Satanic Panic- A Homage to 1980's B-Movie Horror

by Daniel P Coughlin

  He lowered the window. Icy wind drifted into the car and spread like cancer, overpowering the heat. The icy wind chapped his lungs, caused him to choke.

  “License and registration, please.” The officer demanded. He made no eye contact. He looked comfortable, bored even.

  Lance leaned across the passenger seat, opened the glove box, retrieved the registration, and handed it to the officer.

  He’d not given his license to the officer. The error caused him to squint upon realization. He was so nervous that he couldn’t remember quick order. Now his right eyelid twitched repeatedly and he knew that the cop had noticed. Surely, he knew something was wrong.

  “License, sir. Have you been drinking?” the officer repeated, then asked.

  Lance dug into his pocket and retrieved his wallet. With a shaky hand, he removed the driver’s license from the plastic sheath and handed it to the officer. “I haven’t been drinking, sir, no.”

  “Turn the engine off,” the officer ordered while shining his flashlight onto Lance’s driver’s license and registration. With his index finger, the officer flicked the plastic ID. Then he focused on the papers that crinkled in the strong wind.

  “It’s a bit cold tonight,” Lance offered with an accompanying awkward fake-laugh.

  The officer darted a wide-eyed glance at Lance.

  Lance understood this look as kill the engine, you stupid fucking college asshole.

  Lance killed the engine.

  “Sit tight.” The officer returned to his cruiser. The blackness of the dark evening melded with the distribution of headlights and suddenly Lance couldn’t see the officer. But he heard the crinkle of cold metal as the cruiser door opened and closed. The officer would take his time. Drag this situation to the point that Lance’s nerves would be shot. He would lose his mind. He would inspect Lance’s credentials in the comfort of his heated cruiser while deciding how long he wanted to torment the dumbass college boy.

  Why had the officer told Lance to kill his engine?

  He wanted him to freeze a little. Keep him uncomfortable.

  Typical cop.

  The temperature was negative twenty degrees, with wind chill. Just watching the heavy gusts of snow blow across the desolate country road caused Lance to shiver.

  From the rear view mirror, Lance watched the officer. He didn’t appear concerned. In fact, he was yawning. Lance eased up. There was no way the cop knew about what had happened earlier in the evening, or over the past few months. This opinion was developed from the lack of excitement in the officer’s mulled expression. Not that the cop was lazy. He was simply not privy to the information pummeling Lance’s current path of thought.

  God, Lance would give anything to have the last two months of his life back.

  Stop it.

  Now, he was just being paranoid.

  But why wouldn’t he feel paranoid?

  Given what had happened, he should be paranoid.

  Lance glanced at his watch. Only a minute had passed, but it felt like an hour. The wait pried at his sanity. More sweat spilled from his forehead. Realizing that moisture was spilling down his forehead heightened his paranoia. The officer would wonder why he was sweating when it was so cold. Clearly, the officer would think he was hiding something. The wetness wasn’t perspiration. It was fast running sweat. If the officer interpreted Lance’s nervousness he would surely become suspicious and continue the inquiry.

  Again, Lance thought, why did he pull me over? He’d done nothing wrong in regard to potential traffic violation. He certainly hadn’t been speeding. Not in this weather. He’d been driving under the speed limit, if anything.

  Maybe that was why he’d been pulled over?

  This didn’t make any sense.

  Maybe the officer was involved?

  This thought caused his hands to shake.

  There was no way he’d been pulled over for driving too slow.

  Well, maybe?

  Nothing about tonight was right.

  Startled, Lance sat up too quick and whacked his head on the low roof when the officer returned. He tapped on the driver’s side window, which juggled Lance’s focus.

  Lance rolled the window down. Immediately, the officer blasted his face with the flashlight and stated: “Sir, please exit the car.”

  Lance’s mouth dried. He hoped that he’d be released. Immediately, his tongue felt like it weighed a hundred pounds and his throat closed off. For a moment, he thought he was going to choke. “What’s this all about, officer?”

  “Step out of the vehicle,” the officer repeated.

