4.
Despite the ominous encounter, we decided to press on. Dusk had darkened the sky by the time the van slowed down in front of a rusty black wrought iron fence. Parting through it was a dirt road winding up to a jagged bluff overlooking the lake.  Crowning it was a warped and murky house that almost seemed to curve out and peer down on us with a menacing glare. A single twisted tree was the only other detail marking the somber, grassy landscape.
“Nice place, isn’t it?” said Sam. His prospects with Britney gave him an endless supply of cheer.
“It’s a deathtrap,” said Devon.

“Yeah, man,” agreed Jamal, “Looks like Freddy’s nightmare vacation home or somethin’.”

“Teddy,” said Britney. “My dad’s name is Teddy.” Before Jamal could explain who Freddy was, Britney leaned forward, pointing up the drive. “Just park right there, by the front porch.”

Devon did, and as soon as she killed the engine, we emerged from the van. Jamal helped Sam into his wheelchair, and we stepped up the incline to the front door side by side. Well, I was actually shoved into a prickly shrub by Jamal, but everyone else was side by side. As I pulled myself to my feet, Britney unlocked the front door. Slowly, we crept in through the doorway, entering the darkened foyer with caution. Only Britney seemed to be immune to the feeling of dread that had overtaken us all, and she prattled on about what a good deal her father had got as she felt along the walls for a light switch.

“Can you believe that it was only two hundred dollars for the whole month? It’s like…” But we never found out just what it was akin to, as her sentence was cut short by a shriek. Suddenly, the lights were on, and a withered old woman with long gray hair was standing beside Britney, grinning at her with sharp yellow teeth. Soon we were all shrieking along with her, which was a good thing, because no one noticed that I sounded like Mariah Carrey when I screamed.

“Oh! It’s just the caretaker!” said Britney breathlessly. “Oh my gosh, you scared me, Mrs. Greely!”

“Call me Mildred,” said the caretaker. “You kids here for the weekend?”

If anyone answered her, I did not notice. I was too busy gawking at my surroundings. Everything about the place – from the dusty chandelier, to the edges of the blackened hallways, to the eerie portraits of previous tenants hanging on dull grey wood paneling, right down to that ghoulish old lady who must have been crazy if she thought this place looked inviting – seemed to scream that we were never getting out of here alive. I could see it now: Four Teens, Overage Cheerleader Mangled In Timeshare Massacre. I glanced to Devon, who seemed to be weighing the situation behind her squinting eyes.

Mildred spoke again as she held up a dingy silver platter filled with cookies. “Hungry, kids?” The cookies were festively shaped like little tombstones. She had ever written our names on them, except of course mine, which read R.I.P. Charles. Before I could recite my usual correction, Devon took one look at the platter and made an announcement.

“Fuck this.”

With that, she grabbed an unwilling Sam by the back of his wheelchair and marched right back out the door. I followed close behind, feeling an intense wave of relief. Maybe we weren’t going to have to stay in this forsaken place after all.

“Wait!” called Britney.

“Hold on!” said Sam. “We can’t just go back home, how lame would that be?! Ow!” Devon had just dumped him headfirst into the back of the van.

“Not as lame as getting made into cookies by the Manson family baker, I suspect,” she said as she got in the driver’s seat.

Just as I began to follow suit by getting in the passenger’s side, an enraged Britney pulled me back and got in the front seat herself. I was forced to climb in the back with Sam and Jamal, who was eating a handful of the tombstone cookies and getting crumbs everywhere.

“You can’t just make us leave!”  said Britney.

“Watch me,” said Devon, and she hit the gas, forcing a shrieking Britney to shut the door. We began heading down the dirt road, leaving Mrs. Mildred standing in the doorway with her forlorn snacks.

“Oh my gosh, are you afraid of carbs or something?! It’s not like you had to eat them!”

Devon whipped her head over to look at Britney in the eye. All the while I was painfully aware that we were still barreling down the winding drive. “Yes, Britney. I am afraid of carbs. Not staying in a hellhole called Slaughterville on Friday the thirteenth, not random crazy guys telling us we’re all going to get killed by psycho undead Indians, not the fucking witch from Hansel and Gretel who knows all our names, but carbs. After all, if I gain any weight I might not be able to fit in a stylish casket!”

