A hand was placed over his mouth and he was slobbering and breathing heavily into it. The hand was his own. Tears streamed down his face, and he tried desperately not to hyperventilate while pressed against the molding wall with water damaged floral paper, crinkling away into wrinkled sheets. The floorboards would have been nice wood about 50 years ago, now they sagged under his weight, obviously infested with some type of parasite. But he couldn’t allow them to creak, oh god no, he couldn’t allow them to creak.
“I spy with my little eye . . . ” she sang in the gloom gray must and moth filled hallway. “Something about to die.”
The bar had been sparse when he arrived there earlier that night. He wanted to fuck someone. His dick was on a mission to get laid, and the nearly deserted public house caused him to swear and kick at one of the heavy wooden stools. The storm outside was keeping the good tail indoors and the roads were too treacherous to drive out to the next town to find a decent establishment. Then he saw her.
She was sitting in the bulky blue vinyl booth all alone, nursing a beer. Her honey blond hair fell sweetly over her fair flawless skin. Her barely exposed breasts might as well have had target signs painted on them, the way they peeked out of her baby pink top. He walked over and slid in across from her.
“You are way too gorgeous to be sitting alone in a bar like this on a night like this,” he smoothly interrupted her thoughts. She looked up from staring into the deep pool of amber ale and her soft gray eyes met his sharp brown ones.
“I really don’t feel like being hit on right now,” she said simply.
“Oh, I’m sorry I wasn’t trying to hit on you,” he lied. “I just stopped here to wait the storm out and I saw you sitting all alone and well I’m all alone, I thought we could be alone together.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she whispered, a small smile starting to spread across her peach pouty mouth. She reached across the table and ruffled his shaggy black hair. “Are you really lonely, tiger?” she asked, in the same voice you’d use when talking to a puppy.
“Yeah, I am lonely and my name’s Brad.”
“Well, Brad, would you like to go back to my place for some tequila?”
“What about the storm?”
“Oh I live real close, we can take my truck, wouldn’t be more than 10 minutes in the rain,” she answered slyly.
“Do you live with anyone?”
“Nope,” she grinned. “I’m all by myself too.”
“Well then let’s get out of here and keep each other company in this nasty weather.” Brad’s cock started to twitch with an on coming erection at the thought of getting her out of that damp pink top and onto her warm bed, burying himself balls deep in what he imagined must be the tightest pussy this side of West Virginia.
“Ok, stud,” she laughed.
Brad realized, as they splashed through mud puddles in her black 4×4, that he hadn’t even asked for her name. Oh well, he thought and then astutely commented: “This is quite a truck for such a little girl”
“I like BIG things,” she responded suggestively.
They pulled up to a looming, decrepit farmhouse, with doors that looked as if they were barely hanging on by their rusted hinges. The roof was missing patches of shingles, and the pillars holding up the overhang of the porch seemed to be crumbling before their eyes.
“You live here?” Brad questioned ominously.
“Yep this is home,” she said proudly, as if they’d pulled up to a nice southern mansion.
She parked the truck and they ran to the front door in the pounding torrential downpour. Once inside, Brad really got a chance to grasp the reality of his situation. It smelled like mildew and decay with a potpourri overture to waft in the nostrils, leaving whoever inhaled it feeling instantly sick. There was another odor Brad couldn’t quite place, it reminded him of the time he’d accidentally left a raw rib eye wrapped in butcher paper in his Jeep for two days. The meat had spoiled and the stench was so bad he could hardly drive the car to get it cleaned.
“The smell?” she asked, guessing from his facial contortions what he was thinking.
“It isn’t exactly pleasant . . ”
“Oh I know, I’m sorry, this place is a fixer upper. I think something might have died in the walls,” she explained. “But, I haven’t been able to find anything so!”
“Maybe you should try harder,” Brad murmured.
“Once we get a couple shots in us you won’t even be able to smell,” she crooned at him.
He almost believed her as he watched her ass shake while she sauntered off to pour them some tequila in the kitchen. She explicitly told him to stay put. She said the house was falling apart in some places and it would be dangerous to wander. Brad never listened to warnings like that, the fact that she’d given him one might have been the reason he slipped into the adjoining room in the first place.
