The Witness: A Slasher Horror Novel

by Zach Bohannon

  I heard the sound of wood on linoleum and looked down to see the blind child gripping the handle of the bat as it scraped across the floor. He crept to his feet and stood still for a moment, focusing to balance himself.

  Smiling, he began to move toward the mumbled groans.

  “Shut up, Michael,” I pleaded. “Quit making noise so he can’t find you!”

  But he couldn’t stop. The pain must have just been too much to bare. Maybe he wanted the boy to find him, or perhaps he’d been drugged by the men and become incoherent. I had no idea what they’d done to him up until this point.

  I watched the boy move closer and swing the bat frantically into the air.

  The first swing hit nothing but air. The boy spun once and then fell to the ground. Once he stood, he listened again for Michael’s moaning, using the sound to work himself back into the right direction.

  This time, he waited to swing until Michael’s groaning was closer.

  He swung again.

  My heart jumped as he hit the piñata which hung to Michael’s right. It was at the perfect height for the small boy and, when he hit the piñata, I heard sharp rattling coming from the inside of it. I tried to focus my ears on it, but it was nearly impossible to make out what was inside simply from the sound. He swung again and connected a kill shot, sending the piñata flying to the ground along with its filling.

  A collection of small objects scattered across the floor and I had to squint my eyes to see what they were.

  They were human teeth.

  I screamed, and the blind kid turned my way for just a moment, before he found a tight grip on the bat and searched again for Michael’s moans.

  The boy swung again, coming only a foot or so from hitting Michael in his right thigh. I tried to shield myself from the horror, closing my eyes, and let the tears creep under my eyelids.

  Then I heard it.

  A laugh followed by a slap and a scream.

  I opened my eyes and, for the first time since I’d been placed in the room, Michael looked awake and conscious. He opened his right eye, showing me it was much more bloodshot than I’d originally thought. His other pupil just barely showed through the swollen skin that puffed out from his face. He was panting to find a breath, the wind knocked out of him by the blow of the bat.

  The boy let out another long laugh, jumped a few times, and then swung the bat again, hitting Michael inches above his belly button. I heard at least one rib crack and had to turn away. Michael fought to break loose from the ropes but it was no use. I have to think that what Michael likely wanted most was to be able to move his hands to his broken ribs to at least try and bring himself some comfort.

  Then, the boy gave Michael five more blows in succession, four of which connected around his navel, battering the already broken rib and probably at least fracturing another. One of the swings caught Michael in the middle of his thigh, and both his legs nearly gave out.

  Michael’s screams fought for airspace with the young boy’s escalating laughter, creating a song that I still play in my head over and over again.

  “Please, stop,” Michael pleaded. “Please.”

  The boy quit laughing. He stood there searching for Michael’s pleas, his eyes looking just past the sunken head of my beaten friend.

  My eyes were taken by a noise.

  Above Michael’s head, a metal hook that held the restraints had begun to lower him down. Tears welled down his face.

  “Oh, God. Thank you.”

  After having been hanging up for at least an hour, possibly more for all I knew, and being forced to stand on his toes and the balls of his feet, Michael collapsed to his knees as the ropes allowed it. I watched him look into the boy’s eyes, thanking him for letting him down. It seemed too easy, and I knew this had to be too good to be true, but I think that Michael was so far gone at that point, that he never saw what was coming next.

  Michael screamed again as the bat connected with his chest. He struggled to his feet and begged for the boy to stop. Michael pulled the ropes tight above his head so that he could use them to help himself stand. He’d been thrown from the back of the truck, and then beaten to a pulp, so he hardly had enough energy to hold his own weight up, though some shots of adrenaline must have kicked in. He was able to evade the boy’s next swing by stepping back, watching through one eye as the boy spun almost two full times and hit the ground, throwing the bat against the wall to his left as he began to cry.

