The Texas Chainsaw Massacre

by Stephen Hand

  And so they’d come up with this plan. Morgan and Pepper had stayed with the van to make sure nothing happened to it—and because they were both too scared to be of much use—while Erin and Andy investigated. Besides, both Morgan and Pepper had made it perfectly clear they didn’t give a damn about Kemper right now.

  * * *

  When Andy was sure that Erin had the old man’s full attention, he gripped hold of the tire iron and then ran quickly across to the entrance of the house. The screen doors and the wooden doors beyond were both unlocked. Andy slipped through into the long central hallway. The polished floorboards creaked beneath his tread.

  “Kemper!” he hissed.

  How to make yourself heard without making any noise? Tough one.

  He tried the living room but the place was empty. The furniture was still shrouded beneath plastic dust protectors.

  So he went back out into the hallway and started to try some of the other doors, the creaking floorboards working on his position like some kind of fucking redneck radar.

  As he passed by an open area underneath the stairs, he spotted a small ornament hanging on the wall. It was a rodent skull with bells—all screwy like the stuff up at the mill. Other than that, there was nothing else to see. The floor beneath the stairs, like all the boards on the ground floor, was immaculately polished.

  Trying a few more rooms, he continued down the hallway until, right near the end of the corridor, he came to the kitchen.

  It was bizarre.

  There was no sign of Kemper but Andy felt strangely compelled to go inside and take a closer look.

  It wasn’t the work surfaces, the pots, pans, cooker or the old-fashioned turn-handle meat grinder standing on the table that had caught his eye—none of these things were particularly odd or unusual. What was damned odd was the way someone had fastened coil-spring bedsteads to the underside of the entire kitchen ceiling.

  Everywhere Andy looked the white painted plaster was obscured by bedsprings. And what really freaked Andy out was the sight of great hunks of meat hanging down from the springs, the flesh hooked on the ends of the twisted iron coils.

  He could see beef jerky, cured beef and other slabs of meat he couldn’t quite make sense of. There was no elegance to any of the cuts; they all looked jagged as if someone had just ripped them from the animal carcass.

  Andy went in and touched one of them.

  It was a long, narrow piece of meat that could have come from an animal’s leg, or perhaps its flank—the boy couldn’t be sure. But one thing he was sure of, even though he was no butcher, was that meat was usually cross-sectioned into steaks, not cut lengthways like this—though perhaps “cut” was too kind a word to describe how the meat had actually been removed. Surprisingly, because it glistened in the light through the kitchen window, the meat felt dry.

  Standing in the middle of the kitchen, Andy could hear the faint sound of dripping water. It was the washbasin.

  A pair of nylon stockings were drip-drying over the enamel basin. Andy went to take a closer look and was disturbed to see that the color of the water coming out of the stockings was pink, even though the nylons themselves were pale brown. It was probably just dye. Everyone knows that if you mix red and green paint, you get brown, right?

  That’s what the tense young man kept telling himself as he turned away from the washbasin to examine the refrigerator standing in the far corner of the room.

  The refrigerator buzzed—the sound of an electric pump forcing coolant into motion. The whole thing stood taller and wider than a man, like an art deco sarcophagus. Andy knew he shouldn’t open it; did he seriously expect to find a blue-faced Kemper inside? But he couldn’t resist. The curiosity was just too much. Hell, if the people who lived here thought hanging meat from the kitchen ceiling on bedsprings was a good idea, God only knows what they’d keep in their fridge.

  Holding firmly onto the crossed-metal tire iron, Andy tensed his powerful body and slowly opened the refrigerator door.

  Nothing.

  Other than a couple bottles of beer, a few bits of food and a couple of jugs of red liquid—soda, cranberry or something—the fridge was empty.

  Andy was disappointed. He didn’t know what he expected to find in there, but he didn’t think it would be so damned normal. He quietly shut the fridge door again.

