by Jon Athan
Michael stuttered, “S–Shit. Pl–Please, don't... don't hurt me.”
Disregarding the pleas, the masked person struck Michael's right knee with all of his might. The nails penetrated his jeans and skin. The nails even scraped his bone. Michael howled as the insufferable pain surged through his body. He whimpered as he stared down at his blood-soaked jeans—the rusty nails were jammed in his leg.
Michael staggered down to his one good knee, crippled by the blow. The masked killer placed his boot on Michael's left ankle, then he tugged on the bat. He ignored his victim's bloodcurdling screams and indecipherable stammering. He was only concerned with retrieving his baseball bat.
He tightly gripped the handle, then he pulled back on the bat with all of his weight and force. Squelching and shredding sounds emerged over the crying as the nails ripped through his kneecap. The killer swung the bat down away from Michael, causing blood to splatter on the chalk line.
As he crawled away, eyes full of tears and mouth overflowing with saliva, Michael pleaded, “Don't do this! Please, don't hurt me! I'm sorry! I'll leave! Please, I'll leave!” His eyes widened as the killer approached him. As he stood on one foot and hopped away, Michael cried, “No, no, no! Please!”
Michael yelped as the killer struck his other leg with the bat. He missed his knee, though. Instead, he struck his shin. The nails still penetrated his pants and skin, though. The sheer force caused his entire leg to wobble, too. His tibia cracked with the pressure. The baseball player collapsed, landing face-first on home plate. With both of his legs mangled, he was effectively paralyzed by the attacker.
Michael rolled onto his back and held his arm up, as if he were blocking the light on a sunny day. He watched in fear as the killer towered over him. He couldn't see much due to his subtle clothing, but he could see his sharp, zany blue eyes. He saw sorrow, anger, and evil in his eyes—pure, unadulterated evil.
His voice cracking as if he were still going through puberty, Michael said, “Please, don't do this, man. I'm... I'm just a kid. I'm barely eighteen. I'll give you anything. You... You... You can take my car! Take it! I won't call the police, I won't tell anyone. Please, I'm begging you. I don't want to die. I don't–”
Mid-sentence, the masked person struck down at Michael's face with the spiked bat. Michael was silenced with the attack—stunned. A nail penetrated his left eye, which turned his eye red with blood. Tears of blood welled in his eyes, painting his eyelids red. Another nail penetrated his broken nose, piercing both of his nostrils and his nasal septum. Blood leaked from his nose and streamed down to his lips and chin. Three rusty nails were jammed into his cheek. The left side of his face was drenched in blood.
The killer placed his boot on Michael's chest, then he tugged on the bat. A squishy sound emerged as he shook the bat, trying to loosen it from the teenager's flesh. He rubbed his hands together, as if he were preparing to lift something heavy. He was playing with his victim—teasing him. He grabbed the bat with both hands, then, with one mighty yank, the killer pulled the bat and the nails out of his face.
He stared down at his victim's mutilated face as Michael twitched and squirmed. He was hurt, but he wasn't dead.
The masked killer held the bat over his head, then he swung down at Michael's face. He repeatedly hit the young man. Blood and bits of his flesh splattered on the field with each hit. One, two, three... ten blows—he stopped after the tenth strike, his heavy breaths escaping from under his mask. He leaned closer to his victim's mutilated face, recording every grisly detail.
Michael's head was caved in at the forehead. His cracked skull could be seen through the deep gashes left by the long, rusty nails—more holes than a block of Swiss cheese. His hair was soaked in blood. The rest of his face fared no better. Every inch of his face was covered in blood and riddled with lacerations. His right eye was closed while his other mutilated eyeball bulged out of his eye socket due to the sheer force of each hit. The eyeball dangled over his cheek.
The masked killer reached into Michael's pockets, searching for any valuables. He stole his cell phone and wallet. Satisfied with the murder, he stopped the recording and casually departed from the crime scene—leaving Michael's dead body on home plate.
