by Rod Glenn
She shrugged into her purple synthetic fur jacket and picked up the sports bag. It took all of her determination to tear her gaze away from the photograph in the plain silver frame on her bedside cabinet, which showed a pretty blonde haired girl in her early teens with proud, beaming parents standing behind, both with a loving hand resting on each of her shoulders … the life that she was leaving behind. After hovering in the doorway for another couple of gut-wrenching minutes, she finally turned and walked away, tears blurring her vision.
Whitman watched from across the street, appearing to flick through a North East England ‘Passionate about walking’ guide, as Mandy left her home for the last time. The cute nineteen years old was dressed in tight jeans, and what appeared to be a strange hairy purple monster. She had red eyes and flushed cheeks. Obviously an emotional departure.
Bell Lane was quiet and surprisingly devoid of activity for a Saturday afternoon. From his position near the intersection with Main Street, he heard a car drive past behind him. He ignored it and continued to watch the girl over the top of the pages of the leaflet.
Shouldering the stuffed bag with considerable effort, she walked quickly straight past him, without so much as a glance, onto Main Street and then headed back towards the B road that would lead her south east to Shillmoor. He noted that she had wisely opted for walking boots, rather than the heels that he had half expected her to wear. After waiting a short while, Whitman casually folded the guide and followed at a discrete distance.
All the good things you deserve now,
Climbing, forever trying,
Find your way out of the wild, wild wood,
Now there's no justice …
The late afternoon sun was obscured by a bank of thick, grey clouds that were heading inland from the west coast. The air was still and warm; a close feeling that immediately drew beads of sweat with the exertion of the quick pace.
Mandy kept to the uneven and weed-ridden roadside as she headed at a steady pace towards Shillmoor. Her confident strides with the burden on her back betrayed a keen walker. It was tougher going for Whitman, fighting his way through the pine forest about fifteen yards in and back from the young woman. It was made all the more difficult by having to carefully place his footing at every step, so as not to alert his prey.
As she strode purposefully, occasionally hoisting the heavy bag back onto her shoulder, she picked over the events of the last few days. The finite details re-played on a seemingly endless loop, tormenting and drawing out her pain once again. Tears rolled down her glowing cheeks.
She pictured her mam, sobbing uncontrollably at hearing the news that her only daughter had fled, pregnant, to be with her ex-con boyfriend. She imagined the face of her dad, enraged, screaming that he never wanted to see her again, that he no longer had a daughter. She saw the face of Mister Fairbank; disappointed and disapproving - she had always been such a sensible, reliable girl. Then, la piece de resistance, Dougie; what if he sent her packing as soon as he discovered that she was pregnant? What’s a matter with you, babe? I danae want another kid. Got two already to that bitch, Cheryl, that I cannae afford.
Struggling to keep pace, Whitman snaked his way between trees and clumps of wild flowers and bracken, ever watchful of his footfalls. His eyes darted between the broken outline of Mandy and the ground in front of his feet. It was as his eyes flashed back to the girl that, stepping onto a mossy, felled branch, his Caterpillar boot slipped, sending him face first into the mulchy forest floor and snapping several smaller twigs and branches with knees and elbows in the process. Stifling an angry curse, he scrambled to a crouch and cast a furtive glance towards Mandy’s last position.
A flutter of wings disturbed the leaves in the forest canopy, but otherwise there was deathly silence.
She had stopped dead in her tracks and was staring into the shadowy trees with a look of unease etched into her pretty features. She was staring right towards him.
He froze, not even daring to breathe.
“Hello?” Her voice had an anxious edge to it.
Still holding his breath, Whitman watched and waited, ignoring the protests from his straining thighs. A brown and orange meadow argus butterfly wavered past his still face, then settled on a low branch in a rare spot of greying light. His eyes followed it hypnotically for a moment then returned to the girl.
She took one hesitant step towards the trees, still frowning, but then quickly changed her mind and spun back towards her destination. Heading off at a noticeably quicker pace, she glanced back one final time, her ill ease still apparent.
The whole sky appeared bruised and prematurely darkened as the cloudbank settled across the early evening sky. The wind began to pick up as Mandy rushed onward towards Shillmoor. Without pausing for breath, she buttoned up her jacket and hoisted her bag higher onto her shoulder. As the first droplets of rain struck the pot-holed road, Mandy glanced towards the heavens with scolding annoyance, diminishing any lingering nervousness.
“Fuck,” she said simply to no one in particular. Her breathing had deepened from the exertion and strands of her blonde hair were plastered to her forehead.
“Bitch, isn’t it,” Whitman said nonchalantly, stepping out of the trees to her side.
“Shit!” Mandy jumped, flinging her arms out in a shaken spasm that caused her sports bag to fly off her shoulder and drop to the damp road. She spun round to face him, her cheeks suddenly drained with fright.
“Sorry, hun,” Whitman said, raising his own gloved hands in apology. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I was just having a little walk through the forest. Weather’s turning, eh?”
Mandy took a couple of uncertain, shuffling steps away from him, visibly shaking and her eyes wild. “You … you’re following me.”