  There was an overstuffed suitcase lying on top of the refrigerator with clothes sticking out of the sides. Andy wasn’t sure how he hadn’t seen it before; but now he knew it was there, he was going to fetch it down and take a look inside. Again, just like the refrigerator, the boy wasn’t sure what he hoped to find in the suitcase, but he had to look. There might be a clue, something about Kemper, or maybe even something about the girl who blew her brains out.

  Gritting his teeth, Andy pressed himself against the front of the refrigerator and stretched out a hand to reach up for the suitcase.

  There!

  He could feel the handle on the tips of his fingers. He wasn’t quite tall enough—if he could just . . .

  It was coming!

  Suddenly he had the handle in his grasp and the suitcase came free—unexpectedly jerking loose and pitching forward on top of Andy.

  Immediately, the case flew open, throwing clothes everywhere. But the clothes had only been in there to provide protective padding for the jars of preserved cherries that were packed tightly inside the case. One by one the jars fell, glancing off Andy’s head, hitting his waving arms, falling clean past him, until one by one they hit the ground and shattered.

  “Shit!”

  The sound of ten glass jars breaking on a cold stone floor was unmistakable—and damn loud.

  “Andy?”

  Erin had heard the crash of broken glass immediately round by the herb garden at the side of the house. She didn’t know exactly where the crashing sound had come from, but she knew it was inside and she knew it had to be Andy.

  And for one terrifying moment, it felt like the Kemper thing all over again. Last time, she’d been stuck with the old man in his bathroom. Then she’d heard that bang, like the pounding of a giant hammer and never saw Kemper again. And here she was, reliving the moment, stuck out here with Old Monty, only to hear another great crash. This time, it was the breaking of glass.

  What if the end result was the same? What if she never saw Andy again?

  His name had barely escaped her lips when Erin turned and ran back towards the house.

  Old Monty called after her, “Hey! You can’t just go in my house!”

  Erin didn’t know if the old man had also heard the noise and frankly she didn’t give a damn.

  Once inside—the layout of the place was still engraved in her memory—Erin ran down the long hallway, trying all the rooms and calling Andy’s name until finally coming to the kitchen right down near the end of the corridor.

  Oh God, he was laying in a pool of bloo . . . Cherries? At first glance, it had been easy for Erin to mistake the bright red fruit for something else—something she didn’t want to think about.

  “What happened?” she asked. “You okay?”

  Andy looked damned embarrassed. “Yeah.”

  He was standing in a mess of fruit and broken glass—not forgetting the scattered clothes and the empty suitcase. But luckily, other than sweat, Andy’s clothes seemed pretty dry. The cherry syrup, juice, preservative or whatever it was, had missed him and spilled out all over the floor.

  “You found him?” she asked.

  Andy shook his head.

  Suddenly, Erin saw the bedsprings in the ceiling and the torn strips of meat. That was enough for her. She walked out of the room and back into the hallway.

  Andy followed but found her hesitating in the middle of the corridor. Almost immediately behind them was the storage area and the closed metal door, the one Erin said had a spyglass in. Andy saw the battered sliding shutter for the first time, and it was pretty fucking scary. Maybe they should just go down the hall and get out while they could—after a
ll, their plan hadn’t exactly gone very well, had it?

  Old Monty slammed his cane down on the hallway floor.

  “What the hell are you doin’ in my house?” he bellowed.

  His wheelchair was slam in the center of the hallway, and he was rolling slowly towards them. There was no way they could get past him without a struggle. He was stopping them from leaving.

  Suddenly and unexpectedly, Andy no longer wanted to leave. He’d had enough of all this bullshit. He was young, strong and held a tire-iron in his clenched fingers. What did this old guy have? No legs from the knee down and a fucking wheelchair. No, it was time to make a stand, time to find out what the hell was going on, once and for all.

  Andy stepped forward, demanding to know, “Where is he?”

  Old Monty stared right back at him, his cold eyes reducing the boy’s big man routine to nothing but piss and wind. “You ain’t runnin’ things, boy. ’Cept your mouth.”

  The wheelchair came closer.

  Old Monty was slowly heading straight at Andy, his very motion challenging the boy, daring him, mocking him.

