Page 1 of Ho Ho Homicidal Mania
Chapter 1
Blake
It’s just my luckthat my first-ever evening at a gay nightclub ends like this.
My head is a snow globe filled with tar. Scattered thoughts whir without rhyme or reason, but as I wake up and open my eyes, the world falls back into place.
I don’t like a single thing about my new reality.
The musty smell of the stained mattress I’m on reaches my senses first, but as everything comes into focus, my muscles calcify with terror.
A camera mounted on a tripod is pointing straight at me, and when I look around, I realize I’m in a real-life horror movie.
The X-shaped frame of a Saint Andrew’s cross, complete with wrist and ankle restraints, towers over me and casts a long shadow on my legs. Knives and saws hang onthe wall, lined up by size, and the smell of dried blood is barely covered by the overwhelming stench of bleach.
Once I’m certain there’s no one else here, I lift my head and attempt to dart toward the camera, but a tug on my waist pulls me right back onto the musty bedding with a loudclangof the chain attached to the steel belt sitting around my midsection. I narrowly avoid hitting my head on the wall, but as my temples pulse from the onslaught of fear, I grab the ring digging into my tender flesh. It’s attached to the wall with links that refuse to budge when I pull.
I have always considered myself smart. I’ve consumed so many true-crime documentaries, I started my own podcast, and yet, when a guy dressed up as a sexy Santa bought me a shot at the club, I didn’t even blink twice before downing it. He complimented my dark curls, whispered a sweet word about my green eyes, and I fell into his trap.
After all, it’s my eighteenth birthday, and I left my house for the first time in weeks. I was supposed to have the time of my life, and my brother got me a fake ID so I could enter a gay nightclub. I even dressed up in a dumb Christmas elf costume in hope of attracting someone willing to take my V-card.
I glance down at the ridiculous green shorts and candy cane-patterned stockings.
If I’m so smart, how could I have been so stupid?
I would have texted my friends about where I was going, or even been there with them… if I had any.
Instead, I’m knee-deep in my worst nightmare, because the last thing I remember is Sexy Santa helping me walk when the spiked drink started working, and now I’m in a sex-and-murder basement, surrounded by raw concrete walls and furniture I don’t even want to name.They all bear traces of much use, and as I imagine this stranger strapping me to one of them to inflict torture, panic blurs all my thoughts. I helplessly pry at the lock of the steel belt around my waist.
Maybe my abductor made a fatal mistake that might just save my life? I am quite slim and have the slightest chance of pulling out of this contraption. But as I wrestle the chain with my bare hands, close to having a panic attack, a door opens somewhere above. My gaze travels beyond the camera, to a staircase leading out of this place.
Before I even see the dark shadow on the steps, someone whistles ‘Deck the Halls With Boughs of Holly’.
I’m stunned into silence as I back out into the darkest corner of my prison without making a sound, hiding behind a cupboard like the little mouse I am. I’m not someone to act impulsively, especially not while in the vulnerable position I found myself in.
The whistling man’s silhouette is tall, with wide shoulders, and a trim waist. He’s dressed in a fitted black top and dark jeans, but I end up focusing on his balaclava which features… ears. Cute, round teddy bear ears.
My stomach clenches, but I’m soon distracted by the resoundingthud thud thudcreated by the limp body he’s dragging behind him slamming against the stairs again and again. He pulls it all the way down with a final tug that reminds me of a figure skater spinning his partner in a death spiral. The corpse slides over the floor, and from the shadows of my hideout I see a dark shape eject from his pocket and roll toward me.
I’m so frightened even breathing feels like too much of a risk, but when I recognize the fallen item to be a small gun, determination floods my veins. Despite my guts coiling as though they’re full of snakes, I hold the chainattaching me to the wall, to keep it from clinking, and lean forward, trying to make myself as small as possible. The man in black still has his back to me, so I need to move fast.
Sweat beads above my lip as I stretch my arm. I’m about to put my hand on the firearm when my gaze slides over the dead man’s face, and I realize this isn’t the first time I’ve seen him.
It’s the Sexy Santa who drugged me at the club, and while I’m relieved to see that he won’t be able to hurt me in this godforsaken dungeon, I might have escaped the frying pan only to end up in the fire. Or a whole fireplace doused with gasoline for that matter. I stiffen when the whistling killer takes a saw off the wall.
I pull away from the gun and retreat into my prison of dark shadows before he can spot my hand. The weapon that could save my life is so close, but I can’t risk being discovered.
The man stops whistling the jolly tune with a huff and pulls off the balaclava.
I’m dead. I’msodead.
Even if he never meant to show me his face, even if he doesn’t know I’m here, hewillfind out, and by then it will already be too late, as I know from every true-crime story I ever read.
My only hope is to remain silent as a mouse, and maybe, just maybe, thanks to a freakish amount of luck, he doesn’t spot me.
I try to memorize every detail of his face. Victims are often too frantic when confronted with an attacker, and can’t describe or even recognize the criminal at a later time.
That won’t be me. If I survive, that is.
