The Texas Chainsaw Massacre

by Stephen Hand

  But the chainsaw was getting closer—he could hear it.

  The terrified youth looked back over his shoulder and saw the great heap of flesh-filth charging up behind him, shambling through the exhaust, and squealing like an epileptic death-bitch in the gasoline fumes.

  Just ahead of Andy was a white picket fence. It was near to where Erin had earlier tried to divert Old Monty’s attention. He could see all the laundry lines, their crisp white sheets blowing in the wind.

  Andy vaulted the fence in a single bound.

  The chainsaw exploded right through the pickets.

  They ran and, in a moment, were lost inside the maze of laundry lines.

  Though firmly built, Andy was still lean and agile. There was no way his pursuer could hope to keep up with him as he ducked and dodged a path through the swaying linen and drying garments.

  Andy swerved left, he cut right, he ducked under a line, winding a confusing path through the chaotically arrayed barriers of the laundry.

  The toothed-blade drove through the washing like a tornado—ripping and tearing at the cloth like it was saturated flesh.

  Andy looked back, to make sure—

  “Ugh!”

  He had run into a clothesline, the taut fabric rope chopping him in the throat and causing him to fall flat on his back. The line of washing went down with him.

  Andy was momentarily dazed, cursing his own stupidity, but always, always, there was the sound of the chainsaw to remind him of his impending slaughter.

  Andy tried to get to his feet, but he was all caught up.

  The washing line—Jesus!

  Somehow he’d got tangled in the fallen laundry and—no, it was just too pathetic.

  Down low on the ground, Andy could see underneath the billowing laundry. He could see the grass, the trunks of the trees and two heavy boots and a pair of bloodstained, shit-soiled pants coming straight for him.

  Andy struggled—

  The chainsaw turned full throttle and roared!

  Free!

  The disentangled boy got up, threw the bastard washing line to the ground, and—

  The engine came screaming, screaming, screaming . . .

  Suddenly the plain white sheets were sprayed with blood, thick red jets showering the washing with droplets.

  The chainsaw had hacked his left leg off, taking the limb below the knee through sheer brutal horsepower.

  Andy cried out and stumbled. He tried to get away, whimpering and throwing his weight, anything to move away from—

  Reverse kickback from the chainsaw sent the severed leg spinning into Andy’s face.

  TEN

  Erin fell to the ground and started to cry.

  There was no mistaking that horrifying sound—the sudden change in cadence, the slight dip in revs, the low moan of an engine momentarily having to work under an additional load. Somewhere back up near the farmhouse, the chainsaw had found flesh. They’d got Andy.

  “Noooo!” she wept.

  The bastards. They’d probably got Kemper as well.

  But she had to keep going.

  Erin picked herself up and continued along the narrow horse trail. She had to keep going. She’d used this path three times today and each time she used it, things had only got worse. And now the sun was fading—it was starting to get dark.

  The night was coming.

  Andy crawled along the grass, his jaws clenched. One hand, two hand. He heaved. He pulled. He crawled. He was determined to get away.

  Saliva fell from his lips as he panted and grunted with exertion. His powerful build was now standing him in good stead, as he used the strong muscles in his arms and shoulders to—

  He was lifted off the ground and slung over one broad stinking shoulder like a side of beef.

  That’s how easy it had been for this bastard to take him. And now Andy could see he was being carried back towards the farmhouse, the tall black windows bouncing up and down with each lumbering step.

  Andy shouted for help, but there was no one to hear him.

  Blood squirted from his severed leg, pumping with his throbbing heartbeat, running down onto the cured human flesh of the killer’s apron. Andy could feel his arms rub against the killer’s face—against the dead, putrid skin of the homemade mask.

  It dawned on Andy, as he kicked and fought in vain, that he was punching and biting the skin ripped from another innocent body.

  * * *

  With nothing to do but sit and wait, Pepper and Morgan had finally overcome their revulsion and begun to do their best to clean the inside of the van. They’d been wiping up the mess with a couple of Kemper’s shop rags, but also had to use some of their spare traveling clothes.