  Heavy footsteps started from a room in the back of the shop, behind Michael. I looked up and saw a man coming. He wore a hood which cast a shadow over his face. Resting against the side of his right leg, he carried a sledgehammer. Before Michael had a chance to turn back and face him, the man had raised the hammer over his right shoulder and brought it down into the back of Michael’s right knee. The sound of Michael’s knee being crushed overtook his howl.

  Michael fell and blood came out of his mouth as he coughed, his internal injuries from the crushing swings of the bat quickly catching up to him.

  Never looking over to acknowledge my presence, the man walked over near the wall and grabbed the bat. He shook the boy, trying to calm him as he picked him up and placed the bat back in his hands. Upon feeling the splintered, crimson-soaked slugger in his hands, the boy perked up.

  The man with the hammer walked the boy over to a writhing Michael, who tried to get up on his good leg, but couldn’t. The hooded man lined the boy up level with Michael’s face.

  “Please, stop,” I said, ignored by both the man and the boy.

  The shape in the hood patted the boy on the back and stood behind Michael. Reaching out with a hand stained black with blood, he grabbed on to a large wad of Michael’s hair and held his head up square with the bat.

  The boy let out the rapid, demonic laugh I had become ever-so-familiar with.

  He swung.

  Michael and I screamed in unison. But our duet became a solo as the cracking of Michael’s skull echoed through the room.

  10

  For a few moments, all I could do was stare at him. The split in Michael’s forehead stretched from nearly temple to temple. Blood poured out of the wound in large waves, pooling on the ground in front of him. His arms were still suspended, leaving him hanging there like a cow at the slaughter. As the boy jumped up and down, laughing, the man in the hood let go of Michael’s hair, and his head slumped over, dangling motionless over the puddle of blood.

  No longer able to look at him, I closed my eyes. It didn’t really help, as I replayed the final skull crushing blow in my head over and over again.

  When I opened my eyes again, the hooded figure was gone.

  The door behind me creaked open and I heard familiar, heavy footsteps on the floor.

  Don walked past me, over to the boy. He looked down at Michael and put his hands on his hips.

  “Damn, son. Lookin’ like you hit a home run.”

  He patted the boy on the back and then turned to me.

  The smile on his face sickened me. I turned away as he walked toward me, the heels of his boots clicking on the floor. He put his arms out to his sides, palms out.

  “What’s the matter? You didn’t enjoy the show?”

  “Fuck you.”

  His arms fell and he laughed. “To be honest, you’re not much my type.”

  I heard more footsteps behind me and felt a slight push on the wheelchair.

  Don put his finger to his mouth and tapped his lips. “Now, Beau here, I bet he’d fuck ya. He loves ‘em nice and small. Don’t ya, Beau?”

  Beau was standing behind me, and I could hear him pant like a spoiled puppy with excitement. “Oh, yeah, boss. I’d fuck ‘er for sure, yeah.” This was only the second time he’d spoken, and he sounded like he was mentally challenged. I cringed at the thought of the fat, retarded fuck touching me or, God forbid, sticking anything inside of me. He ran his hands through my hair and I quaked so intensely that I almost tipped the wheelchair over onto its side.

&nb
sp; Shaking his head, Don said, “Not now, Beau. She still has a lot to see tonight.”

  I heard Beau let out a sigh which signaled disappointment, and he gripped the handles behind the chair. I took one final look at Michael, before Beau turned me around and rolled me out the door, back into the street.

  ***

  The door to the ice cream shop closed behind us as Beau rolled me across the street.

  “Please, let me and my friends go,” I pleaded. “We didn’t do anything to you.”

  They ignored me. The only response I got was Beau’s heavy breathing, much too close to my ears again. Close enough to feel the warmth of it and smell the rotten stench it permeated into the air.

  I looked ahead and saw the next building they were taking me to. Outside, though faded, its red, white, and blue colors almost completely rotted out from age and rust, the barber’s pole was unmistakable. The front windows were covered in dust, and the apron across the top of the door looked as if it could fall down at any moment. Don stepped in front of us and opened the door.

  “Ready for your next show? After you, ma’am.”

