Page 136 of Final Girls

I’m no longer talking about Earl Potash. Tina knows this, for she says, “Hehad a name, Quincy.”

“Were you close? Was He your boyfriend?”

“He was my friend,” Tina says. “My only fucking friend. Ever.”

She stops our tumultuous drag to the cabin. She tightens her grip around me, the knife’s edge pressing into the flesh right under my chin. I want to swallow but can’t, out of fear it will cause the blade to break the skin.

“Say his name,” she orders. “You need to say it, Quincy.”

“I can’t,” I say. “Please don’t make me.”

“You can. And you will.”

“Please.” The word is choked out, barely audible. “Please, no.”

“Say his fucking name.”

I swallow against my will. A gulp that forces my neck further onto the knife blade. It stings like a burn. Hot and pulsing. Tears pop from my eyes.

“Joe Hannen.”

A rush of vomit follows, riding the words as they spew from my mouth. Tina keeps the knife where it is as I heave up the contents of my stomach. Coffee and grape soda and parts of pills that haven’t yet wormed their way into my body.

When it’s over, I don’t feel any better. Not with the knife still at my neck. Not with five short yards separating me from Pine Cottage. I’m still sick, still dizzy. More than anything, I’m spent, my body weakened to the point of paralysis.

Tina resumes pulling me to the cabin and I comply. There’s no more fight left in me. All I can do is cry as strands of puke droop from my chin.

“Why?” I say.

But I already know why. She was here that night. With Him. She helped Him kill Janelle and all the others. Just as she had helped Him kill those campers in the woods. Just as she later killed Lisa, despite her claims to the contrary.

“Because I need to know how much you can remember,” Tina says.

“Butwhy?”

Because it will help her decide if I need to be killed too. Just like Lisa.

We’re at the door now, that insidious mouth. A chill whispers from deep inside, faint and shivery.

I begin to scream. Panicked ones that erupt from my bile-coated throat.

“No! Please, no!”

I grab the doorframe with my free hand, fingernails digging into the wood. Tina gives one sharp tug and the wood snaps in my grip, breaking away. I drop the splintered chunk and keep screaming.

Pine Cottage has welcomed me home.

40.

I fall silent once I’m actually inside.

I don’t want Pine Cottage to know I’m here.

Tina lets me go and gives me a shove. I tumble into the middle of the great room, skidding across the floor. Inside, it’s blessedly dark. The grimy windows block most of the waning light from outside. The open door lets in the yellow glow of the headlights—a rectangle of brightness stretching along the floor. In its center is Tina’s shadow, arms crossed, blocking my escape.

“Remember anything?” she says.

I look around, curiosity mingling with terror. Water stains darken the walls. Or maybe it’s blood. I try not to look at them. There are more stains on the ceiling, circular ones. Definitely water damage. Nests and cobwebs crowd the rafters. Sections of floor are splattered with bird shit. A dead mouse lies in a corner, dried to leather.

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