The Texas Chainsaw Massacre

by Stephen Hand

The whistling sound came out of the blue, filling the trailer with shrill piercing insistence. Erin screamed before realizing it was just the whistle of a kettle.

  “Turn that thing off!” she shouted. “He’ll hear us!”

  Henrietta had no idea who the girl meant, but she hurried off into the tiny kitchenette at the end of the trailer and turned off the gas. Almost immediately, the steam whistle died down and faded into silence.

  When Henrietta returned, she found Erin pacing the floor and continuously glancing rapid-fire in all directions—looking at all the windows, the door, waiting, listening and watching. The big woman didn’t seem to know what any of this was about. Erin hadn’t introduced or explained herself but she was clearly in some distress, and Henrietta knew how to fix that. She left the girl to chew the carpet and went back into the kitchenette.

  Erin could hear Henrietta moving about, doing something. There was clattering, cutlery, crockery, something moving on a tabletop. Erin wanted the woman to shut up, so that she could concentrate on listening to what was going on outside. Any moment now, and the two of them would be under siege.

  A few seconds later and the big woman returned.

  “Nothin’ that a good ol’ cup’a tea won’t be able to settle,” she said in smooth tones shot through with Travis County charm.

  She had a cup of tea in her hand and held it towards Erin. But the girl didn’t even notice it. Just the same, Henrietta held on to the cup as she dropped her massive girth down into the armchair Erin had placed up against the locked door. The armchair groaned under her weight and pressed even further back.

  “So there,” Henrietta soothed. “Nobody is coming through here now.”

  Erin knew what she meant. The woman was trying to calm her down, and under normal circumstances the weight of her ample body would have stopped anyone from opening that door. But what the hell would the woman do when she got a chainsaw stuck up her big fat ass? No, Henrietta was reassuring no one, least of all Erin.

  The girl took another quick look around the dingy trailer. “I need your phone!”

  Henrietta stirred the tea and grimaced.

  “Don’t have one,” she declared. “Nothing but hassles is what they are.”

  Erin slammed her fist down on the table. “Don’t you get it?” she cried. “He’ll kill us! He’ll kill both of us!”

  Henrietta shook her head, “No, he won’t. He knows better than to mess ’round here. Believe me.”

  No . . . he . . . won’t?

  He knows . . . better than . . . to mess ’round here?

  BELIEVE ME?

  It took Erin a few seconds to understand what she’d just heard. She couldn’t believe it at first—what the woman seemed to be saying. It was yet another twist of the knife.

  “What?” asked Erin. “You know him?”

  “Everyone around here knows that poor sweet boy.”

  The earth fell away beneath Erin’s feet as she felt herself losing her grip on her mind. This was too much for her. The trailer, Henrietta. It was almost crazy, the matter of fact way she talked about—

  Were they talking about the same person?

  “Poor sweet . . . WHAT?”

  After all the screaming and the running, after all the violence and the chainsaw; this moment of pretend calm, this homely display of madness.

  What chance did Erin have any more? What hope? Was she the lunatic and everyone else was sane?

  Henrietta smiled dismissively, “Oh, he just looks, well, ‘different’ after everything that happened.”

  What was she saying?

  What the fuck was she saying?

  DIFFERENT?

  Erin slumped to the floor in front of the armchair. There was no one to talk to, nowhere to run, no one who could help her, nowhere to hide. No hope.

  She pulled her knees up under her chin and sat there, her eyes fixed on the windows, waiting for the poor sweet boy to come in and stuff her body senseless with his chainsaw. It was over. It was all over. She was mentally and physically exhausted. No matter what she did, no matter where she ran, she ended up right back at square one. Chutes and fucking ladders, and the last one to the top gets butchered.

  Henrietta carried on talking, almost to herself, oblivious to the sight of the light fading from Erin’s eyes.

  “There’s no harm,” she gabbled. “He always keeps to himself. Skin cancer—a real shame. He was so young when it started up, poor thing. Didn’t you look at his face?”

  Erin’s jaw sagged open. Her own face was fast becoming expressionless.

