my eyes, pretending to be asleep just before he steps out of the bathroom.

I lie perfectly still as Kris slides into bed next to me, his warm body pressing against mine. My heart pounds so hard I afraid he'll feel it through my skin. I focus on keeping my breathing slow and steady, fighting every instinct screaming at me to run from this bed, from this house, from this mountain.

My car's finally out of that ditch. Once he's asleep, I'll slip away into the night. Never look back. Delete my podcast episodes about the Huntsman. Forget this whole nightmare .

Minutes crawl by like hours. I count my breaths. In. Out. In. Out.

The bed shifts. Instead of drifting off to sleep, Kris slowly shifts his weight and carefully gets out of bed. As if he's trying not to wake me. I hear fabric rustling- he's getting dressed. His footsteps cross the room. They pause beside me. His lips brush against my forehead, gentle and tender. It takes everything in me not to flinch away from his touch.

"No one disrespects you," he whispers.

My blood turns to ice. What does that mean? Who is he talking about? Questions swirl through my mind, but I force myself to stay still, to keep breathing evenly.

His footsteps move away. The bedroom door opening and then closing with a soft click. I crack one eye open, confirming I'm alone. What the hell was he talking about?

I wait, listening for any signs of Kris's movements throughout the cabin. I leap out of bed at the tell-tale sound of the front door. I throw on clothes, not caring if they are mine or even backwards. I run to the front door, slipping on my boots. Grabbing my coat and keys, I glance out the window.

The second the brake lights of his truck disappear out of sight; I dart out the front door and into the freezing air. My hands shake as I try to fit the key into the ignition.

The engine roars to life and I peel out of the driveway, gravel flying in my wake. I speed down the winding mountain road, not daring to look back. I have to get as far away from Kris as possible.

I keep my lights off, keeping distance between us to remain out of his sight. The fresh snow reveals his tire tracks. Coming to the end of the winding mountain road, I pause. Turning left would take me through Hemlock Hollow, far away from this place. Far away from Kris. I could go back home, delete my entire podcast on Hemlock Hollow, and pretend none of this ever happened.

Kris's tire tracks turn to the right. I start to turn left, then stop in the middle of the intersection. Where would he go if he wasn't heading into town? Frustrated with my own lack of self-preservation and overwhelmed by curiosity, I whip my car to the right, following Kris’s tracks.

I can't believe I'm doing this. I should be going the opposite direction, putting as much distance as possible between Kris and me. But here I am, chasing after him.

This is the part in the horror movie where you start screaming at the screen. Telling them to get out and run while they still can. How could I be so stupid? Here I am ignoring every instinct I have to turn and run. Because I can't.

Why can 't I just let him go?

I’m terrified of him, yet I can’t fight this hold Kris has over me. I follow his tracks for a few minutes before coming across his truck, parked at the end of a driveway leading to a worn-down farmhouse. I drive past, parking my car further down the road, out of sight.

I backtrack through the snow to the farmhouse. The fallen snow muffles my footsteps as I move around the house. Peering through the window, the dirty glass reflects my face back at me. Seeing nothing inside, I make my way around the side of the house. My blood runs cold when a man’s scream pierces through the air.

As I round the back corner of the house, my breath catches in my throat. The Huntsman stands in the middle of a small yard, his breath forming clouds in the frigid air. He's not alone.

There's a man, completely naked, tied to a clothesline post. His screams fill the air around us. I recognize him as the man Kris threatened at the carnival earlier.

"Please! I didn't mean any disrespect! I swear I didn't know!" He pleads. He looks terrified, his eyes wide and his body trembling.

I press myself against the house trying to make myself as small as possible. Hidden from the scene unfolding before me. My hand flies to my mouth, stifling the shocked sounds threatening to escape.

Kris's face is hidden behind his mask, but his eyes are cold. He raises a hand, and in it, I see a leather whip. My stomach flips, and I feel a tug of conflicting emotions. I'm horrified by what I'm witnessing, and yet... there's a part of me that's drawn to it. To him. I can't move. I'm rooted to the spot, unable to tear my eyes away from Kris.

The whip cracks through the air like a gunshot, landing on the man's back. Kris moves with practiced precision. Crimson welts rise on the man's fair skin with each snap of the whip. Blood starts to drip down his body, staining the white snow beneath him.

"Admit to your sins." Kris's voice coming from behind the Huntsman mask causes my core to clench. I imagine him towering over me, his dark eyes flashing with the same intensity.

My throat goes dry as the man starts to cry, his body shaking with sobs.

"I'm sorry! I didn't know she was yours. I swear, I didn't know! Please, don't kill me! I'll do anything!"

Kris, dipping his head down to meet the man's eyes. He slowly shakes his head, the leather Huntsman mask moving slightly with the motion.

"You knew, everyone knows. You disrespected her anyway. For that mistake, you will pay with your life."

I know I should run. Or at least, hide. My feet feel like lead, rooted to the spot as if they've taken on the weight of the situation. I watch, as Kris begins to whip the man mercilessly.

The man's pleas for mercy turn to screams of pain. My vision blurs as the snow swirls around me, adding to the surreal nature of the scene. Kris's arms move with a graceful, rhythmic motion, each stroke of the whip landing with cruel precision. The man's back is a mess of bloody welts and torn flesh.

This can't be real. I'm watching a horror movie, and any moment, I'll snap out of it. I'll wake up in my bed, safe and sound. But the icy wind on my cheeks and the sore, frozen toes tell me this is no dream.

I flinch at each crack of the whip connecting with the man's bloody body.

Kris takes a step back, raising his arm. The whip slices through the air, wrapping around the man's throat. Holding the man’s head still with one hand, he reaches down with the other withdrawing a knife from within his boot. Kris brings the knife up to the man’s forehead and begins carving. The man's screams reach a fever pitch. I can see his legs shaking beneath him, barely supporting his weight. When Kris steps back, I see it—an “H” carved into the man’s forehead.

Kris tugs on the whip, pulling the man's head back to expose his neck. The blade flashes in the moonlight. With a smooth motion, he draws the knife across the man's throat, slicing through flesh. Blood sprays, coating the snow in a crimson haze. The man's body goes limp, crumpling to the ground.

Silence.

Kris stands still for a moment, admiring his work, his chest heaving. His head turns slowly in my direction. His dark eyes find mine, where I'm standing hidden in the shadows.

"Did you enjoy the show, Ivy?"