The Face of Midnight

by Dan Padavona

  The Midnight Killer screamed and swung the axe.

  Becca shifted into drive as her window exploded. The tires dug into the ground.

  The side-view mirror punched into the killer’s ribs. He smashed against the door and fell out of view as the car ramped over the tree stump. Metal parts screeched and tore from the bottom of the car.

  We flew through the air for a breathless second before pounding the earth. The car jounced and bucked as I spun my head to look behind.

  Out of control, we missed the driveway and barreled into the side of the house. The car ricocheted backward, the engine dead.

  “Where is he?” she asked

  She frantically checked the mirrors. All I saw were moonlit trees leading down to acres of wilderness.

  Becca turned the key. The sputtering cough of an engine that refused to turn over laughed at us.

  “Shit!”

  She pounded the steering wheel.

  I rolled from the car with a face masked in crimson. Every part of me screamed in pain.

  I coughed and felt a stabbing in my ribs. I spit blood.

  Crawling to her door, I watched Becca stumble out of the vehicle. She cried out and pulled something from her leg. The open switchblade had plunged into her thigh during the collision. The blood spot on her pant leg was dark and expanding.

  I grabbed hold of the trunk and pulled myself up. Becca leaned against the car, gasping and clutching at her thigh.

  “Just go,” she said. “I’ll bleed out before I make it to town.”

  “Bullshit.”

  I moved and winced. It felt as if someone jammed needles into my ribs.

  “Make a run for it. Get to town and bring back help.”

  “I’m not splitting up, so you can forget it.”

  For a moment, I saw two Beccas before the ghost image merged with her real body. My head throbbed, making it hard to gather my thoughts.

  I knew the flashlight was somewhere in the car. I didn’t have the energy to search for it.

  She gingerly held the switchblade, her free hand clutched against her thigh. Red pooled between her fingers.

  The rasp of my breathing and the engine ticking were the only sounds. I looked out across the empty yard and back toward the trees.

  “We hurt him,” I said. “That mirror clipped him pretty hard.”

  “Something like that wouldn’t kill him.”

  “No. But if he’s too hurt to move…”

  I looked back toward the stump. Donna’s body lay torn and mangled in the grass, chest down with her head twisted around and glaring at the stars. A part of me felt remorse, despite Donna hurting Riley and attacking us. I wondered how the newspaper obituary would explain her death.

  “We need to go back inside,” she said.

  Please, not the house.

  “We don’t have a choice,” she said, scanning the shadows. “Neither of us will get far walking, especially in this cold.”

  “But your leg—”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  Her eyes glistened. A dread certainty swam in them.

  “While we stand around out here, he can come at us from any direction,” she said. “We need walls between us and him.”

  “Not exactly.”

  I could see she thought I was suffering from a concussion, and I probably was. But I suddenly knew how to trap and kill The Midnight Killer. If we lured him inside the house, we could burn him alive. The generator held plenty of fuel. I just needed a way to start a fire.

  Casting nervous glances down the hill, she nodded as I explained my plan.

  “Remember the cleaning supplies in the bedroom?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  “I saw a box of matches.”

  “Shit, that’s right. Can you walk?”

  She put weight down on her injured leg and sobbed.

  “Yes.”

  “No, you can’t. Give me your arm.”

  She shot me an angry look.

  “You can’t do everything by yourself. Give me your arm.”

  She sighed and leaned into me. Walking made my ribs feel torn to shreds, but somehow I supported Becca and walked her around the corner of the house. I stopped to catch my breath, one hand on the generator to prop myself up.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “Not really, but we’re almost there.”

  We hobbled together to the back door. Stepping back into the kitchen felt like returning to a spook house. And maybe that old farmhouse really was haunted, from the wind moaning through the eaves to the sprawling dark of the basement. How much death had its walls borne witness to?

  I locked the back door. The window would never stop the killer, but I’d hear him coming when he broke it.