Whitman feigned surprised innocence. “Me?” Then, abruptly, there was a subtle shift in his expression and, as suddenly as he had appeared, he dropped the act. Shrugging, he said, “Busted.”
The unexpected admission caught Mandy off guard. Fear was momentarily replaced by confusion. “What?” Disbelief, as if she didn’t hear him correctly. She bent and picked up her bag, not taking her eyes off him for a second.
Taking another step closer, Whitman nodded apologetically. His tone matter-of-fact, he said, “Yep, I’ve been following you since you left Haydon. I’m going to murder you and bury your dismembered body in the woods.”
Any remaining specks of colour vanished from Mandy’s face. A deep down primal instinct told her that this man was not joking. His features and body language were a relaxed lie, but the intensity in his eyes revealed the complete horrific truth in an instant. She staggered backwards as if struck by a physical force.
Rubbing his hands together, Whitman said, “Okie-dokie. Here we go.” He glanced up to the drizzling purple-grey sky and added, “This rain looks like it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”
Whitman’s blasé attitude both confused and appalled Mandy as she stumbled backwards into the middle of the road. Her mind was surging with conflicting instincts and emotions, momentarily stalling the one most important one; self preservation. It all seemed so surreal; like a scene from some tacky teen slasher film, not real life. Certainly not her life!
Matching her slow pace, Whitman offered her a gentle smile, one that could’ve been mistaken as that of a proud and loving father. His tone was soothing as he said, “I think now’s your cue to run. Screaming.” The sneer that followed his last word was far from gentle; it was predatory and laced with inhuman malice.
Without needing prompting a second time, Mandy thrust her bag in Whitman’s face with all her mustered strength and dashed for the tree line on the opposite side of the road. Her heart-stopping scream would have put Jamie Lee Curtis to shame.
Whitman caught the heavy bag an inch from his face and smiled at the unexpected flash of tenacity. Casting it onto his back with his own pack, he started to jog after her at a more sedate pace. He wiped droplets of rainwater from his face and chu
ckled quietly to himself. He hadn’t quite known how he would feel at this stage, but so far it was quite enjoyable. Like catchy-kissy in the playground …
Mandy tore headlong into the forest, her arms flailing to cast obstructions aside. Branches and low shrubs scratched and clawed at her extremities as she threw herself unbound into the forest. Her throat quickly grew hoarse and her lungs ached from both screaming and flat out sprinting over uneven ground. The beating of her feet on the spongy ground and the lashing of branches against her face and arms seemed to conjure a cold clarity of mind that seemed almost unbelievable. The screaming was prematurely tiring her and the only person in range to hear it was the madman behind her.
She rushed on with only her panting breaths mingling with the snapping of twigs and rustling of leaves and foliage. The pungent smells of moss and damp earth tingled in her nostrils as she struggled to regulate her breathing.
Droplets of rain broke through the canopy here and there, one hitting her cheek as she glanced upwards to the pinprick views of the dark sky. The already damp ground was turning to gluey mud with the worsening rain, sticking to the soles of her boots and making every step ever more laborious.
Daring to peek over her bobbing shoulder, she could not see the man chasing her, but her instincts told her that he was out there somewhere. Questions cart-wheeled through her mind as she forced herself onwards. Was this all really happening? Was the new guy in town really going to kill her and chop her up? It sounded absurd – like some sort of sick practical joke – and yet she knew it to be true. He was going to kill her. But why?
The last question stopped her abruptly in her tracks. Gasping for air and clutching her throbbing chest, she spun around to face the way she had just come. There were a couple of angry scratches on her forehead and left cheek and her hair was hanging limp and dripping from the continuing fine rain. She drew in a gulping breath then screamed at the top of her lungs, “WHY?” After another gulping breath: “Why me, you fucking nutcase?” The first question had been laced with anger, the second with desperation.
Whitman stepped out from behind a tree several yards away to her side. He was breathing hard and red-faced, but was utterly composed. “Why not you?” The question was put simply and with an almost resigned tone.
She shrieked and threw herself away from him, stumbling immediately over several roots that had broken the surface of the wet forest floor. Shaking his head in mild amusement, Whitman walked casually towards her, his own face reddened across one cheek by an unseen branch.
The hard fall scraped both her hands on rough bark and twigs and jarred a knee against a stump, but she was moving again as soon as she struck the ground. Crawling on her hands and knees, Mandy frantically scrambled away from him, crying out in pain and frustration.
The Walther sprung to mind first – he really wanted to have a play with that and its allure was strong. But no, that was not needed. He pulled out the hunting knife as he gradually closed the gap, his footfalls squelching in the mud as the rain continued to drizzle down around them.
She struggled on, shaking and crying, her hands and knees oozing blood that instantly mixed with the dark, gritty mud. Snot and tears dribbled from her face and were lost on the cold wet ground. As he loomed over her, rain spattering his head and shoulders, Mandy spun onto her back, holding her trembling, gory hands up in defence. Seeing the knife, droplets of clear water dripping from the tip of the jagged blade, caused the panic in her face to twist into utter terror. Suddenly the stark reality of it all crashed upon her. “No! God-please-no!” Raindrops struck her face, causing her to blink feverishly and smearing blood and muck down her cheeks in tiny rivulets.