  “I couldn’t,” she replied. The last time Erin had seen the poor thing’s face, he’d looked just like her boyfriend.

  Henrietta mulled this over. Of course the girl hadn’t seen his face; he always wore a mask didn’t he? Well, not always, but certainly since he was a boy.

  Henrietta remembered only too clearly, the day the family first made Thomas hide his face. It was only natural because the boy was so pig-ugly. The cancer had messed him up so bad, no one could stand to look at him. And the doctors said his face-rot couldn’t be fixed. Called it genetic like it was somethin’ to do with A-dolf shit-Christ Hitler or somethin’. So his pa made him wear a bag over his head—if he didn’t, he got a damn good beatin’.

  Course, the boy had no friends. Didn’t go to school none. The only fun he ever had was when pa gone took him down the slaughterhouse to play with all the animals—well, they didn’t know ugly from shit. He used to bring bits of ’em home, an’ he made stuff with ’em.

  His first real mask was made from a pig’s head. An’ it was so funny, his pa nearly shit himself. But Ol’ Monty Hewitt was like that. He had a good sense o’ humor, an’ the stupid little Pig Boy jus’ broke him up.

  It was Monty who got Thomas that job at the meat packin’ place—that was b’fore it was modernized and they both got fired. An’ it was about that time that young Thomas took to wearin’ human skin. It was heroic. He had clutched triumph outta adversity, usin’ other people’s faces to fix his own. An’ he could look like whomever he wanted, without spendin’ millions of dollars on plastic surgery.

  He tried wearin’ someone’s face to work once, but got into all kindsa trouble. That was ’round the time Ol’ Monty lost his legs. Got into a fight with the boy and Thomas whupped his ass. Took the ol’ bastard’s legs off with a cleaver.

  Monty was damn proud that day.

  All through his son’s life, Mister Montague Hewitt had worked hard to make sure his ugly little shit grew up to be a man. It was important for their economy. The Hewitts had worked in meat for generations an’ there was no reason to stop jus’ ’cause they’d been thrown outta the slaughterhouse by some pencil-neck prick. They had a livin’ to make but Ol’ Monty couldn’t go on killin’ passersby forever. He was gettin’ too old. He needed his son to take over.

  And that’s why Monty was so worried that the skin trouble might have turned his son into a Freak Boy or some kinda skincare faggot. It was only when the boy spat in the ol’ man’s face and took away his legs that Monty knew his son’d grow up jus’ fine. Thomas was gonna be jus’ like his pa.

  Now, Thomas was practically head of the household. Sure, Ma and Pa were still fightin’ an’ cussin’ all the time, an’ sayin’ what’s what—and they didn’t think twice about comin’ at Thomas with a knife or somethin’—but the boy was the heart an’ soul of the place. No doubt about it.

  They’d all be up shit creek if it weren’t for Thomas.

  Henrietta got out of the armchair and reached a hand down to Erin’s forehead; not to check the girl’s temperature, but to gently yet firmly, hold the girl’s head in place. And the woman still held the teacup in her other hand.

  Erin didn’t respond. She was too far gone, unable to think her way through this never-ending escalation of horror. She didn’t want to know any more. She didn’t give a damn.

  Henrietta looked down at the steaming cup of tea.

  “Just right,” she said, then she
raised the brim up to Erin’s lips, coaxing the girl to take a sip. Erin did so, finding the tea both strong and sweet. Then she took another sip and another.

  Slowly, Henrietta passed the cup over into the girl’s hands, then stood and watched over her.

  Erin lifted the cup and tried to drink, but she was shaking so bad that she was in danger of pouring the tea all over the floor—some of the brew had already spilled down the side of the cup.

  “Drink up b’fore it gets cold,” urged Henrietta.

  In all truth, Erin didn’t realize just how thirsty she’d become, and the hot, soothing tea was actually doing something to raise her spirits again. All the same, she was in no rush to swallow anything Henrietta had given her. Erin didn’t know just how involved the woman was in all this. But at least she was beginning to understand why that maniac still hadn’t broken in through the trailer door.