  Andy raised the tire-iron. “Don’t push me, pops.”

  But it was Andy who was breathing fast, not Old Monty. It was Andy who was braced with fear and tensing every damn muscle, not Old Monty.

  The old man stopped his wheelchair and laughed.

  “You little turd,” he mocked, his voice broken in a deep Texan drawl of ridicule. “You’re so dead, you don’t even know it.”

  Erin stood shoulder to shoulder with the boy. That was the first real threat she’d heard the old man say. Was it because they were trespassing in his house, or was it because—

  “Back off!” shouted Andy, and he brandished the tire-iron threateningly.

  But the old guy wouldn’t budge. He wasn’t coming closer anymore, but neither was he pulling back. He just sat there, a few yards in front of the frightened kids. And if the boy wanted to wave that tire-iron like that . . .

  Old Monty lifted his cane and used it to beckon the punk towards him.

  “C’mon, boy,” he boomed. “Bring it.”

  Then he banged the cane down on the polished hallway floor.

  Instinctively, Andy and Erin backed up, coming within a foot of the sliding metal door behind them.

  “Bring what?” shouted Andy. This was crazy. It was escalating out of control. He didn’t want to hit the old man but . . .

  Old Monty brought his cane down again, and again, beating a slow thunderous rhythm on the creaking floorboards.

  “This guy is crazy!” said Andy in a nervous aside to Erin.

  But she wasn’t so sure. Even though Old Monty was practically a silhouette against the light from the screen doors, she could clearly see the rabid violent glee in the old man’s eyes. She couldn’t tell if the cripple was crazy or just plain evil.

  He wouldn’t stop hitting the floor with his cane—BANG—and laughing—BANG—and threatening—BANG—over and over—BANG—that damned cane!

  Andy was gonna have to take him out. He’d either have to push the wheelchair over or hit the old man round the head with the tire-iron. He didn’t want to—his physique was for girls, not fighting—but there really was no alternative.

  Erin was fast reaching the same conclusion. She was out of ideas. The old man was insane. He just kept laughing and banging the floor with the cane. Just kept banging, knocking and—

  KNOCKING!

  The metal door was thrown open behind them, hitting the wall with a resounding clang, and suddenly their ears were bleeding from the screaming five horsepower mayhem of a gasoline fuelled engine.

  Erin and Andy both jumped on the spot, leaping with fear and turned round to see—

  Some kind of ungodly death-freak standing in the open doorway. He was huge—his great bulk almost filling the metal frame. He was ugly, like shit straight from the Devil’s ass. He was wearing a decaying mask sewn-up from some poor bastard’s face. And he was gripping a fucking chainsaw.

  Erin screamed out, “Oh my God!” her voice overlapping with Andy’s cry of “Holy shit!”

  They couldn’t believe what they were seeing, but Erin immediately knew that this was the answer to all their confusion. Just one second of seeing this skin-wearing psychopath and almost everything suddenly made bitter, terrifying sense.

  Andy lifted the tire-iron, ready to hit the motherfucker. Then he backed up with Erin right beside him.

  The sharp metal teeth went round and round the cutting bar, churning up the air in front of them, roaring, the air thick with the smell of exhaust fumes.

  The sheer sight of Leatherface almost paralyzed Erin with fear. Her instinct was to freeze, to put her back to the wall and do nothing. It was only Andy who kept her going.

  Andy got ready to run. Maybe that sick bastard was too fat to go after them. One thing was for sure: Andy would never beat him in a fight.

  They needed help.

  Quickly, the boy turned to see Old Monty laughing his fucking head off behind them. Just ten paces beyond the old bastard was the door. Freedom.

  Andy grabbed hold of Erin’s hand and ran.

  At first, the double amputee seemed to be moving out of their way. He pulled his wheelchair back and to the side as if to leave the path clear. But he was just getting into position.

  Andy started to move. One pace, two and he hit the deck!

  The boy went crashing down onto the slippery floor of the hallway, the tire-iron spinning out of his hands along the polished boards.