“Look out!” I shouted.

Devon turned her attention back to driving just in time to slam on the breaks to avoid hitting a man standing in the opening at the fence. The blazing headlights bathed the figure in blinding white light, but I could tell that he was soaking wet and apparently wearing some sort of snorkeling mask over his face.

“Oh look,” said Devon, “It’s probably the killer. I bet you all want to exit the safety of the vehicle now.”

“Come on, Dev,” said Sam, “It’s probably just a tourist. Let’s just go back to the house.”

“You know what,” said Devon. She shifted the van into reverse and backed up about twenty feet. “I’ll give you a head start. Everybody out. If you live, I’ll pick you up in the morning.”

“Excuse me, but does that mean everybody-everybody, or just the people who want to stay here?” I asked. I don’t think anyone heard me. Sam was talking again.

“But where will you go?” he asked.

“I’m finding a Holiday Inn. I’m pretty sure my dad will count not being stabbed to death as a use for the emergency credit card. Now get out!”

I tried to stay in the van. I really did. But somewhere between Britney getting her luggage, Sam struggling out and into his wheelchair, and Jamal shoving me out of his way with his crumb-covered fingers, I ended up outside with the rest of them. Before I knew it, all I could see of my Devon was her van’s taillights swerving to the side to avoid hitting the creepy trespasser. I was stuck.

5.
 

The sun had set and the four of us stood there looking back toward the man in the driveway. We couldn’t make any of his features out, but it was clear that he was steadily walking in our direction. Britney handed her luggage to Jamal, who promptly handed both hers and his to me. With that, on top of my own meager backpack, I must have been toting the weight of a Backstreet Boy.

“Hold that,” he said. “Man, that dude’s wiggin’ me out.”

“Let’s get out of here,” said Sam.

“For sure,” said Britney. They broke into a jog with Sam keeping up in his chair. Before the sound of their footsteps faded away, I could hear Britney complaining. “Oww! If I knew there was going to be all this running, I would have worn a sports bra!”

With no choice, I began to walk. I didn’t know what the chances were of that guy behind me being a serial killer, but I did know the chances of getting beaten up by Jamal if I didn’t carry their stuff all the way to the house. I could hear his footsteps behind me, and he wasn’t gaining speed. He was merely walking at a brisk pace. If I could only match it, I would be in the safety of the house in no time.

I didn’t take my eyes off the ground, paying close attention to my footing to keep my balance. That is, until I heard a great commotion ahead. Apparently, Sam had crashed his wheelchair and careened out of its seat. Britney tripped over him, which was understandable, what with the high heels and all. However, I would have expected Jamal, who was also on the ground, to have more coordination, given his knack for sports. Something about being chased by a possible murderer, I think, took away their ability to watch where they were going. Lucky me, I guess. I passed them.

I was panting, sweating, and in need of a good stretch when I breeched the front door. I dropped the luggage in the foyer and shut the door behind myself, letting out a long sigh. Part of me wanted to just lock the stupid door, leaving the others as helpless prey, but I didn’t have the nerve. Besides, I figured Sam couldn’t be that bad if Devon was friends with him. I’m sure if I had an eye for chesty bimbos, I could have been led astray as well…

Or maybe I already had been led astray. After all, I wouldn’t be in this mess if I didn’t have a crush on Devon, and now she had left me stranded here with these cretins. Maybe it wasn’t really true love after all. I shook my head and headed for the stairs, resolved to barricade myself in a room for the night.

Suddenly! A gnarled hand grabbed my shoulder from behind. I screamed and whipped around to face Mrs. Mildred staring back at me with her owlish eyes amidst the curtain of ragged grey hair.

“That’s some voice,” she said. “You related to that Timberlake boy? No, I guess you look too nondescript. My oh my, I sure wish I had that hot little can of glistening beefcake here with me right now instead of you kids.”

I let out a nervous laugh. “Uh, no relation, ma’am,” I said. “Sorry about earlier, we just got a little spooked…” I rubbed the back of my neck as I took another gander at the place. “It’s not really haunted, is it?”

“This place?” she asked. “My word, is it ever!”

That’s not really the answer I was expecting. “It is?” I asked. “By who? Indians?”

“No, no. By little Timmy, from down the street. Relax, Charles, and I’ll tell you a story.”