Chapter Twelve
Live on Facebook
Charlene awoke to a jarring tune—an obnoxious, over-produced pop song disguised as a rap song. The song blared from her cell phone as the device vibrated across her nightstand. She grunted and whimpered, upset by the sudden awakening. The warm morning sunshine spilled into her room and caressed her body, but she didn't find any comfort in her home.
At heart, she despised the ringtone and the caller. She was plucked from a tender dream and dropped into a hellish nightmare.
As she sat up in bed, Charlene muttered, “Damn it. Who's calling at six in the morning?” She frowned as she stared at the name on her phone—Britney. Charlene answered, “Hey, Britney. What's going on?”
Britney asked, “Have you been on Facebook yet? Instagram? Twitter? Anything?”
“I just woke up. What is this about, Brit? You're scaring me...”
“Go to Facebook, Twitter... anywhere, and search: #ForCasey.”
Charlene stuttered, “Ca–Casey....”
“C-a-s-e-y,” Britney spelled the name. She said, “Search it. Someone live-streamed Melanie's murder and uploaded it online. It's going viral.”
Charlene held her hand over her forehead, disoriented. She tightly closed her eyes and shook her head, struggling to keep her composure. The news struck her like a bus plowing over a stray animal. The name—Casey—stabbed at her brain.
She said, “Wait, wait, wait. Are you... Are you saying Melanie is dead? Melanie Myers?”
“Search it, Charlene. See for yourself.”
“O–Okay... I'll call you back in a minute.”
Charlene disconnected from the call. She grabbed her laptop from her nightstand and went to Facebook. She didn't have to search the term. Under the trending column, one of the trends read: #ForCasey. She took a deep breath, mentally preparing herself for the inevitable carnage, then she clicked on the trend.
From a quick glance, she could see the video was spreading like wildfire—social media users loved the macabre, although they would argue otherwise.
In each post, she could see Melanie on the thumbnail of the video players. A few users spoke cautiously about the video, warning others about the graphic content. Other users made crude comments about the video, claiming it was fake and joking about the content. A few paranoid users claimed the video was a 'distraction.'
Some small and fake news websites claimed it was a recording of a Facebook live-stream. The source didn't matter at the moment, though. The potential content bothered her the most.
Charlene pressed play on a video player and the video started.
The edited video depicted a person lurking outside of Melanie's home at night. The cameraman hid in the shadows next to the house, standing in plain sight. He even recorded the police cruiser parked in front of the house—the police failed to spot him. The cameraman turned his attention to Melanie, recording her through her bedroom window. His breathing could be heard over the blowing wind and rustling leaves. His husky breathing was eerie.
The video jump-cut to the cameraman using a lock-pick set to open the back door. He used both hands to use the pick and the rake, so Charlene assumed the camera was strapped onto his head. Upon unlocking the door, he quietly entered the home. He closed the door behind him, then he recorded the hallway. He peeked into the living room and found Melanie's mother still sitting on the sofa.
The video jump-cut again. The cameraman appeared to be standing still in the kitchen, hidden in the shadows. He had the perfect view of the living room through the archway to his left. He could see the hallway through the archway directly ahead, too. He moved his head to record the home, but he didn't move from his position.
As she watched the video, Charlene whispered, “What are you doing? W
hat are you planning? Who–”
Her eyes widened with fear as she appeared in the footage. In the video, she followed Adam into the house. She saw herself glance into the kitchen, unaware of the other intruder's presence. Their figures were veiled by the darkness, no one else could identify the couple, but she was sure it was them. From his vantage point, the killer heard the couple enter Melanie's room—the faint sound of a struggle in a closed room.
Charlene leaned back on the bed and whispered, “That's why the door was unlocked... He was there before us. Oh, God, we let this happen...”
The video cut to the intruder standing in front of Melanie's door. He grabbed the door knob, then he barged into the room—completely disregarding the racket he caused. Melanie shrieked and crawled across the bed, terrified. The killer pulled a knife out of his pocket as he ran into the room.
Panting as she watched the tense video, Charlene whispered, “No, no, no. Please... I'm so sorry, Melanie.”