  Henrietta saw the girl’s hesitation.

  “Come now,” she said. “You must be awful thirsty. I promise, it’ll make you feel better.”

  Erin brought the cup right up to her mouth and gulped. Then she lowered the drink and wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

  “You have no idea—” she began falteringly.

  “Now honey,” the woman cut in, sitting back down in her armchair. “I know that you’ve had quite a shock. Hush now.”

  Henrietta seemed about to smother Erin in a wave of reassuring platitudes, when suddenly a voice cried out from the next room. Erin was shocked to hear it was the voice of a crying baby!

  “Now see what you’ve done!” chided Henrietta. Quickly she got up out of the chair again and bustled along back into the kitchenette area. A stack of unwashed dishes was cluttering up the sink and the small plastic trashcan in the corner was overfull, spilling garbage onto the floor.

  Henrietta opened the refrigerator.

  “My, oh my, oh my,” she chimed, hearing the baby’s hungry little cries.

  She’d be with him in a moment. First, she had to prepare some scrumptious baby food.

  The shelves of the refrigerator were filled mostly with the rotting leftovers of previous unfinished meals, while the few unopened provisions were mainly processed and convenience foods. Henrietta looked up at the top shelf where eight cans of baked beans stood neatly in two columns of three and one column of two. She took one of the cans off the shelf and then closed the fridge door.

  Next, she tried to find a can opener. It wasn’t easy hunting one down in all the clutter and dirty dishes; she kept meaning to buy one of those new ones you stick on the wall—that way, she wouldn’t keep losing it. Maybe Leatherface could keep an eye out for one. Folk packed the strangest things on journeys these days.

  Henrietta couldn’t remember who first called Thomas, “Leatherface.” She couldn’t remember when either. She only knew he didn’t particularly care much for it.

  Hurrying herself along, she looked through into the adjacent room where Erin was still holding the teacup in both hands.

  “Drink up,” she called. “It’ll help you relax.”

  Then she continued her search for a can opener, eventually finding one underneath the pages of an old newspaper. Humming cheerily to herself and all too aware of the crying baby, Henrietta expertly opened the can and tossed the lid aside.

  The serrated circle of galvanized tin fell to the floor where it was sucked to a dead stop by the underside layer of cold tomato sauce.

  Now she needed something to feed the baby with.

  She put the can opener down on top of the portable TV—where she’d remember it—and went searching for a spoon. She found one in the sink. Other than a bit of old cat food, it was meticulously clean.

  Can and spoon at the ready, Henrietta flounced her big body back to where Erin was sitting on the floor. There, she opened a thin chipboard door that led to an adjacent room—probably the bedroom.

  “I’ll be right back,” she announced cheerily, then she went on through and closed the door behind her.

  Erin was still having trouble making sense of all this. It was the calm after the storm. He’d chased her all the way here only to do nothing. Was he out there? Was he sitting outside, waiting for her to come out? Was the crazy fat bitch telling her the truth when she said she was safe here? And just who was Henrietta?

  It was insane the way the woman just went about her business, making cups of tea, chatting merrily as if Erin was a houseguest on a perfectly normal day. That’s not how this thing was meant to play out. Erin was supposed to have been screaming for help, Henrietta should have panicked and that goddamn frigging psychopath should have broken in and killed them both. Or scared them off, so that they could run away and meet who? Another lunatic?

  Whatever the answer, Erin had to admit she was grateful for the break. Okay, she was probably still in deep shit. Okay, they were probably still gonna try to kill her. But at least just for now, if only for a moment, she could collect her thoughts and catch her breath. And if it all turned out to be some big game, some sadistic joke at her expense—and they killed her the moment she walked out the door—what the hell could she do about it?

  On the positive side, if they really were as crazy as she thought, Erin might just be able to play them off against one another, or maybe slip through the disjointed cracks of their net. She just had to stay sharp, keep her wits about her and wait for the right moment. Hard to believe that only a few moments ago Erin was almost ready to give up. Yet now, if anything, she seemed strangely calm, almost relaxed. Almost too relaxed.