  With a shaky hand and quaking legs, Lance opened the door and stepped out. A gust of cold air encompassed him. His open throat caught the bitter bite of this subzero weather. His feet felt like cinderblocks. Foot after foot, he shuffled toward the rear of the vehicle where the officer stood.

  Never, had he felt the need for prayer. This was different. He prayed that this officer would become cold or get another call or simply write him a ticket for having a broken taillight and then leave.

  Bundling his coat, Lance looked to the officer. He motioned Lance forward with a flat, gloved hand.

  Lance followed directions.

  “Do you know why I pulled you over?” the officer asked.

  “I don’t,” Lance responded. Probably best to answer with simple responses. That way he wouldn’t nervously reveal any information he’d prefer to keep secret.

  “Your taillight,” the officer stated, shining the LED in Lance’s face again. The brightness was unsettling. His eyes watered from the intensity of the light. He raised a hand to cover his eyes, and the cop scowled. Clearly, he didn’t like that Lance had moved.

  “Hey,” the officer said with authority.

  “Sorry, it’s bright.” Lance had to say something. Irritating the officer was the last thing he wanted, but the light was bright and he was on edge and doing his best not to lose control. If the officer saw what was in the trunk Lance’s life would become interrupted. He’d succumb to the officer’s orders for now and hope to be freed quickly, especially if the officer planned to let him go.

  “What do you want me to do?” Lance stuttered. He wanted to ask if he could go, but the officer didn’t seem worried about time. In fact, it was beginning to feel like he’d pulled Lance over just to pass a little. Also, he probably wanted to make Lance as nervous as possible. A sadistic cop playing games wasn’t uncommon.

  Or was it?

  “Take a look at your taillight,” the officer ordered while taking a few steps backward. He repeatedly turned his gaze toward the taillight.

  Lance acted as directed and followed the officer. When he reached the back of the vehicle his eyes went to the LED beam as it lowered to the passenger side taillight.

  Terrified by what he saw, Lance sucked in a hard breath. The coldness burned his lungs. Snot ran from both nostrils. He wiped the clear slime away from his face with the back of his freezing hand. To Lance’s surprise the taillight wasn’t broken. In fact it was perfectly intact and in working order.

  “I don’t understand,” Lance remarked.

  “You don’t?”

  “No.”

  “Look at the taillight.” The officer tilted the LED. The red plastic that covered the taillight twinkled.

  Lance focused on the contours of the taillight. After a moment, he acknowledged the smeared blood. It was undeniable as it dripped onto the snow and painted the falling flakes red.

  “You want to tell me something?” the officer asked.

  “I don’t know what that is. I thought you stopped me for a broken taillight?” Lance didn’t know what to say. His vision was spinning.

  “Looks like blood. You hit a deer?” The officer questioned.

  The wind howled and Lance couldn’t hear the officer. The blizzard was striking. But the next order was clear, concise, and unavoidable. “Open the trunk.”

  Lance pretended not to hear the request. He hollered above the gusting wind, �
��What?”

  “Pop the trunk! Now!” The officer hammered his fist onto the hood of the trunk, and shined his light on the lock.

  Lance thought about running away. He even thought about attacking the officer. “You need a warrant,” Lance returned. There was nothing else to say. This was where his situation was going to get bad and he knew it.

  The officer marched forward, stood in front of Lance, lifted the light and said, “Sure, we’ll wait right here for the warrant.”

  Lance looked toward the acres of field to his right and left. He thought about making a run for it. The officer, probably in his forties, looked fit. He had broad shoulders with large arms. Even his blocky jaw was strong.

  Looking to the sky, Lance closed his eyes, mouthed a short prayer and then walked to the driver’s side. He popped the trunk, and waited for the officer’s discovery.

  The trunk lid slowly creaked open, seemingly in slow motion.

  A miracle needed to take place. Divine intervention.

  Instead, thick blood drained from the woman he loved—Brianna Zastrow—and spilled onto the icy road.

  The officer drew his gun and shouted, “On your knees! Interlock your fingers!”