Melanie stopped screaming. She gasped as the knife penetrated her stomach. Without hesitation, the cameraman pulled the knife out, then he stabbed her again and again. The blade sliced into her stomach and cut into her belly button—such a sensitive area. Gasping for air, Melanie kicked the killer's chest, which caused him to stumble back.
Melanie seized the opportunity and lurched out of the room. The cameraman followed closely behind. He crashed into the wall as he ran into the hallway. He chuckled upon spotting the shocked expression on the young woman's face.
Holding her hands over her stomach, Melanie shouted, “Mom! Mom, no!”
The cameraman turned his head and glanced into the living room. The footage depicted Melanie's mother.
The woman leaned back in her seat. A red tie was tightly wrapped around her neck. Her wrists were slit vertically. A brown bottle of beer was shoved into her mouth. The mouth of the bottle reached into her throat and her teeth scraped the body of the bottle. Blood dribbled down her chin. The crumbs of crushed sleeping pills sat on her lips, too. She was clearly forced to swallow a handful of sleeping pills before the beer bottle was shoved down her throat. She was viciously murdered.
Weeping uncontrollably, Melanie ran through the front door. As she ran onto the porch, the killer stabbed the small of her back. Melanie shrieked and stumbled down the porch steps. Yet, she continued to move forward. The resilient teenager lurched across the walkway and pushed herself through the gate.
As she landed on the police cruiser, Melanie shouted, “Help! Help me! He's here! He's–”
Watching the footage, Charlene asked, “What are you doing? Why aren't they helping you?”
As the killer reached the car, Charlene found the reason. The cop in the car was dead. His throat was slit from ear-to-ear. Blood cascaded down his neck and poured over his chest.
The cameraman grabbed a fistful of Melanie's hair, then he smashed her face through the passenger seat window. He pulled her head back, then he slammed her face on the side-view mirror. The mirror broke off of the car. Shards of glass were trapped in the grisly gashes on her face. Her torture was not over, though.
The killer continued slamming her face on the car door. A dull clanging sound echoed through the street with each hit. Blood streamed across the white door and plopped on the street. The masked person stopped after the fifteenth hit. He still held a fistful of Melanie's hair, but the woman did not move. Melanie died during the attack—and the killer didn't notice until after the fact.
The masked person leaned closer to Melanie's face, making sure he recorded every gruesome detail. Her nose was crushed into her head, practically wiped off of her face. Her eyes were swollen shut. Bumps formed across her face, too. She had a large gash on her brow and several cuts across her cheeks. Due to the blood, bumps, and cuts, she was unidentifiable.
The killer glanced up upon hearing men and women screaming—Melanie's neighbors were shouting at them. The teenager's body fell onto the floor as the killer ran off, breathing heavily as he sprinted down the sidewalk. The video abruptly ended.
Eyes welling with tears, Charlene held her hand over her gaping mouth as she stared at the screen. She was rendered speechless by the senseless violence and tormented by her guilt. A second, a minute—she needed time to recompose herself.
***
Charlene wiped the tears from her rosy cheeks as she wheezed and groaned. She took several deep breaths, trying her best to calm her jitters. Although her peers happily spread the video, she was unnerved by the graphic violence. She wasn't desensitized like most of society. She opened Skype on her laptop and called Adam.
As she waited, Charlene whispered, “Come on, Adam. Your phone is out of service, but that doesn't mean your computer doesn't work. Come on, answer the call.”
The call connected. Adam lay in bed in a dark room, shirtless with his hair tousled. He looked as if he had just woken up. Judging from the sly smirk on his face, Charlene assumed he didn't know about Melanie's demise—or perhaps he enjoyed the video.
Adam said, “Good morning, babe. I didn't expect you to–”
“Invite Michael and Stephen to the chat,” Charlene interrupted. “I'll call Britney and Dominique.”
Adam sat up in bed and asked, “What is this about?”
“We have to talk about something. Call them. Now.”