  She began to get up off the floor but sat straight back down again. She’d got up too quickly and became dizzy.

  Slowly, carefully, she tried again and had another dizzy spell. Only this time she rode it out and stayed up on her feet. But there was definitely something wrong; her head felt groggy and the room was turning.

  Was it just tiredness or had Henrietta—

  Erin looked at the teacup in her hands; it was still three-quarters full.

  She felt her brow—seemed okay, just a little damp. But she had to concentrate as she walked, step by uncertain step, into the untidy kitchen area with its permanent odor of bacon grease.

  The door to the bedroom was still closed, so Erin was completely alone as she staggered awkwardly over to the sink and poured the rest of her tea away. The brew cascaded down a stack of dirty plates like the water in a Venetian fountain before trickling off down the drain.

  She turned and looked around the room. It was small, very small, and the electric lamps didn’t seem to be making much difference when it came to brightening things. But then kitchens were meant to be functional, not warm and snug. Kitchens were where meals were made, where millions of dismembered animal corpses were cut up and cooked, each and every hour of the day.

  Some framed photos stood propped against the wall on the small kitchen table. Erin bent down to take a closer look at them. There were three of them—family photos taken a long time ago.

  One showed Henrietta posing for the camera with a little boy in front of a Christmas tree. The boy couldn’t have been more than four years-old. Erin couldn’t tell when the picture was taken, but Henrietta looked a lot younger, if just as fat as she was now. The woman’s dress sense hadn’t changed much either.

  A second photo was of the boy on his own. He was a few years older than in the Christmas scene, and he was sitting on a wooden rocking horse. Erin frowned; the boy had purple blotches all over the skin of his face.

  Finally, the third photo—Jesus!

  Erin stood up and recoiled in shock. Her stomach was in her mouth and her head was spinning again.

  The photo.

  Henrietta was hugging the same boy only he was a teenager, and his face—

  Erin had stood up too fast.

  The whole room was spinning, alive with the grotesque disfigurement of the teenager’s face, preserved for all time by the photographer’s lens. The image had caught Erin so totally by surprise that she felt as if she’d been pu
nched straight in the gut. He looked so awful, ugly, so horribly deformed—the lovely smile of the Christmas kid destroyed by facial sickness.

  She grabbed hold of her head to stop the dizziness and prepared to steel her nerves for another look at the photo, when she was startled by the sudden ringing of the phone.

  The phone?

  Erin spun on her heels and lurched drunkenly back into the living room. It was a phone—she’d definitely heard a phone.

  The door leading out of the trailer was still locked—the armchair firmly up against it—but Erin wasn’t interested at all in leaving right now. Instead, she walked across to the closed door opposite the exit, the door that Henrietta had disappeared into.

  Erin pressed her muggy head up against the veneered chipboard and listened through. She could hear Henrietta’s muffled voice.

  No doubt about it: Henrietta was talking to someone and it wasn’t the baby.

  Erin pushed the door open and burst into the bedroom. She was feeling increasingly shaky on her feet, but she still had enough sense to see that Henrietta was speaking into a damned phone!

  The obese trailer trash was sitting on the bed.

  She had a baby girl on her knees and a cigarette in her mouth. As she held the phone in the crook of her neck, she spoon-fed the baby a messy mouthful of cold baked beans, straight from the can.

  Henrietta looked up and saw the anger and confusion on Erin’s ghostly white face.

  “I better go now,” she said to whoever was on the other end of the line, and then she hung up.

  Erin stared at the baby. The tiny girl was adorable: blonde hair, smooth white skin and the most perfect face. The sight of her bouncing up and down in her soft rabbit pajamas sent powerful waves of emotion sweeping through Erin’s body. The child’s innocence and playfulness were completely out of place, they seemed so wrong here. And there was something else . . .

  “You okay,” asked Henrietta, glowing with motherly pride. “You don’t look so good.”

  Suddenly Erin remembered why she’d charged in here. She motioned to the phone.

  “I thought . . . you said you didn’t have one.”