  They’d soaked the makeshift wipes in water, some of which they had on board the van; the rest Pepper had found—not too stagnant—in an open metal drum nearby. But it was hard. Barely a second went by when either one of them didn’t feel nauseous.

  They totally had to forget what it was they were mopping up—in the same way that most people forget about the bolt-gun slamming between the open eyes of a cow before sitting down to a plate of beef. The fact that they were now working in hastening darkness didn’t make things any easier.

  Suddenly the van rocked.

  What?

  They looked up from the stained back seat and saw Erin.

  She’d come back, not said a word. Just jumped straight into the driver’s seat.

  She looked terrified.

  Erin was fumbling with the car keys. She’d pulled them out of the pocket, reached forward, but her hands were sh . . . shaking!

  “What the fuck?” Morgan called, confused.

  Erin was shivering all over, she couldn’t keep still.

  “You okay?” asked Pepper.

  Both she and Morgan had stopped what they were doing and were now stooping forward towards the front.

  “Where’s the gun?” shouted Erin, referring to the snub-nosed revolver—the one the girl had put in her mouth and then used to drill a hole through the back of her head.

  “The sheriff took it,” answered Pepper.

  “SHIT!” Erin slammed the steering wheel with both hands. She then attempted to slide the key in the ignition.

  “Erin,” tried Morgan again. “What is going on?”

  Now she turned to look at them and they could see the state she was in. Her eyes were red with tears, she had snot running down from her nose and her mouth was dripping with saliva—she looked awful. Clearly, something was very, very wrong and the time for words was over.

  Pepper got out and went round to sit in the front passenger seat. Morgan closed all the doors then took his place on the back seat and held on tight. Whatever it was that had happened, whatever Erin had seen and wherever Andy and Kemper were—Morgan really didn’t want to know.

  Erin still couldn’t get the key in the damn ignition—she was still shaking too much.

  Pepper reached over and, with a soft hand, helped Erin guide they keys into place. Finally, some action.

  Erin turned the key, put the van in gear, and raised the clutch—too fast.

  The van stalled.

  “FUCK!” shouted Erin.

  She tried to restart the engine but it was flooded. Flooded! How could it be flooded when she’d only tried to turn it once? Kemper! He was supposed to be good with cars, so how come his own goddamn wheels go ass-end-up the first time anyone turns the goddamned fucking key? KEMPER!

  Morgan took off his glasses and was about to wipe them on his T-shirt when he thought he saw something slip by outside. Pepper had seen it too. But Erin only caught sight of the shadow when it passed right by her open window.

  She couldn’t believe she’d come this far only to be let down by the stupid dumb clutch.

  The shadow drew nearer to her window and Erin screamed.

  Andy was being carried through that metal door, the same door this bastard came out of. He was lying straddled across the heaving shoulder of his attacker and could fe
el the dense ripples of fat undulate with each step the maniac took.

  Andy tried to resist, God how he tried, even though he knew it was no use—not when someone had complete physical power over him like this. And even if he broke free, how far would he get on one useless pathetic leg? But that was his brain talking, and right now Andy was only listening to the screaming demands of sheer bloody survival.

  He was being taken down a narrow staircase.

  Oh God, no . . .

  It was dark down there.

  He reached out and clawed at the paneled walls either side of him, but his scratch marks merely added to the hundreds that were already there. He cried out in pain as one of his fingernails tore away and embedded itself in the wall. He could see it as he descended—red and clear with blood and soft tissue. The pain was agonizing, and now he could see that the way ahead of him was steeped in shadow, lit only by a blazing furnace.

  And he screamed.

  And screamed.

  And screamed.

  But nothing the boy could do did anything to slow his descent into the basement and inception of the final act of madness.

  Erin’s scream had barely subsided when the shadowy figure of Sheriff Hoyt came up to the driver’s window.