“It’s Craig, actually,” I said, but I complied and rested up against the banister.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Chris,” she said, and patted me on the head. “Anyhoo. It was ten years ago, back when Slaughterville was a bustling timeshare and bacon manufacturing community. Every October, there was this one kid that come around from down the street who gave all the other tenants hell. Timmy was his name. Oh, he was a terror. Always rolling the house with toilet paper, throwing rocks at the window, leaving flaming bags of dog shit on the porch – which believe you me, can be a real fire hazard when no one is home. That’s why they needed caretakers in the first place. Oh, they thought they could get rid of us after he got drowned in the lake, but no. Every once in a while, you’ll see him pullin’ his pranks from beyond the grave.”

“Pranks?” I asked. “That’s it? That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Well, they think the ones that did poor little Timmy in stayed here, but no one ever cared to do any investigating because with Timmy dead, property values skyrocketed,” she said. “That is, before the murders. Yes, they say little Timmy got his revenge on the ones that killed him.”

“Oh.” I thought back to the man on the road and his snorkeling mask. “Well, I don’t think he’s little anymore,” I muttered. “Thanks for the story, Mrs. Mildred. I’ll just be heading off to bed…”

Suddenly! Yet another hand grabbed me from behind and I screamed again. But when I whipped around, there was no familiar face staring back at me. Instead, it was an old man, pale as a ghost and dripping from head to toe.

“Oh, it’s all right,” said Mildred. “It’s just my husband, Mortimer.” She walked over and pried his hand from my shirt. “Oh, Morty, you silly thing. Did you forget to towel off after your shower again?” She looked over at me with a ghastly smile. “You got to watch out for Mortimer and his killer instincts. He may be getting up in the years, but he can still sneak up on you!”

Killer instincts? I cleared my throat and found my voice again, but not without it cracking in the middle of my sentence. “Wuh-was he in Korea or something?” I asked.

“Korea? Heavens no, of course not,” laughed Mildred. “Couldn’t, what with being in prison for murdering a bunch of teenagers and all.”

“He’s a murderer?!” I gasped. “Why would you marry a murderer?!”

Mildred smiled wistfully, looking almost girlish in the eyes for a split second. “He makes me laugh.”

“That’s nice,” I said as I backed toward the staircase. It was time to leave, before I asked any other questions that would lead to even more eye-stabbingly horrible revelations. “Good night.” I ran up the stairs, picked the first door I came to, and locked myself in the room.

6.

The hours passed by, and I could only assume that the others had made it back to the house safely. I occupied my time by staring at the ceiling from the bed and imagining that I was playing one of my favorite video games, Resident Evil 12: Citizen Dubious. It didn’t exactly calm my nerves, but it was entertaining at least. I think it was getting close to two in the morning when nature came calling, and I hopped off the musty floral duvet and headed to the bathroom.

I was just zipping up my fly when something caught my eye in the mirror. It was the reflection of a spot of red in the shower. I pulled back the curtain and gasped: a message written in odious crimson. Was it blood? I couldn’t even read the thing without looking in the mirror. It said:

Wash your hands, Chuck.

Truly, that was some good advice, since I read somewhere that a third of Americans don’t wash theirs after using the restroom, but I was much too perturbed to really appreciate the sentiment at the time. Besides, you would think a person that stealthy could have gotten my name right.

 
Slowly, I looked around the room, careful to keep my back against the wall. But then I noticed that a door connected the bathroom to the next bedroom over. I let out a breath. “Very funny, guys,” I muttered, and headed back into my room.

But I was not alone. It was a good thing I had emptied my bladder, because the sight of Britney laying on the bed nearly made me jump out of my skin. Hoarse from all my previous screaming, my throat settled on a tiny shriek of surprise.

“Britney! You scared the bejeezus out of me. What are you doing here?” I arched an eyebrow at her foot. “Uh, you have a little something there,” I said, pointing at the strip of toilet paper attached to her heel.

“Huh? Oh.” She ripped the paper off and tossed it aside. “I’m sad, Chip!” she said as she sat up. Her bottom lip poked out like a spoiled little brat. “Jamal pulled a muscle on the way back in, so I went looking for Sam. But all I found was his beat up wheelchair covered in toilet paper!” She waggled her eyebrows and smiled. “So I guess you’ll have to cheer me up… Unpopular people make me feel so dirty.”