  Lance did as he was told. Once cuffed, he looked into the trunk. The girl he’d loved since the beginning of time was dead and staring up at him from the trunk of this shitty Buick with Brock Hills’ hunting knife erected from her torn throat.

  The last fourteen weeks had destroyed his life.

  This murderous night had stemmed from lust. The sex was supposed to have been an experiment with no feelings involved. No one was supposed to have been hurt.

  Lance Barryman, Brock Hills, and Brianna Zastrow had been friends since birth. Their parents were best friends from high school. They’d planned their futures together, even agreed on Wisconsin University Oshkosh for college.

  Brock Hills—his other best friend—brother, really—wasn’t here but his hunting knife protruded from Brianna’s once perfect neck, which was now split wide open. The gaping wound appeared surreal. The cold had frozen the ripped skin and gore from her neck. The love of his life looked like a sick wax sculpture at a horror museum. He knew they shouldn’t have opened Pandora’s box. While their plan had been perfect at the time—and perfectly understood—they hadn’t calculated human flaw, ignorance or stupidity into the equation.

  Before the knife had nearly severed Brianna’s head, she’d been perfect. Lance wouldn’t have changed a thing about her. Not the way she looked, acted, thought—she was heaven in human form.

  Dropping to his knees on the icy road, he remembered kissing her neck. The sweet perfume she wore would never leave his nostrils. He remembered making love to her. He remembered he and Brock both making love to her simultaneously. They shared love and they shared each other. But Brianna only loved Brock and Lance only loved Brianna and Brock only loved Brock. And neither Lance nor Brock was her boyfriend. Grady, the California boy, was her boyfriend and he was a different story all together.

  The only comforting thought that Lance could summon was that he didn’t kill her.

  Time was cruel. Time didn’t extend a helping hand and it didn’t reverse on request. If able, he would have said no to the affair. He would have used common sense—a three way sexual relationship never worked and he was an idiot to think that it would.

  Part 2: Thanksgiving, 2018

  Chapter 2

  Trinity

  1

  I ntense beams of early sunlight sliced through Brianna Zastrow’s parted dorm room curtains and rose until agitating her consciousness. Her eyes focused on her iPhone. She sighed at the sound of the alarm and the digital faceplate revealed the time to be just after seven o’clock. The chilly draft penetrating through the windowpane admitted the cold November morning. Thanksgiving was soon.

  Rolling over in bed, she recalled the night before and the many drinks she’d sipped at that stupid frat party. All those drunken morons, many grabbing their Viagra induced erections as they attempted to seduce her, poorly. Thinking about their foul breath churned her stomach. Sitting upward, she was fairly pleased. The nausea she’d anticipated to swim in her stomach wasn’t present. Still, her stomach growled and her head ached, but not badly. The party at Delta house was average, but was a decent way to pass time on a boring Monday night.

  She’d pissed off her boyfriend, Grady Riggins, by denying him sex in the upstairs bathroom. The aura of frat-douche-baggery had crept into Grady’s drunken head, allowing him to dismiss the fact that she wasn’t the transparently stupid cum dumpster that most of the girls inhabiting the party were. He’d tried to bend her over a badly scratched ceramic sink that held rust circles around the drain where at least half an inch of dried-up used toothpaste had caked. The door was locked with a crappy metal hook that was secured into a screwed-in loop, also rusted. Brianna liked to have fun, but a girl had standards. She laughed out loud, rolled out of bed, and walked to the full-length mirror set at the south end of her room. She hadn’t decorated the place, and the mirror was gaudy, but convenient. She picked up a violet hairbrush with matted long blonde hair clung to the bristles and ran it through the tangled mess on top of her head. Tilting her neck, she straightened her posture and studied her appearance. Her face was a bit swollen from the alcohol, but not noticeable. Twisting to the left, she checked out the nicely toned backside that waved downward into long athletic legs.

  Not bad.