Adam could see the determination and fear in his girlfriend's eyes—a contradicting blend of courage and cowardice. Although she tried to hide it, he could also see the tears in her puffy eyes. He nodded in agreement, then he called Stephen.
Britney joined the chat. She asked, “Charlene, did you see it?”
“See what?” Adam asked.
Charlene responded, “We'll get to that in a minute. Just call them.”
“I did. Michael's not answering, though. He's probably asleep or he's still pissed about last night.”
“Yeah, Dominique's not answering, either. Shit, I hope they're okay...”
Britney furrowed her brow and said, “Wait a second. What happened last night?”
Surrounded by smoke, Stephen joined the call. It was barely seven in the morning and the young dealer was already smoking. Despite the drugs flowing through his system, the junior remained competent and attentive—especially around Charlene.
Stephen asked, “What's going on? Should I, um, you know... stop smoking?”
Charlene said, “I just... I wanted to wait for Michael and Dominique, but they're not answering. We don't have time to waste, either. There's a problem.”
Adam asked, “What happened, Charles?”
Charlene vacantly stared down at her keyboard. She stared at the screen and examined her friends. Adam was unusually attentive, Stephen was nonchalant, and Britney was calm despite knowing about the violent video. She couldn't admit it to her friends, but she was suspicious of all of them. Anyone could be the killer, she thought.
Britney said, “I'm guessing this is about the video.”
“What video?” Stephen asked.
“You guys, Melanie died last night. I don't know if it was the same person who killed Anna and Tiffany, but... she's dead. The killer recorded all of it, too. It's trending on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter... It's probably all over the news by now.”
Charlene said, “It doesn't matter where it's trending. Forget about all of that. The killer is still out there and he's still killing. We could be next. We have to find a way to stop him or... or to hide from him. We have to do something.”
The group became quiet. The truth stung like alcohol on a fresh wound. A serial killer was terrorizing their community with no signs of slowing down. Although there was some collateral damage, he was only targeting students from their school, too. They were all potential targets, whether they liked it or not.
Breaking the silence, Stephen asked, “So, who do you think is the killer?”
Britney said, “The video was trending under '#ForCasey.' Isn't Casey that kid who killed himself last year? Or is that just a coincidence?”
<
br /> “It's not a coincidence,” Charlene responded. “Casey has something to do with it, but it might be all some sort of trick.”
“What do you mean?”
“We spoke to Wilson last night because we linked the killer's mask to him. I recognized the style and I knew he was connected. Well, it turned out that Casey Marshall gave him masks that look like the killer's mask. It's obviously not Casey, though. His masks are part of this puzzle, but he might have nothing to do with this.”
Adam asked, “What are you saying, Charles?”
Charlene shuffled on her bed, then she explained, “What if someone was using Casey's death as a diversion? Hmm? What if Wilson was the killer and he was actually using Casey's masks to throw everyone off? He fits the description of the killer, right? He knows where we live, right? His students are the ones dying, right? He's the perfect suspect.”
“He doesn't have a motive, though,” Stephen said. He wagged his pipe at the webcam and said, “Most killers have motives. Unless we're in some crappy 'home invasion' movie where they did it because 'we were home,' he has to have a motive, Charlene. It's one of the rules of good storytelling.”
Wide-eyed, Charlene said, “He does have a motive, though. Listen, last night, Adam and I confronted Melanie and Wilson about all of this. When–”
“Wait a second,” Britney interrupted. “Was that you in that video? You and Adam?”
Charlene sighed in disappointment. She said, “Yes. Yes, it was us. We got there after that creep entered her house and we left before he hurt her. We didn't even know he was there. That's not the point, though. Listen, when we went to Wilson's house, we found out that Dominique was the one dating Wilson this whole time. The rumors were true. They're a couple.”
With the juicy gossip, Britney's suspicion of Charlene was whisked away. She gasped and held her hands over her mouth. She was more surprised by the gossip than Melanie's murder. Stephen chuckled and shook his head, amused by the news. He took another puff from his pipe.