Chapter 31
"Mara!"
I wouldn't even call it a scream. It's a howl, ripped from somewhere deep, soaked in so much fear and disbelief that I don't recognize my own voice.
She slumps onto the kitchen floor, the ax still lodged in her head, her body collapsing like a rag doll. It went so far into her face that it split the eyeglass frames resting on her nose. They clatter next to her.
"Noooooo!" I'm hyperventilating, unable to catch my breath as the masked assailant joins me in the kitchen, putting a foot on Mara's shoulder—stepping on her like trash—as they jiggle the handle free.
The squelch, the sickening sounds of the ax tearing from her brain, makes me queasy.
I can't even size them up—whoever they are—because the thick clothing hides everything. Could be a woman, could be a smaller man. The heavy tactical boots don't give much away either, except they look a little too big for someone my size.
I stand paralyzed, unsure where to go or what might be safe. But I need to decide fast.
Because—oh fuck, the ax is finally loose.
Mara's head lifts like she's been yanked back to life, the weapon slipping free and gravity slamming her skull into the floor again. I flinch, fighting back tears, sickened by the sight.
In one fluid motion, I throw the hand towels onto the puddle of acid blocking the door and lunge to free the shotgun.
Even if the strings snap and trigger another trap, at least this asshole will be two steps behind me and they'll also feel the blowback of whatever hits.
The strings rip free from the double-barreled firearm, and I grab it like my life depends on it.
Before I can even turn to face the attacker, the ax slams into the wall inches from my ear. A few strands of loose hair float to the ground, the only sign of how close the blade came.
The assailant steps toward me, and I kick out, aiming straight between their legs, praying for a direct hit.
But they don't buckle. They barely even flinch, just let out a low growl of pain and annoyance.
And that's when it hits me: this isn't a man.
So who the hell is it?
I don't care to find out. I leap over the puddle, my heel skimming the edge of the towels I threw down.
While they wrestle with the ax, trying to yank it free from the wall, I grip the shotgun and point it in their direction.
But instead of aiming and pulling the trigger, my foot lands on another loose floorboard. My weight shifts and I stumble backward.
The gun fires.
The shot misses the attacker entirely and blasts straight into the front door.
I grew up around guns, and I know that sound. Buckshot. The pellets shred the door, punching through the wood and scattering tiny spotlights of daylight across the room—like a constellation of holes ripped into the cabin.
Hasn't this place endured enough? I'm half-hoping it collapses on us all.
"Fuck!" I scream. I always swore I wouldn't be one of those idiots in horror movies—wasting ammo, fumbling a shot, but the floor gave out, and now I'm exactly that person. Useless.
At least my shoes aren't melting from the acid. I yank my leg free from the open flooring, wincing. My balance is off, but I manage to stand.
The front door is my only option now. It doesn't look rigged, and nothing set off when we initially stepped through the threshold. It might be the only chance I get. They're right behind me.
I twist the knob, heart pounding, and nearly cry in relief when it turns. The gunshot must've loosened whatever had jammed it shut.
The door creaks open, and escape is within reach.
I just need to get to Sabrina's car. The key fob is already in there, and it'll be as easy as pressing a button and peeling out of here.
I'm racing toward the broken steps, I'll slide down the handrail on my ass if I have to, when I feel an awful slicing pain cut through my ankle.
"Ahhh!" I spin awkwardly, nearly toppling over, but manage to point the shotgun at the mystery attacker like some battered action hero. I pull the trigger.
Click.
Nothing happens. The one loaded shot was wasted on the door.
I look down and nearly vomit. A coil of barbed wire is wrapped tight around my ankle, the rusted metal biting straight through every layer of clothing and deep into flesh. Jagged points are embedded, tearing muscle, dragging skin back in raw, curling flaps.
Pain detonates in my body. A wave of cold sweat breaks out across my forehead as shock slams into me, draining the blood from my face.
I can't walk. Hell, I can't even think about putting weight on what remains of my left leg. It looks like it's been through a blender.