  “Young lady, what seems to be the problem?”

  His voice was reassuring, firm and comforting, and almost immediately Erin felt like an idiot for screaming. But then none of them had seen what she had just seen up at the Hewitt farmhouse; the crazy old man and that . . . that thing!

  “Thank God,” she gasped.

  Now she could tell the sheriff. She could tell him about Andy, Kemper and that perverted shape of a man with the chainsaw. The sheriff could help her. He could go up there with his gun and put them under arrest, maybe even shoot the bastards. And who knows, they might still be in time to save the guys.

  Only Sheriff Hoyt didn’t seem too concerned with Erin’s obvious needs right now. Her eager face, desperate for his help and his strength, was lost on him. Instead, he just looked right past the girl and stared at the open ashtray where he saw . . .

  The police officer reached forward and picked a spent roach up out from the burnt ash. He smelt it. And suddenly his expression changed. He stood upright and took a cold hard look at the kids.

  “Somebody care to explain this?” he asked, holding the joint towards them.

  “Uh,” stuttered Morgan. “Sir, that—”

  “You kids using drugs?” interrupted the sheriff tersely, his manner immediately formal.

  “Not me, sir,” answered Morgan nervously.

  The young man was surprised to see the sheriff back at all, especially the way he’d seemed to creep up on them like that—they didn’t even hear his car. But now that he was back, Morgan was glad to see him. Maybe the sheriff could help Erin with whatever it was she’d seen up at the farmhouse—something Morgan and Pepper still knew nothing about.

  But the sheriff didn’t seem to want to listen to Erin now that he’d found the joint.

  Hoyt stepped back and took a look at the van, the kids and the whole damn sorry scene.

  “Not me, sir,” the sheriff repeated quietly, as if Morgan had been feeding him a line. He then closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

  Morgan and Pepper quickly exchanged a look as if to say, ‘What’s that all about?’

  Erin just wanted the cop to get to the point so that she could send him up to the farmstead, get the van started, and get the hell out of town.

  But the sheriff kept his eyes shut and sniffed deeply before finally declaring: “I smell bullshit.”

  Then he opened his eyes and looked Morgan dead in the face.

  Andy screamed and cried out. He tried to struggle, he tried.

  He felt the quivering fleshy hands lift him by his shoulders, pinning his arms to his side, hoisting him up in the air like he was nothing but a child’s toy.

  All around Andy was the detritus of nightmares, a dark room strewn with limbs and slaughterhouse debasement. This cellar was the room where evil things were done. His eyes came to rest on the meat hook.

  No!

  The meat hook was high above the ground and looming closer. Andy was being carried towards it. The bastard wouldn’t let him go. Andy was completely in his power, and completely helpless.

  The meat hook was almost in Andy’s face when he was suddenly turned around and lifted high.

  The meat hook was behind him.

  The meat hook was—

  Andy was lowered and suddenly

  —THE PAIN—

  —ANDY SCREAMED—

  the hands weren’t holding him any more. But he was still high up off the floor—his foot suddenly dangling as he forced himself to accept the fact that he’d been hung up on the meat hook.

  With each thrash and twitch of his body, the hook bit deeper into his back, ripping organs, tearing meat and breaking sinew.

  His cries were heartbreaking and primal, but the piercing eyes that stared up at him through the human skin mask were feverish with excitement.

  Night had fallen.

  All three of them were now out of the van and lying face down in the dirt in front of the old Crawford Mill. Morgan was terrified, but the tears they could hear in the darkness came from Pepper.

  Sheriff Hoyt stood over them, pacing back and forth in his black leather boots. He was checking their driver’s licenses, ID, wallets, anything they had. The atmosphere was so thick with understated menace, you could almost touch it.

  Erin couldn’t understand what all this was about. There was a maniac with a chainsaw up at the Hewitt place, and here the sheriff was, wasting time over a stupid joint!