“Sorry, Mandy, God isn’t going to help you.” His tone was morose, matching the sudden and unexpected sadness he felt inside. He couldn’t quite understand this new feeling, but he had to finish what he had started. There would be time later for reflecting. “You’re going to die here, and then after I’ve tasted of your flesh I’m going to chop you up and bury you. Your remains will never be found.” He had no intention of eating part of her body, hell he liked his steak well done for christsake, so the thought of a little raw long-pig almost made him gag. It just sounded like a cool thing to say that would hopefully banish the feeling of sorrow that now marred his earlier feelings of excitement. It was like a bitter aftertaste of a much savoured sweet.
Mandy screamed again, her features contorted with both rage and horror, and then all at once, she launched herself at him, propelling herself up using both elbows and feet with surprising speed. Her voice was hoarse as she spat, “Not if I kill you!”
Whitman was surprised by the counterattack and stumbled backwards with the force, his boots sliding in the mud. Snarling, she scratched and slapped at his face, blood and muck spraying from her clawed hands. He stepped back another couple of feet, before he recovered enough to block her next torrent of desperate blows. Then, as she blundered forward once more, half-blinded by rain and tears and muck and blood, he stabbed her in the stomach, burying the knife all the way to the hilt.
She let out a soft gurgle and her attack abated at once. For a moment she just teetered in front of him, trembling, her arms still raised in readiness for a renewed assault. They were as close as lovers, his wet, mud-daubed face inches from hers. There was no pain in her face, just surprise. Attacker and victim stood staring into each other’s eyes, panting. After the momentary pause, as rain pitter-pattered down over them, she toppled backwards, the knife sliding back out of her soft flesh, as if through water. The tip of the knife snagged on her drenched purple-monster jacket and she hung there, drooping like a sodden rag doll. A trickle of blood appeared in the corner of her mouth as she uttered, faintly, “But … why?”
With the last syllable still adrift, he cast off the two bags with a shrug of his shoulder and then, at once, sprung upon her, straddling her slim wet denim legs as she landed flat-out in the mud. The sneer returned to his quivering lips as he ripped open her jacket and blouse to reveal her bra-less, rounded breasts. The sight of her pert nipples and soft skin caused him to pause. Her skin, being spattered with droplets of rain, looked porcelain in the failing light, with a pure, untouched innocence. Then his gaze fell upon the clean entry wound into her stomach with dark blood oozing out down her side. It reminded him of the unashamed lie of it and that abruptly renewed his fervour.
Lashing out in a sudden and violent frenzy, the knife plunged into her smooth stomach several times as she lay there staring up at him, her mouth moving and forming soundless words. Her gaze shifted beyond the man thrashing on top of her and settled on the canopy above them, fixing on one small pinprick view of the dark sky.
Why me? she asked in a rather detached fashion, as the darkness closed in.
Her abdomen and legs were awash with luridly red blood from multiple stab wounds as he lifted the dripping knife above his head again. A distinctive crack reverberated around the small clearing as the tip of the blade drove into her chest with such force that it caused an involuntary grunt to escape his lips. Lifting it once more, gasping, his face flushed with exertion, he drove it through the swell of her left breast, slicing her petite, pink nipple in two.
My baby. A single tear welled in the corner of one hazel eye as the canopy above her blurred and then disappeared into darkness. The tear slipped down the side of her face and into the hollow of her ear. Her eyes no longer blinked as rainwater splashed into them.
He continued stabbing her for several minutes, the blade making soft squelching noises, with the intermittent crunch of metal on bone. The sustained attack was accompanied by the soft patter of the rain, like a gentle backing track to his furious percussion. The rest of the forest stood silent, watching.
Finally, he fell off her, gasping and sweating and spattered with Mandy’s sticky blood. The knife, held limply in one hand, was dripping with gore and small chunks of skin and flesh. He dropped it in the mud, unable to bear its weight a second longer. His rain-soaked body
lay there for a moment, in the dark gruel mix of mud and blood, panting, with wisps of steam rising from his head and back of his neck.
The teenage girl lay still, her tilted face milky white, in stark contrast to the isolated drops of blood that mingled with the splashing rain. Her entire torso had collapsed inwards with the sheer ferocity and number of wounds, showing a pulverised mass of tissue, oozing shattered organs and pooling blood. Several splintered ribs poked out of the coagulating mass, and the muddy forest floor around her whole body was saturated with crimson.
With considerable effort, Whitman rolled onto his side to face Mandy’s corpse. His gasps gradually receded to heavy breathing as the rain continued to fall around him. Its soft patter was the only accompaniment to his laboured breathing. His stare fixed upon her face for some time, studying her frozen expression. There was a hint of wistful sadness on her colourless lips and in the subtle lines around her dead eyes. The spots of blood on her face had now been completely washed away, giving her almost translucent complexion a freshly washed look. Droplets of rainwater dribbled off the end of her nose and eyelashes as those dead hazel eyes stared back at him.
The slab of meat in front of him had been a life, and he had cut it short. Mandy Foster was now dead, no more, and he was solely responsible. The test was over and the results were in. Passed.