“Covered in t-toilet paper..?” I could feel the blood draining from my face, and it wasn’t for the reasons Britney intended.

“Yeah,” she said. She hopped off the bed and started prowling in my direction. “I think his legs must have got better all the sudden, and he was like, really mad at his wheelchair.”

Unaware that I was slowly backing away, I startled as my back brushed against the wall. My voice cracked again. “I-I don’t think that’s what happened, Britney.”

“Whatever,” she said. Her hands dropped onto my shoulders and she pushed me down into a conveniently placed chair. “Forget about him!” She climbed on top of me and grabbed the collar of her shirt with both hands. With one yank the shirt ripped in half, sending buttons flying in every direction. “Oops! My shirt broke. Kiss me, Chip!”

This was tempting enough that for a second, I actually forgot about the fact that Sam was probably lying face down in a pool of blood somewhere. “But what about Jamal?”

“I’m only with him to piss off my dad,” said Britney. “Besides, you didn’t think we all came out here to play Yahtzee or something, did you? Don’t be such a dork!”

I didn’t know whether to be stunned by how rotten this girl was to the very core, or how she had managed to sound somewhat intelligent for the last three sentences. Either way, I knew I didn’t really want to share my first kiss with this floozy. My lips belonged to Devon. “Get off me, please,” I said, or at least tried, as my mouth was muffled as Britney thrust her chest against my face. Just as I began to wish that it was socially acceptable for men to carry around cans of pepper spray, a suspicious noise in the hallway startled us both.

I heaved in a gulp of air as Britney leaned away from my face. “What was that?” I gasped.

“Probably just the wind,” she said.

“The wind doesn’t blow indoors,” I said.

“Oh!” she whispered, suddenly excited. “Maybe it’s Sam!” With that, she hopped off of my lap and began to slide out of her ruined shirt and pleated skirt.

“Why are you taking your clothes off?” I asked.

“Shh! I’m going to surprise Sam. I’m much sneakier in just my underwear,” she explained.

“You’re really just going to go out there by yourself?” I asked.

“Why, did you want to make it a three way?” she asked.

“No!”

“Oh my gosh, Chip, you’re such a prune.”

I shook my head. “That’s Craig, and prude, and aw just forget it.” She wasn’t listening, anyway. I stood up and watched her slowly turn the handle and pull the door open. She slipped outside on her tiptoes, and I really had to admire her genuine talent for stealth. I was just about to shut the door behind her when I heard a halted shriek in the hallway.

“Britney?!” I called, and without thinking, I stepped out into the hall to look.

I don’t know if it was Mortimer or the guy from the driveway or even if they were one in the same. All I knew was that a dripping wet man with a snorkeling mask obscuring his face was standing over Britney with a bloody knife in his hand. With her throat cut, Britney lay dead with her eyes rolled into the back of her head. The shadowy killer raised a finger in my direction and slowly began to lumber toward the room.

It seemed as though my voice had found its way to my throat once again. I don’t know how long I had been screaming, but I only noticed that I was when I couldn’t hear the door as I slammed it shut. I took a breath. Thinking fast, I lunged for the chair and wedged it under the door handle just in time before the killer began to rattle it.

I had to get away. I darted for the bathroom door, but it was locked. I banged my fists against it.

“Open up! Open up!”

Somewhere within, I heard Jamal’s voice. “Damn, dude, can’t a brother get some privacy?!”

I looked back toward the door. The blade of the knife pierced through the wood and I screamed again. I made for the window, figuring I’d either climb down the tree or jump, but just as I began to pry it open, I noticed something hanging in the tree. It was Sam, or at least his body, hung by the neck and covered in toilet paper.

I screamed again, running out of breath just in time to hear a flush from the bathroom. Just then, Jamal opened the door.

“Hey, man, if you got Mariah Carrey’s new album, can I borrow it?”

“Jamal!” I cried. “I think it’s that caretaker’s husband! He’s killed Sam and Britney! Look!”

Jamal did look, first at the body, and then at the knife-wielding arm protruding through the nearby door. “Holy shit!”

“Go! Go!” I ran for the bathroom, and Jamal wasted no time in following suit.

See also Parts 1-3 & Parts 7-9.