  It didn’t make sense. It was totally out of proportion. She’d been trying to make him listen, but he wouldn’t. He’d just kept barking orders at them: step out of the vehicle, assume the position, get on the ground. But every second that passed made it more likely they’d be too late to save Kemper and Andy.

  Before Erin knew it, she was crying. She was lying there, her cheek against the soil, crying.

  “Y . . . you . . . you’ve got to help him!” she wailed, trying to make the bastard listen. “He’s killing him!”

  Hoyt took his eyes from Morgan’s driving license.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said. Then he went and stood over Erin, leant down and bellowed, “Who’s killing who?”

  She couldn’t believe it. She had encountered obstacles every step of the way. There were the murderers up at the house and now her friends were lying on the ground like criminals. The sheriff—he should help people. Erin couldn’t get the words out.

  Hoyt never gave her a chance and, now that she had room to speak, there was too much she wanted to say. Oh God, it was overloading her mind. She kept coming back to the image of the guy wearing human skin over his face.

  Erin pointed feebly towards the overgrown trail that led to the Hewitts. Now that it was night, it was impossible to see a thing through the trees.

  Her voice was broken. She was half pleading and half screaming. “He’s right over there! You’ve got to believe me.”

  As she spoke, she began to lift herself up off the ground. She needed to talk to the sheriff, to make him see reason.

  Hoyt placed the sole of his boot firmly in the square of her back, and shoved the girl back down. “You keep your pretty little ass in the dirt until I say otherwise.”

  “Oh my God,” said Pepper. She’d suddenly remembered what the girl in the van had said: “You’re all gonna die!”

  “Officer, please—” said Morgan, sincere in his appeal to the policeman’s authority. If only Hoyt would just listen, just for one second.

  Erin, however, was going way beyond the point of reason. The situation was wrong. It was impossible.

  “I CAN’T FUCKING BELIEVE THIS!” she screamed.

  But Hoyt simply looked down on her the way he’d regard any potential suspect.

  “That makes two of us,” he agreed sarcasti
cally. She could scream as much as she wanted, but she wasn’t going anywhere—none of them were till he made some progress.

  “You want to know what I think?” he said, standing so close that his boots were almost in Erin’s face. “I think your boyfriend shot that poor girl and then ran off.”

  “He did not!” Erin snapped back, then under her breath: “You ignorant prick.”

  “Why won’t you listen to her?” Pepper implored.

  Morgan started to move. They were all getting restless.

  Enough!

  The sheriff pulled a gun out of his holster and fired a bullet straight down into the dirt.

  Pepper and Erin screamed.

  “Are you ladies gonna calm yourselves down?” barked the sheriff. “Or do I have to do it for you?”

  All three of them were now crying, even Morgan. They were terrified. Their breathing was hard, fast and loud. And they were so scared that none of them noticed that the revolver Hoyt had taken from his holster was the point 357 snub-nose used by the dead girl.

  Andy’s eyelids were becoming heavier and heavier.

  He tried to keep watch, to see what his attacker was doing, but it was hard. The pain from the meat hook was unbearable, but not for a moment did the boy get to enjoy the blessed release of a blackout. Instead, all he could do was watch in mounting horror as his attacker shuffled about the hellish basement—moving, panting, sweating, picking up his butchery tools then putting them down again.

  The brute’s movements were erratic, random, a chaotic aberrant psychopath fidgeting among a cesspool of cleavers, knives, sharpeners, meat presses, bone dusters, and jars of bleach and preservatives. This was the place where limbs were severed and where lives came to an end by the breaking of moist pink gristle.

  Andy saw him reach a massive bloody hand into a barrel of rock salt. And then he came forward and was upon the boy—his corpulent body heaving with mania as he lifted the rock salt and rammed it deep into Andy’s open wounds.

  Clearly at ease with the kids’ discomfort, the sheriff ambled over to Kemper’s van. Neat job. Customized exhaust, raised rear and chrome hubs—pity about the hole in the window.