  ***

  Like the ice cream parlor, the room was completely dark when we entered the barber shop. As soon as we entered, I heard the struggling cries of a person. And, from the higher pitch of them, I instantly knew it was Allie. Soon after, the lights came on and confirmed my guess.

  Allie sat before me, bound to a vintage-style barber’s chair. Uncharacteristic to the rest of the town, it was clean; the red leather seat looked polished and the twin white stripes going down the middle of the cushions, which I could see between Allie’s legs, were clean. Her teeth clenched a bandana tied taut around her head, and blood had dried on her face from the wound she’d sustained in smashing her head on the window when Don had abruptly stopped the truck.

  When she saw me, she began to hyperventilate. Looking back, when I think of her face, I realize she may have thought from the wheelchair that the men had crippled me.

  “Allie.”

  It was the only thing I could say. After witnessing what had happened to Michael, I wasn’t going to lie to her or try to comfort her, pretend everything was going to be okay. Because it wasn’t. Nothing would ever be okay. This night had changed me forever and it wasn’t even halfway over.

  Beau used his foot to lock the wheels of the chair, and I heard both him and Don retreat from the building, shutting the door behind them.

  Past Allie, a door opened and a woman stepped out. She was young, not much older than Allie and I, wearing a worn-out, dated sun dress that did nothing to help her gangly figure. Across her right cheek, she had a large scar that looked like someone had slashed her with a knife.

  The girl whistled a cheerful tune as she walked over to a chair, which sat in what would have been the waiting area if the barber shop was still in business, and grabbed the apron hanging over the back of it. She put it over her head and tied the strings behind her back. The front of the apron said “Watch Out or I’ll Cut You” on it, but instead of using the word “Cut”, it showed a graphic of a pair of scissors. On any other day, I might have laughed at the cheesiness of it. But, on this night, I didn’t appreciate the sarcasm. She bounced over to Allie and straddled her lap, facing her.

  “Hold still, darlin’,” she said as she pulled a pair of scissors from the pocket of the apron. Allie began to squirm.

  The girl brought up her left hand and slapped Allie across the blood on her right cheek. Allie replaced her squirming with heavy, nervous breathing.

  “Bitch, if you don’t want me to fuckin’ cut you, then fuckin’ hold still.”

  Allie did as she was told. The girl brought the scissors to Allie’s face, opening them and closing them as Allie groaned through the bandana. She slipped the bottom blade under the bandana and began to cut it away. As she got to the last snip, I heard Allie yelp and saw the blood begin to drip down her left cheek.

  “Oops,” the woman said. She wiped the blood off her scissors, onto her apron.

  “So,” she began, “What’s your name?” She spoke almost like a stuck-up, high school cheerleader. Her voice had a pompous annoyance to it.

  “Why are you doing this?” Allie asked.

  The girl balled her fist and punched Allie across her left cheek, connecting with the cut she’d made with the scissors as Allie’s head turned and she sprayed a red mist into the air.

  “You don’t answer a fuckin’ question with a fuckin’ question, you cunt. Now, what’s your name?”

  Still spitting blood, Allie recited her name.

  The girl took the back of her hand and rubbed Allie’s unscathed cheek. “Allie? That’s a sweet name. Well, Allie. I’m Misty. Can you say, ‘Hi, Misty’?”

  Allie played along, not wanting to get punched again. “Hi, Misty.”

  Misty nodded my way, but kept her eyes focused on Allie. “And what’s that pretty thing’s name?”

  “Becky.”

  The girl snickered. “Becky? That’s a sour ass cunt name, if you ask me.” She began to run her hands through Allie’s hair. “Your hair is pretty.”

  I could see Allie quiver as the girl touched her.

  “Bitch, I said your hair is pretty,” the girl yelled, startling both Allie and I.

  “Thank you,” Allie mumbled.

  Then, Allie looked at me and asked the one word question that I didn’t have the energy to answer.

  “Michael?”

  My heart stopped. And before I could answer, the girl spoke.