  Andy looked back—the cane . . .

  The old bastard had tripped him!

  Erin!

  Closer, closer, closer, the engine never let up, grinding, whining, merciless.

  When Andy fell, he’d had to let go of Erin’s hand, leaving her to look on in horror as Old Monty rolled over and put one of the wheels of his chair directly onto the tire-iron. And now the old man was square in her way.

  She didn’t want to look back but she could hear the chainsaw right behind her.

  She screamed.

  Andy tried to get up. He reached for the tire-iron but it was firmly trapped under the wheelchair.

  Old Monty took a swipe at the boy’s head with his cane, but the stick went wide.

  Erin could see him but couldn’t believe it: the shambling heap of flesh with a chainsaw, squealing in its knotted, stitched apron made from the skin of his victims. The saw buzzing, buzzing, buzzing.

  She ran forward. Any second now and they’d both be dead.

  The fighting—the screaming—grappling—shouting—the old man’s laughter—the bleating maniac—heavy footsteps creaking the floorboards—and everywhere the diving airplane scream of the chainsaw!

  Andy was gonna be killed. He was still wrestling with the tire-iron. He wasn’t looking. He didn’t know that the chainsaw blade was heading straight for the flimsy gray cotton undershirt on his back.

  Erin couldn’t let it happen. The freak had ignored her because she was doing nothing. He just shuffled right past her so that he could take out the biggest threat first: Andy.

  Suddenly she

  —ice cold—

  was struck

  —white flash—

  with a realization and

  —shock—

  visualized Kemper . . .

  Kemper and this bastard with the chainsaw.

  Snarling, she dived forward and clawed at Old Monty’s groin. She quickly found what she was looking for. She grabbed the old bastard’s catheter tube and ripped the fucker right out.

  Old Monty howled and bent forward in his seat.

  The chair rocked back and suddenly the tire-iron was free.

  Leatherface was upon them.

  “ANDY!”

  He grabbed the iron and rolled onto his back just as the chainsaw came crashing down.

  The engine grunted and sparks flew as the boy desperately held the churning blades at bay mere inches from his face. The cutting bar and the tire-iron bobbed up
and down with each renewed assault and each panic-stricken defense. But Andy couldn’t hold out for much longer.

  “Erin, RUN!” he shouted.

  She didn’t want to leave him, but what other chance would she get? And someone needed to go back to the others and tell them. Then they could fetch the sheriff. If neither Erin nor Andy made it, then it would just be the Kemper situation all over again. Morgan and Pepper would either get in the van and take off, or they’d come up to the Hewitt place to die. Erin couldn’t allow any of that to happen.

  With sudden determination, Erin pushed the whining amputee—his stumpy pants thick with catheter piss—aside and sped down the hallway to the grayish dusk of the screen doors.

  And finally she was out.

  Andy had to time it just right.

  The tire-iron was almost done, and any second now he knew the howling lunatic freak would get into position to finish him. He’d stand over Andy, one foot each side of the boy, then gut him like a pig with the chainsaw. If that bastard had spread his legs over Andy, it would be game over.

  But Andy had seen the way he moved. He didn’t just come at you with the chainsaw, he danced like a frigging spastic, as if his sweating fat limbs were out of control. He was clumsy, erratic, deranged, so if Andy—

  NOW!

  Andy lashed out and kicked the bastard hard in the ankle, and suddenly the chainsaw went spinning, tearing a deep gouge through the corridor wall.

  Round and round and round the engine turned, flinging shards of wood and paper into the air.

  Andy slid back along the polished floor and out from under the maskfreak who had lost his balance, but who was now manhandling the chainsaw back under his insane febrile control. It was now or never.

  The boy got up and ran for his life.

  Erin was long gone by the time Andy hurled the screen door shut behind him.

  The chainsaw ripped through the screens, tearing the front door into shreds as the lumbering maniac chewed the life out of the damn doorway.

  Andy sprinted as hard and as fast as he could. He was fit. He should have no problem getting away.