To say the farmhouse was creepy would be like saying Fred Krueger had a slight skin condition. It was practically morbid with disuse and degradation. Brad noticed that he’d found himself in what was probably the living room. It was drearier there and a single lantern from the entrance hall barely illuminated the floor. He became suddenly aware that the smell was heavier in this room, it was positively putrid.
“Hey . . uh,” he again remembered that he didn’t know her name. “Hey, I think your dead animal problem is coming from this room,” he shouted at her in the kitchen, just as he glimpsed a large pile of blankets off to one corner.
“What?” she questioned back as he approached the pile and thought he saw it move a little.
He poked the blankets with the toe of his boot. There must be a mouse or something nesting in the folds, he thought. He reached out and pulled at the blanket, it had a wet sticky feel, then a giant rat scurried out of the heap. Brad started and his eyes followed the rat as it ran across the wood floor, then they turned back to the pile of blankets. Another pair of eyes stared up at him, instead of rumpled sheets. In fact, several pairs of eyes started up at him and he understood he wasn’t the only man in this house.
They were mutilated, and dead. That was about all Brad could tell in the darkness. Their faces were frozen in the fear the felt as the killing blow had been delivered. There were three of them, all shirtless, all appearing to have been thoroughly stabbed. While he was still surveying the maniacal mess of human flesh, rotting in the corner of the girls decrepit house, something suddenly cut into his shoulder bone . He spun and tumbled backwards, reaching out to block the next flurry of downward motions with an enormous butcher’s blade. He grabbed her wrist and took her to the floor with him in his fall. She was on top, furiously waving her weapon and Brad threw her off of him and towards a brick fireplace. Her body connected with it, but, like a determined animal, she seemed unfazed and bounced back, crawling at him with her knife. Brad rolled over and kicked her in the face. He scrambled up and headed towards the entrance.
Reaching the door, he was hit with realization that ‘pouring them shots’ was code for locking him the fuck in. There was a huge chain padlock holding the front closed. After precious seconds of pulling uselessly on the door, which was sturdier than he had originally given it credit for, Brad dashed into the kitchen looking for a window. The windows were dressed with bars and the side door in the kitchen was actually made of steel. He heard her moving around the living room, taking her time now that she had him locked in and thinking like a scared rabbit. Circling back around he found a set of ancient precarious stairs and took them two at a time to a second level. He ducked into a random bedroom and pressed himself against the wall to catch his breath. He was not alone in the room.
Across the floor from him lay another corpse, its face turned towards him. The mouth was gaping open, or what would have been a mouth, the lips were cut away and the slits at the corners laid it open like grotesque jack-o-lantern. There was nothing where they eyes had been, there was no nose to speak of. It was a pumpkin head of a man, carved like an autumn squash. His torso had been split and he oozed rotting organs onto the floor. How many guys has this bitch killed, he thought in panic. Then he heard the stairs and he began to cry.
She was in the hallway singing, and he was in this bedroom trying to be silent and think through the terror haze. The windows up here had bars on them as well. She went silent for a moment, she hadn’t reached his room yet. Her steps were pacing, a big cat in cage waiting to be fed. I could try to take her by force, he thought, but his body stayed put as he cowered.
“I spy with my little eye, something about to die,” she screamed in the hallway.
He shivered in his corner against the wall, then he heard it, in the closet across the room. The door creaking open and a whisper emerging from its depths.
“I spy with my little eye something about to die,” it groaned and pushed the door open further.
She emerged in a white nightgown with black tangled hair en mass around her face, a face that was covered by a porcelain mask. She was army crawling towards him with a knife in her hand, whispering the same phrase over and over. Brad’s fear of the creature on the ground surpassed that of the murderous banshee in the hallway and he jumped to his feet and bolted out the door of the room and right into a long butcher’s knife to the belly.
“I spy with my little eye, something that’s about to die,” she smiled at him. “All this for pussy?”
She dug the blade in deeper, like the dick he wanted to shove in her wet hole. She pulled up, cutting the middle of him open, letting the maroon life gush out while he died at the end of her phallic symbol. She pushed him back, peeling him off the knife with a sickening suction, and walked into the room to find her sister still sitting on the ground, sniffing around the other dead boy. The blond girl laughed and looked back at the body of her victim.
“I spy with my little eye, another predictable guy.”
By Emily Smith-Miller