  “Ya know,” she began, squinting her eyes. “You could use a little bit of a trim, though. What do you think?”

  Allie just stared back at the girl, shaking her head furiously from side to side.

  Misty smiled. “Alright. Let’s get to work then.”

  11

  When I saw the scissors hit the ground, I never thought I’d witness what I was about to see.

  “Oops,” Misty said. Her tone was sarcastic and she was smiling at Allie. She still sat on Allie’s lap, straddling her knees.

  Allie began to grimace as the girl reached down for the scissors, shifting her weight above Allie awkwardly. The girl didn’t seem to care. She just kept leaning and reaching for them.

  Once the scissors were in her hands again, she sat back up and Allie sighed. The weight of the woman on her wasn’t pleasant, but at least it was evenly distributed again instead of all the pressure being on a single leg. The girl looked at the scissors, pointing them within inches of Allie’s left eye. She glanced over at me and saw that I was sweating. Saw the fear in my eyes. The anticipation of the moment birthing had my nerves on edge, and I was terrified.

  “I don’t think we need these,” the girl said. She slipped the scissors back into the pocket of her apron and gave it two gentle pats.

  Misty began to run her hands through Allie’s hair. Softly, her fingers parted Allie’s blonde locks and she mumbled words to her that I wasn’t able to make out.

  My eyes happened to be staring at Misty’s right hand when she balled her fist, and I heard Allie scream as the girl began to pull on a large wad of her hair.

  The girl’s laughs sang with Allie’s screams as she pulled harder. Each time she tugged, Allie’s head cocked to her shoulder, and it became more challenging for Misty to pull away, as the head followed the path of movement. To give herself leverage, Misty took her free hand and placed her palm over Allie’s face, pushing her head back to where it hung over the top of the chair. With Allie’s head still, Misty was able to pull the hair until it was completely stretched. Allie screamed through the woman’s unwashed, filthy hand, pressed over her mouth.

  Misty howled as I watched her push down harder on Allie’s face, creating more leverage, and working to separate the wad of hair from Allie’s scalp.

  Allie screamed, and at this point, I’m not really sure how I hadn’t run out of tears from hearing her in such God awful pain.

  Misty removed her left hand from Allie’s face and
reached into the pocket of her apron as she continued to pull at Allie’s hair. She pulled out a knife and I could see the frustration of not being able to separate the hair from Allie’s scalp by hand begin to leave her face. The chair had turned to where Misty’s back was now facing me, totally eclipsing my view of Allie.

  But I could still hear the screams. Allie was howling now, and I could hear the metal chair creak uncontrollably as Misty was rocking back and forth, almost as if she were riding a mechanical bull. I could see her right arm moving back and forth in a sawing motion as Allie yelled out “Stop it” and “No” between wrenching cries.

  Misty jumped off of Allie’s lap, who had blood running down into her open mouth as she continued to yell. Misty laughed, running around the middle of the room with the clump of Allie’s hair held up like a trophy. The long, blonde locks were still connected to the scalp that had been carved away from Allie’s skull. In the spot where the skin had been, there was now just a wet red patch that glistened in the bits of light inside the room.

  Then, Misty threw the cluster of hair down and jumped back into Allie’s lap.

  She did it the same way, pushing Allie’s head over the top of the chair, only this time, I was able to see, as the chair had shifted to where I could see Allie’s profile. Misty was digging her knees into Allie’s stomach, as she was over the top of Allie’s face, pushing her head down and carving out another flap of scalp.

  When she was finished cutting out the second patch, Misty hopped off of Allie and began to run around the room in circles again, laughing more hysterically than before. She picked the first wad up off of the floor and pumped her fists into the air, each hand grasping the split ends of blonde hair. Allie’s head slumped over now, her chin touching her chest, and her shoulders shook up and down from the force of her crying. I could see the two patches of wet scalp now. I don’t know how she hadn’t passed out from the pain or the shock at this point. Maybe they had given her something that wouldn’t let her. I don’t know.