Page 40 of Don't Watch Alone
“Guess that’s what that smell is. Seasoned flesh,” I mutter, but the words make my skin crawl even as I say them.
Each step sinks deeper into a cold that feels alive. It penetrates deeply, beyond rationale, causing bone aches and sluggish thoughts. My flashlight flutters like it’s struggling to stay on, its beam dancing over peeling paint, grime-streaked steel, and shadows that bend in ways that they shouldn’t. We’ve been searching for what feels like hours, maybe longer, in this damn maze of frost and fear, clinging to the hope that we’d find Tony or at least something to explain where the hell he went.
Then I see it—a door at the far end of the room, barely cracked open, not sealed like the others. It doesn’t look like it belongs here. It gives off a depressing vibe as though it’s oozing something disgusting, and there’s a low buzzing sound coming from it, so faintit could be a figment of my imagination, yet I feel it in my chest like another beat.
I step toward it, my hand is trembling as I reach for the edge. I push it open carefully, not wanting to disturb whatever the hell is on the other side. The hinges creak loudly, like something dying in the dark. No light comes out. Just black—thick and whole and waiting.
I raise my flashlight, and that’s when I see the eyes.
At first, I think it’s a trick of the light, just two points reflecting back at me. But they don’t blink. They don’t move. They just stare at me. There’s a face behind them, I think. Hard to tell. It’s covered in frost or something like it, a film of cold so thick it’s twisting everything beneath it. My brain refuses to connect the pieces at first, refusing to make it real.
But then... it does.
It’s Mary.
She’s standing upright in the far corner of the room, her back against the wall like someone propped her up there. Her hair is stiff, clumped with ice; her skin is pale and glazed like marble.Her mouth is open just enough to show her teeth. But it’s her eyes—those terrible, unseeing eyes—that freeze me where I stand. They focus on something past me, something she saw as she died, something I don’t see just yet. Something I have a feeling I will.
I want to scream, but it’s like my lungs are filled with glue. Every instinct inside me is already retreating, telling me to run, to get the fuck out of here, to escape whoever did this to her.
And then I see movement.
There’s something standing behind Jade.
No—someone.
He’s tall and thin. His face is covered; it is a mask, pulled tight over his head, and features deformed like melting wax, a face stuck in an expression that’s halfway between surprise and total emptiness. His eyes are black pinholes that don’t blink. They just stare right at me.
And he’s holding something. A hook. Long, curved steel that catches even in this shitty light with a soft shine that makes my blood gocold. It hangs just inches from Jade. She doesn’t know it. She’s still staring past me, still trying to understand what she just saw, still thinking the worst thing in this room is behind me.
And then I scream.
The sound bursts out of me. The scream bounces off the cold walls, breaking the silence and expressing fear, grief, and the chilling realization that we are prey to something patient, something cruel, something now playing with us.
The last thing I fucking see is the flash of metal—sharp, mean, catching just enough of the overhead light to make my stomach twist—and then Jade’s scream pierces the air like a fucking siren. My own voice dies before it even makes it out of my throat, caught somewhere between panic and disbelief, strangled in the tight grip of dread. I turn just in time to see her spin around. Her eyes are wide and full of a horror that reflects mine like a mirror, and then—he’s there. The fucker’s already on her. This massive shape that moves with disgusting purpose, and in one smooth, brutal swing, hejams the hook straight into her stomach like he’s done it a hundred times before.
Time doesn’t just slow down—it fractures, collapses, shatters into a fucked-up collage of sights and sounds I can’t ever unsee. Her shirt blooms with red, so fast it looks like it’s growing a disgusting fucking flower right there in front of me. The blood doesn’t trickle—it spurts in sick arcs, spraying the dull floor with an awful vibrancy that doesn’t belong here, like he’s turned her into a human fountain just for the show of it. Her eyes catch mine, and there’s this terrible second where she’s still here, still aware, and then I watch the light go out of her like someone reached in and put out the flame. It drains from her face, from her skin, from her body, and leaves behind something empty. A shell. Just like that.
My legs finally listen.
I move. It’s not even a decision—I fucking bolt, everything inside screaming at me to keep moving. The killer’s still watching Jade fall when I shove past him, a blur of motion and panic, aiming straight for the walk-in’s metal door likeit’s the last damn place on earth. I slam it behind me so hard it makes the hinges squeal, then my hands reach for anything to secure it with. The broom’s there—thank fucking goodness—and I jam it through the handle, wedging it in tight even though it’s a joke of a barricade. It won’t hold. But maybe it’ll buy me five seconds.
That’s all I need.
I run again. My legs are pure muscle and fear now, carrying me through the dead silence of the mall. My eyes scan desperately, looking for cover, for anything. That’s when I see the table—draped in a clean white cloth like some kind of offering—and I dive under it, curling into myself, pulling my knees to my chest and pressing my back against the cold floor, trying to become invisible.
The shadows underneath are wrapping around me like a burial cloth. I clamp both hands over my mouth, trying to muffle the harsh, broken breathing that’s forcing its way out of me. In through the nose, out through the mouth—slow the fuck down—but my thoughts won’t stop spinning. Where is everyone? Tony—fuck—where’s Tony? Jade is gone. Jade is gone. And Greg—Jesus, Greg—was that really his hand in his office? We saw it, didn’t we? But there wasn’t any blood. Why wasn’t there blood?
I gag at the thought; my stomach is churning, and vomit is rising. Then…
Footsteps.
Heavy ones. Slow. Intentional. Not the sound of someone walking… like they are hunting for me. The thunk of a boot heel, the faint scrape of something dragging—metal maybe—makes my whole body tense so tight it hurts. I squeeze my eyes shut and stop breathing. I hold it until my lungs are aching and my vision’s going dark at the edges.
Then I see it.
A shadow shifts over the fabric, cutting off what little light there is. A hand slips underneath the table. It grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks, hard enough to make my neck crack. I scream, but it’s torn in half as he drags me out like trash, and I thrashwith everything I’ve got in me. My nails dig into anything I can reach—skin, fabric, whatever—and my foot slams into something solid. A shin. A knee. Something. Doesn’t matter. It works.
I break free.