  There wasn’t much I could do about the front door. As Becca slumped down to the floor and nervously rubbed the blood off her hands, I shifted the broken door so it leaned over the opening. Doing so slowed the cold but made the living room a lot darker than I felt comfortable with.

  Blood dripped off Becca’s thigh and splattered against the floorboards. I knew the leg was in bad shape, knew she’d bleed to death if I didn’t find a way to slow the bleeding.

  “I’ll grab the matches,” I said. “Be back in a second.”

  She didn’t reply, just closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall.

  It occurred to me it might be impossible to find the matches without the flashlight. I pushed the bedroom door wide open, but the moonlight trickling from the bathroom into the hallway died long before reaching me.

  I walked into the black with my hands held in front of me. I kicked something and fell forward. The bed.

  From the bed, I edged around the mattress until I touched the wall. The cleaning supplies were in the corner, but I couldn’t see a thing.

  I followed the wall until my shoe scraped over the pile. Bending down, I sifted through the junk—the dry, hardened sponge, the misshapen wax of the candle. Finally, my hand closed over the book of matches.

  God only knew how old the matches were or if they’d still light.

  I stuffed the book into my pocket and followed the faint blue of moonlight back to the hallway.

  “Got ’em,” I said from the top of the landing.

  It was silent and dark below.

  “Becca?”

  No reply.

  I grasped the banister and stopped. What if the Midnight Killer was downstairs?

  “Steve…”

  Her voice was weak and gravely. It made me think of sandpaper against plaster. I still couldn’t see her.

  I rushed too quickly down the stairs and nearly broke my neck falling down the last few steps. My ribs knifed hot agony through my body.

  Kneeling beside her, I watched Becca’s eyes roll back in her head as the lids fluttered open and shut. Her mouth hung open. Moans wheezed out. The pant leg was completely soaked through with blood, the fold of denim under her thigh dripping like a squeezed sponge. I worried Becca was already in shock.

  I looked toward the kitchen door. All I saw was dark beyond the window.

  I was losing her.

  “Sorry, Becca. I don’t have a choice.”

  I pried off her sneakers and yanked on the cuffs of her jeans. She cried when the denim shifted across her wound.

  “I’m sorry…I’m sorry.”

  I gave another tug. The waistband slid down to her knees.

  The gaping wound was exposed now, a black, festering hole. After tearing off my sweatshirts, I removed my t-shirt and tied it around her thigh. She cried out again, her eyes tormented as tears dropped down her cheeks.

  Becca watched me as I knotted the shirt over the wound. I figured the improvised tourniquet might stop the bleeding for a while, but knew the wound would tear open if she moved too fast. She winced and helped me slide the jeans back over her thighs. I shivered as I pulled the sweatshirts over my head.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “It’s the best I ca
n do for now. Try not to move too fast. And keep your eyes open. I don’t want you falling asleep.”

  She straightened her leg and grimaced.

  “Did you find them?”

  I’d forgotten about the matches. I touched my pocket and felt them inside.

  “Yes.”

  “Then get on with it.”

  The yard was empty and the hillside a frozen quiet. I looked down to where we’d struck The Midnight Killer and saw jagged shadows spilling off a clump of trees. Whether or not he was down there, I couldn’t see.

  Although the wiring was severed, the generator itself was untouched. I felt around until my fingers found the gas cap.

  The volatile liquid sloshed inside as I shoved the generator. Without a siphon, I had no way to get at the fuel. My only option was to overturn the generator and dump the gasoline, but it would be easy to smell the trap.

  “Wait until he comes inside and trap him.”

  I jumped out of my skin at Becca’s voice. I hadn’t seen her leaning in the doorway, the moonlight turning her pallor an unearthly gray.

  “What are you doing up? You’ll start bleeding again.”

  “I’m already bleeding.”

  The splotch of black on her pant leg glistened with fresh blood.

  I dug into my pocket and felt panic rising.