"Who are you?" I scream, my voice rasping with fear. I'm sprawled on the creaky wooden deck, broken and bleeding like a trapped animal.
This unknown assailant steps outside with me, nothing but a dark figure watching and waiting.
For me to bleed out? To give up?
"You really don't know who this is?" The voice is muffled behind a ski mask and goggles, almost like they're purposely distorting it.
"I don't know!" I whimper, scrambling backward on my elbows, dragging myself with my one good leg. The wire scrapes along the wood, tightening, sending bolts of agony all the way up my leg and spine. I stop moving once I've hit the snow, paralyzed by the pain, breath fogging in the icy air.
They step closer but leave enough space between us as she pulls off her mask.
It's the last face I ever expected to see.
"Holly?" My voice cracks.
Holly. The woman who killed her serial killer boyfriend in an act of self-defense. The woman we're about to feature in our next podcast episode.
She smiles and pulls a switchblade from her jacket pocket and tosses it from palm to palm, taunting me like she can't decide which hand will land the kill shot.
"Why?" I choke on the word. Fat, salty tears blur my vision. My thoughts unravel, reason collapsing under the weight of pain and panic. My strength is bleeding out with every second that passes.
And then, it hits me. "You killed all those women, not Jack."
She says nothing. No denial. No anger. Just an evil grin stretching across her ugly face. And in her silence, the truth sharpens.
"You said nine victims in our interview. But the police only listed eight. I thought maybe you included yourself, like some metaphor for survival or trauma. I didn't push back when I was editing or delve further because I was a bit distracted up here…"
She's calm. Too calm. The stillness of a predator who's already decided the outcome.
"I knew going on your podcast was a risk," she huffs. "But I needed to tell my version. Not on a national network, not with Oprah or Barbara Walters. But your stupid little podcast? Just enough women tuning in, just enough sympathy. A survivor. A fighter. It was perfect."
My breath hitches. "You broke into our cabin… you stole my laptop. It wasn't Albert…" That last fact is said under my breath, the full scope of the last few days coming full circle.
She nods.
"Then you asked to release the episode early," she clicks her tongue against her teeth. "And thanks to my errors, that was never going to happen. Just so you know, no one's ever going to watch it."
A boulder of fear wedges in my throat, making it nearly impossible to swallow.
"How could you frame your boyfriend? What kind of monster are you?"
If I can keep her talking, I might be able to think of a way out. A distraction, a delay, anything. I have no idea where the ax is, still jammed in the wall of the house? Why didn't I take Sabrina's knife when she offered it to me?
"Well, since you're about to die anyway, I'll tell you.
It might be nice to confess to someone." Her voice is disturbingly calm.
"Jack found that book—it was on my bookshelf.
He came to me in the kitchen. Everything else played out like I said, except I was fighting for my life because he was going to turn me in. I had to defend myself."
She shrugs, like she's explaining the plot of a movie, not admitting to ruining someone's life and framing them.
"If I was going to get caught for murder—and I was, thanks to Jack—murder by self-defense sounded a lot better than the truth that I killed nine innocent women.
Yes, nine. They still haven't even found one of the bodies.
I had to flush the ninth victim's photo and panties down the toilet before the cops showed up.
Sloppy, I know, but I didn't have a lot of time and options since I knew they'd search the apartment.
I framed Jack using his sperm—a backup plan I put in place a year earlier, just in case things went south.
And they did. Funny thing is, he didn't even have a bad sex drive. "
Then, out of nowhere, Holly erupts into laughter—a jagged, unhinged cackle like it's all one big inside joke she's been dying to share.
"He was actually fantastic in bed, just so you know.
But fuck, I was bored. Med school and forensic pathology just weren't cutting it.
Seeing the dead bodies on the gurneys, cutting into someone who didn't flinch at the pain or react to the knife, it wasn't enough!
I needed something more, something that would actually excite me.
I had to be the one ending someone's life. "
She starts peeling off the rest of the ski mask, getting comfortable now, like confession is catharsis. Like I'm her priest—or maybe just her final witness.
