Chapter 2 Patrick #3
It was surreal to be inside, let alone staying for the weekend.
They’d never slept overnight as paying guests, only poked around as curious trespassing teens while Patrick fretted about getting into trouble.
The Jumpscare Society was most familiar with the grounds, where they’d spent many nights after their Rialto performances around the fire pit by the lake.
Drinking, smoking, goofing off, shooting the shit.
Typical teen antics, which they would’ve never done together outside of the film club due to all the different cliques they normally ran with.
Jason’s mom worked at the office that handled the cabin bookings, so he could easily “borrow” the keys when it was vacant.
The rental company and park rangers turned a blind eye, as long as the Jumpscare Society cleaned up after themselves.
Everyone trusted straitlaced Patrick to keep his club in line, and Jason, Tiffany, and Carrie were the “good” kids at school.
In return, Patrick and Jason had stocked the woodpile for guests.
Tiffany dragged Jen with her to scope out the bedrooms, leaving the boys to explore the wood-paneled living area.
It was like stepping into a time capsule.
The cabin had been decorated so it was identical to how it had appeared in Slasher.
As was true with the Stanley Hotel, made famous by The Shining, visitors were paying to experience a piece of movie history.
Patrick opened the windows, hoping to remove some of the stuffiness and dissipate the fake pine scent.
The yellowing gauzy curtains billowed in the cross-breeze.
Mikey ran his hand along the striped wool blanket thrown over the brown leather sofa.
Faded videotapes of Slasher and its two sequels, as well as the reboot, The Slasher, sat on top of a combo TV/VCR unit.
Patrick couldn’t believe people used to watch TVs that small.
His laptop had a larger screen. But he hadn’t brought everyone here to watch movies, even if it was a reunion of the Jumpscare Society.
A life-size cardboard standee of the Slasher stood beside the TV. Mikey posed beside it, throwing an arm around the checkered shoulders. He puckered his lips in a kiss toward the masked cheek as Patrick raised his phone and took a photo.
“Nice,” Patrick said, grinning.
Jason picked up the receiver of the beige rotary phone that sat on a table behind the sofa. “Wow. Our grandma had one of these when Mikey and I were kids. Does it even work?”
A dial tone droned faintly from the earpiece. Mikey crept up beside Jason and did an uncanny imitation of the Slasher’s gravelly catchphrase. “You’re all going to die tonight.”
Jason rounded his eyes and mouth in exaggerated horror, like Jordan Knox, the movie’s Final Girl, when she picks up the Slasher’s phone call.
Patrick took Jason’s photo, laughing. It was good to see a flash of Jason’s old easygoing self again.
“The calls are coming from inside the house!” Patrick cried in mock alarm.
Jason put down the receiver. “Nope. If Slasher taught me one thing, it’s to never pick up the phone.”
He and Mikey moved on, reading the spines of well-worn paperbacks and classic board games on the bookcase.
Patrick inspected a stereo system with an intimidating number of dials.
There didn’t seem to be any place to plug in his phone.
So much for the playlists he’d carefully curated for this weekend.
At least there was a turntable and the shelves were stocked with vinyl records, though he suspected they were all old to complete the retro experience.
Patrick moved on to the kitchen and opened the heavy wooden cupboards—they really liked their wood back in the eighties—exposing an impressive collection of vintage Corelle and Corningware.
The knife block was full, and he pulled out each knife and examined it.
The knives were light and the handles made of cheap black plastic.
Amateurish, but they’d do in a pinch. He couldn’t wait to get started.
He drew back the floral-patterned curtains from the window above the kitchen sink. Cedar Lake glittered below and he drank in the sight like a man who hadn’t known how thirsty he was until water hit his lips.
Life had taught Patrick the world was dangerous.
At the Rialto, as the club’s lone Black member, he’d had to play the unnamed hunter who picks up the hitchhiking Slasher and gets killed in the first fifteen minutes.
It wasn’t logical, and the trope had aged poorly, but because Patrick had made it inside the cabin he felt like he’d escaped his fate as the Black guy who dies first. He felt safe.
His shoulders sagged as he let out a long breath, releasing a tension he didn’t know he was carrying.
He was finally at the one place where he could be himself.
He slid out the largest of the chef’s knives again, weighing it in his hand before slipping it back in with satisfaction.
He was home.