  “Becca, where are the car keys?”

  “Still in the ignition.”

  I looked toward the corner of the house. The moon had circled around to the other side. It was too dark to see where the car had struck the wall. The hairs rose on the back of my neck.

  “I better get them.”

  Becca’s eyes held a grim determination to trap The Midnight Killer, no matter how foolhardy the plan.

  “Give me the matches,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Don’t question me, Steve. Maybe I don’t want to sit in the pitch black wondering where he is.”

  “Okay then,” I said, handing her the matches. “I’ll be back in a second. Keep them safe.”

  “I’m not gonna be much help with this plan, Steve,” she said, her eyes sunken and defeated. It was clear she’d accepted her fate. The running was over. “You’ll have to use me as bait.”

  Blood dripped, dripped, dripped on the kitchen floor.

  “Like hell, I will.”

  “I can barely stand. Do you expect me to overturn the generator? I can’t outrun him if the plan fails.”

  “Screw the keys. The car probably won’t start, anyway. Stand back.”

  Angry, I dumped the generator on its side. Gas turned the threshold dark and glittering. The fumes made me woozy, and I had to plug my nose as I hauled the generator back to a standing position.

  “I’m not using you as bait, and I’m not giving up on you. Listen, I can still run. If I’m the bait, I have a chance of escaping the fire. You don’t.”

  She glanced down at her leg.

  “I don’t think it matters anymore.”

  “It fucking matters to me.”

  Spitting curses, I grabbed hold of the generator and dragged it to the corner of the house.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To douse the front entryway. I have to booby trap both exits.”

  I knew Becca was right—she’d already lost too much blood—but I refused to give up on her.

  My ribs protested as I hauled the generator into the darkness. I passed the Subaru and gave one more look down the hill.

  Still no sign of the maniac.

  Maybe we’d killed him.

  No. Life and death were never so accommodating.

  It almost killed me to drag the generator up the porch steps. Once in the front entryway, I pushed the machine on its side. Gas, sharp and pungent, sloshed over the floorboards. Considering the broken door, I wrestled it out of its frame and doused it. Then I shoved it back into position.

  The house was dusty and dry, a torch waiting for ignition.

  I was halfway to the back door when I knew something was wrong. I stopped along the side of the house, breaths billowing fog as my teeth chattered. I stared at the doorway, a dark maw open to the night.

  “Becca?”

  Silence.

  I limped faster now, one arm on the wall for support, frantic to get back to her. It was muscle memory and desperation that pulled me to the kitchen doorway.

  I wondered why I hadn’t heard her scream.

  You knew all along what waited outside the door, didn’t you, Becca? You wanted this.

  I saw her drooped against the living room wall.

  And I saw him.

  The axe dangled off his arm, the blade tip bloody and matted with hair. His back was to me, yet I think he knew I was there.

  And didn’t care.

  I was no threat to him.

  He took his time, a cat toying with a mouse.

  There was a moment when I wondered why the switchblade wasn’t in Becca’s hand. Didn’t she mean to defend herself?

  I saw the match spark between Becca’s fingers before I could react.

  “Becca, no!”

  She threw it to the floor.

  Orange flame erupted off the floorboards, caught the door, and roared up the wall.

  Now the switchblade was in her hands. The knife gleamed as she leaped at the killer and plunged the blade into his arm.

  He batted her aside as though she were a fly.

  I smashed the back window as Becca crumpled to the floor. The Midnight Killer raised the axe over his head.

  I jabbed a broken shard into the killer’s back.

  He wheeled around, the axe handle clipping me in the head.

  As I fell into the kitchen the fire caught the living room ceiling and started to spread up the staircase.

  The wall of heat hit me at the threshold, the smoke already driving me backward.

  The Midnight Killer extended his hands in front of his face, warding off the fire, as he disappeared around the corner. He was somewhere near the fireplace, trapped by the inferno in the doorway and the dragon’s breath of smoke streaking toward the kitchen.