Her eyebrows have thick pieces of masking tape over them. And under the ski mask, she's wearing a swimmer's cap. My stomach turns.
She came prepared.
No stray hairs. No skin flakes. No DNA. Just like at the other crime scenes.
She'll vanish without a trace, leaving me and my friends to die here like someone from this cursed town wasn't quite done using the cabin for whatever twisted purpose it was built for.
No one would suspect a thing. She'll walk away untouched, free, her name scrubbed clean, her mask still perfectly in place.
"It was a miracle Sabrina told me you guys were coming here," she beams. "Like fate or something better. It was the perfect setup. I've been camped out in the basement, just waiting for you bitches to show up."
I practically foam at the mouth. "My… friends… are dead."
She tilts her head, mock sympathy dripping from her voice.
"Don't worry. You'll see them very soon."
I'm floundering now, the full weight of what's happened, what's about to happen, crushing down on me. I'm not above begging. Not anymore.
Empty promises tumble from my mouth—vows I won't keep. Desperate oaths that I won't tell a soul. That I'll protect her secret.
Holly hovers over my helpless body, the snow around me darkening as it stains deep red. Warm blood pours from my leg, melting patches of snow before freezing into a crust of rusty ice.
I glance up past the deck, beyond the awning and to the second story roof, into the heavens, praying for a miracle. I don't want to die. Not here, not this young.
Holly stands at the edge of the deck, towering over me. I can't believe it; this could be the last face I ever see.
The knife glints in her right hand like it's hungry. "Wanna get this over with?"
"Yes," I breathe, as she steps forward.
And then I move.
With a guttural cry, I slam my legs into the side of the deck, pain ripping through me like fire.
What happens next was something I anticipated, but I never imagined it would unfold like this.
The massive icicle hanging from the second story roof—its tip sharp as a dagger, the base thick as my upper thigh—wobbles from the force of my strike. Then it snaps free, crashing down onto Holly.
It spears into her back with a brutal slice, the jagged point sinking deep into her shoulder blade. Blood sprays across the deck and splatters the snow.
The heavier end slams into the back of her head, and a laugh nearly escapes me at the way she freefalls off the step, landing face-first in the snow.
I know this is only the beginning of the fight, but at least she's wounded too. A more even playing field.
She crumples in the snow, clawing at her back like a branch is jammed in her shoulder.
"You fucking bitch!" she screeches, scrabbling to dislodge the sharp object protruding from her body.
It's a worthless attempt. How do you grab something like an icicle slowly melting from your own body heat? I can't exactly run to the car, but I brace myself with my good leg and use every ounce of strength to haul myself upright.
Pain surges through me as the wire bites deeper the moment I flex my calf to stay standing.
My only shot is to slip past a distracted Holly, let gravity take over, and slide down the hill Sabrina and I worked so hard to climb.
When her back is turned, I make my move.
No matter how I go down, pain is inevitable, but my best chance is to slide through the snow on my back, injured leg elevated in the air.
But before I can even put a foot over the edge, it feels like my leg's been torn clean off.
I scream, hot tears streaking down my cheeks.
When my vision clears, I see Holly gripping the end of the wire and yanking like it's a game of tug of war.
I lose my balance and crash backward. The impact slams me down, pain exploding in my tailbone. My head whips back, hair fanning out in the snow.
Before I can tell which way is up, Holly is on top of me, straddling my hips. Her forearm crushes my neck, blocking my windpipe and preventing me from drawing a single breath.
"I'll still enjoy this," she spits, pressing all her weight into me, both gloved hands now squeezing my throat.
My world tunnels into a blur in an instant, every sense shutting down at once. I can't hear the wind, can't smell the blood dripping from my leg, can't feel anything but the crushing weight on my neck and the frantic urge to fight her off.
She's pulled her ski mask back on—a precaution to keep her DNA off me. I claw at her wrists, desperate to scrape skin beneath my fingernails, but darkness creeps in the longer she chokes me. I even try to bite her gloved hand, but there's no exposed flesh to reach.
My eyelids begin to close, and I know my end is coming. There's nothing left to do but surrender.