  Playing college volleyball was a great way to keep in shape, even though the season had ended poorly. Brianna used to love the game, but playing at the college level dismissed her passion for it. Talent wasn’t the issue. The overwhelming intensity of college level competition ruined the connection. Still, she’d been awarded a scholarship, which motivated her to play at a high level, not her highest. The University also paid for housing. After adding tuition, books, spending allowance and a meal plan, playing volleyball for the university came out to over six figures over four years. Her parents, especially her father, would have been more than happy to pay for her education, but she knew that they’d secretly worried about how they were going to meet the payments. Their debt would never end. The scholarship worked out nicely. Her parents saved a literal fortune and she received the education she desired. She only took the spending cash that her father secretly slid to her because she knew that it made him feel good to give. That, and she’d saved him so much money with the scholarship.

  She stared out the window of her high-rise dorm room. Everything appeared so small from above. The people and cars were only ants scurrying through the human farm. Growing up in a small town she’d learned about community and connectedness. Here, at the university, nothing was woven together—just a wide variety of strangers searching for new connections with new people. In the end, most would never find the enlightenment they sought. Winter added something depressing to the view, something instinctually cruel.

  Although the season had concluded, she’d managed to keep a fairly vigorous workout routine, which allowed her to look and feel the way she liked. To Brianna’s thinking, there was no way to argue that exercise made people feel better. While there was so much more that she wanted people to know about her, she allowed herself to love the tight ass she’d worked so hard to tone. Secretly, she enjoyed being the object of desire and lust.

  After a quick shower, she pulled on a pair of light colored jeans and a fresh sweater, grabbed her History book, and scurried out of her dorm room.

  Laughter echoed down the hallway. A group of fellow classmates scoured the hallway, shouting and laughing and sneering and trading thoughts and philosophies. Most headed to class. Some were hung over, returning home from a bedroom mistake the night prior. Shelly Riley had the look of utter shame as she strolled along the cream colored wall and disappeared into her room. Her mascara was running and her red lipstick smeared diagonally across her cheek. Brianna wasn’t entirely sure, but it looked like tears had welled up in Shelly’s eyes. Brianna coul
d relate. In a not so distant past, Brianna had fallen into a similar mistake. Not often. In fact, she hadn’t lost her virginity until the summer after high school graduation. And the sex had been on her terms, the way she wanted it. It was her father, not her mother that taught her to respect herself and her body. Her few late night conquests had appeased her curiosities and the men—boys, really—had treated her with respect both before and after. Well, maybe respect wasn’t the right word. They’d been nice and had manners. That was a better way to describe those suitors.

  The sliding glass doors of Bratman Hall—the female sports dorm—slid open allowing icy air to intrude into the lobby. A chill rattled her bones from feet to head. She shivered. The strands of her damp hair hardened. Digging into her bag, she retrieved a Navy blue beanie. She’d purchased the wool cap at the outlet mall a few weeks earlier and it’d proven to be a wise purchase. The warmth soothed as she pulled it over her head while a fuzzy sensation spread from her noggin to her ears. When her ears finally heated, she thought about Brock Hills kissing them. This new sensation tingled downward along the center of her neck.

  Again, she shivered.

  Admitting that she thought about Brock as a lover would remain her secret. Every girl on campus fantasized about Brock like that—that meaning erotic. Brianna was different. Brianna had grown up with Brock. She knew him and loved him before looks had formed him into physical perfection. She’d cared for him that day in the woods when he cried after falling off of his bike and scraping his knee, when they were six. She could remember the taste of his tears after his father struck him one Sunday afternoon for misbehaving in church. She remembered the knock at her door, she lived three houses down—on Amber Lane—a small residential street. She’d answered the door, saw his raw eyes, and kissed his tears.

  Afterward, they stole two Root Beers from her father’s junk drawer in the garage refrigerator, the one she wasn’t allowed to explore. They’d gone to the laundry room in the basement to drink them. After he explained how much he hated his father, she held him. She’d felt motherly. Sitting on the ratty, oil and grease stained rug was the first time she’d taken the role of a nurturer. And after he cried in her arms she’d asked him, “Can I taste them?”