  I couldn’t see the living room anymore. It was too black, too choked with smoke.

  “Becca! Where are you?”

  Limping toward the living room, I buried my mouth in my shirtsleeve. Orange hellfire flickered and flashed inside the smoke as it swelled. I was almost to the threshold when a dark shape, coughing and gasping, shot out of the haze and struck me in the chest.

  My ribs buckled. I yelled out, stumbling back through the kitchen and out into the yard.

  I looked up and saw Becca’s shadow amid the smoke.

  Becca’s shadow and The Midnight Killer lurching behind her with the axe raised over his head.

  “Get out of there!” I screamed.

  Another match flared.

  Where the threshold had been became a wall of fire. She’d cut off all exits.

  “What are you doing?”

  I rushed into the flame, and the heat threw me back. Flame licked along the sleeves of my sweatshirt. I dropped into the grass, smothering the fire as something exploded inside the house.

  A louder explosion echoed from the front. The generator.

  I shrieked for Becca. The kitchen blazed and coughed out smoke.

  Glass shattered as I stumbled along the house, desperate to find a way inside. Heat radiated off the walls. The fire spread with demonic momentum, as though the house itself fed its own demise.

  With smoke snaking around the house, I didn’t see the car until my shoulder struck the trunk.

  I fought my way through the haze, barely able to breathe.

  From the front of the house, the interior appeared pumpkin-orange. Smoke poured down the porch and seeped out through the boarded second-story window. I couldn’t see the shattered picture frame window. Glass fragments in the lawn reflected the fire.

  I limped up the steps, and the smoke and heat turned me back again. The fire had begun to catch the outer walls. The
inferno would be visible from several miles away.

  “Becca!”

  I made one last attempt for the door when The Midnight Killer lurched through the opening. His clothes were ablaze. Blood bubbled out of three holes in his chest. Whatever had become of Becca, she’d badly hurt him with her switchblade.

  The axe sliced blindly through the air. His mask was burned and melting. Pieces of rubber smoldered against his charred face.

  He’d murdered my best friend, killed Becca, and destroyed the lives of so many families in the last year.

  I forgot how afraid I was. As he lurched down the staircase, I screamed and sprang at him.

  Sparks rained down around us as I grasped his stabbed arm and dug my thumb into the knife wound. Blood welled out of the hole and ran warmly down my fingers. He shrieked. I think that was the first time I knew he was human and not some devil who’d crawled up from hell.

  I dug the thumb deeper. He bashed a fist on the back of my neck. I felt my grip failing and made a desperate move, purely instinct.

  I bit down on his forearm, sinking my teeth in like an attack dog.

  I was aware of the gore-matted axe inches from my face, but he couldn’t swing it. Not with my jaw latched onto his arm. I was an animal fighting for survival.

  I felt muscle rippling between my teeth, knew he would grab my neck and snap it in two if I let go.

  Flesh tore away in my teeth as he threw me off. Hot blood trickled down my chin.

  The Midnight Killer staggered onto the lawn. I leaped at him, jamming my forefinger through one of the mask’s eye holes. My nail tore something wet and squishy. He screamed and dropped the axe, the blade clanging against the step.

  Enraged, he lumbered toward me as I bent for the weapon.

  I swung the axe and buried the blade into his chest. Blood splashed my face.

  I ripped the weapon free and swung high. The axe dug into his neck.

  The Midnight Killer collapsed in the grass and lay twitching, blood pouring from his mouth and ruined eye.

  A blast of hot air hit me when part of the front wall broke off and set the porch ablaze.

  Banshees screamed out of the Halloween night, rising and falling near Barton Falls. I was only vaguely aware the screams were sirens.

  The axe raised up and fell again as though it moved on its own. The blade chopped a canyon into the killer’s shoulder.

  The twitching stopped. I backed away, unsure if he was breathing.