So here's a short piece I wrote in a past writing group for a game we were playing. The aim was to write a mick-take cheesy slasher horror. I like to think I did OK. Note: It has not been re-drafted in any way because it was written just for fun.
Stacey boobed down the stairs as quickly as she could in high heels.
She held her large breasts in place with her hands to prevent the two black eyes that their violent oscillation threatened.
She had to get out. He was in the house. He was going to get her. She never should have played with that stupid Fiji board or whatever. She was too young and pretty to die. She was going to live to be prom queen, dammit!
The image of her on the arm of Jake McBuff, the pair of them stood pretty and perfect before the whole school, spurred her on. She barreled through the front door and out into the street.
The masked man was waiting on the porch.
With a lunge of his hammer, which had two screwdrivers duct-taped to the head, he dealt her a scoring blow to the back. Her shriek rang out into the night and she staggered through the front yard, her top falling away for some bizarre reason, sliced by the improbable weapon.
Bleeding, crying and shrieking unintelligibly, she fled, her hands still clasping at her mammaries in calamity.
He strode out into the street behind her, never moving faster than a funeral procession. He pulled back his arm and let the, frankly, ridiculous implement fly. The last thing Stacy Cheersquad heard was the ‘thunk’ at the back of her own head.
“Did you guys hear? It got Stacey!”
Aubrey did her best to cry but she didn’t want to ruin her make-up. Especially now Jake McBuff was technically single.
“Dude, bummer,” was Skidmark’s response, as he rolled himself another blunt.
“I can’t believe it,” Stevie, wrapped her flannel shirt around herself, as if trying to ward off the chill of death. She was plain, in a supermodel kind of way. Wavy dark hair fell to her shoulders and baggy clothes hinted at a stunning figure. If only she didn’t wear glasses and read things in books - she’d have all the dick she could ever want. Instead she was focused on becoming valedictorian and brooding over the death of her mother and twin sister. “Jake, I’m so sorry.”
Jake was anguished. It was written all over the frown on his face and the tense muscles beneath his letterman jacket.
“Damn,” he said. “Now who will go to prom with me?”
Aubrey arched her back to stick out her chest more, which, in fairness, was probably the best chest remaining now Stacey was out of the picture.
“Don’t worry, my man,” said Richie, adjusting his designer shades. “We can hop in my dad’s jet this weekend and pick up some babes from overseas. They love Americans!”
“Don’t you guys get it?” hissed CJ, looking up from repeatedly stabbing an apple with her switchblade. She glared at them through a shock of blue hair. “We did this, it’s our fault!”
“You don’t mean…” Stevie’s face paled.
“We said we wouldn’t talk about that night,” Jake growled. “We were never there. We didn’t do anything.”
CJ’s lips curled into a snarl at Jake’s display of masculine aggression.
“My dad’s lawyers can prove it,” said Richie. “We’re innocent.”
“Guys, guys,” Skidmark stood, breathing out some sick weed smoke clouds. “We just need to chill, alright? Let’s just get high. It’s what Stacey would have wanted.”
He offered the blunt to Jake.
The class bell rang and the utterly unlikely group of friends dispersed.
Richie along the upstairs corridor, sobbing in fear.
He rounded the corner and almost tripped over the body of Agatha, the maid. Her eyes were glassy in death. Her legs had been removed at the knee.
“Jesus,” he breathed.
The power was out and rain lashed against the windows. A burst of lightning illuminated the rest of the serving staff. They littered the hallway, blood seeping into the expensive carpet. Every face was a death-mask of pain, with the exception of Lucia, whose head had been removed. All of them had suffered the same amputations as Agatha.
“FUCK!” Richie screamed as he pissed his chinos. He couldn’t bring himself to step between the bodies so he turned and fled the other way.
Skidmark had been staying in the pool house while Richie’s parents were out of town. They could barricade themselves in, call for help. Richie patted his pockets. Where the hell was his phone?
He rounded the corner just as the masked man let Lucia’s head fly. Richie screamed and hurled himself aside to avoid the head as it bounced and tumbled its way down the corridor, into the arrangement of severed legs standing at the other end.
“Strike,” said the masked man, crossing the distance between them.
Richie wanted to run but he was too scared.
“Touch me and I’ll sue!” he whimpered.
The masked man swung that ridiculous hammer/screwdriver upwards, the points stabbing the underside of Richie’s jaw. With a snarl and heave, the jaw came away completely, leaving Richie’s tongue to thrash at the air from the ruin of his throat.
Skidmark was high as fuck when someone knocked at the door.
He dropped his porn mag and staggered over, thrusting the door open and releasing a pungent cloud into the night. Richie stood there, unsteady on his feet.
“Hey, man. Did you bring snacks? What’s up with your face?”
Richie slumped sideways, revealing the figure behind him. The black-clad masked man. The man who’d been butchering babysitters all over town. The one who’d killed Stacy.
“Oh God!” Skidmark back-peddled as the man advanced. “It’s you, isn’t it? The mechanic dude we hit with our car last year! I knew it!”
Skidmark slipped over his discarded and slightly sticky magazine, continuing his retreat on all fours.
“I’m sorry, man! I’m sorry! I was high, man! I didn’t see you!”
The blood-drenched weapon rose and came back down with a crack. Smoke emerged from the top of Skidmark’s fractured skull, even though the respiratory system doesn’t work that way.
“It was that Ouija board, I know it!” Stevie paced. “We brought him back!”
“We’re not supposed to talk about this!” Jake growled. Aubrey huddled closer to him beneath the light of the basement rumpus room. A loud thud interrupted them.
“That came from upstairs,” Stevie whispered. “He’s here.”
“You should go check,” Aubrey glared at her.
“It’s probably nothing,” Jake eye-rolled.
The door to the basement crashed open and Skidmark’s body rolled to the foot of the steps. The masked man followed, unhurriedly.
“I got this!” Jake machoed his way forward. “Wrong house motherfu-!”
He swung a punch but the killer parried the blow with his weapon, the screwdriver heads ripping Jake’s forearm. His scream of pain was cut short as the hammer-driver splattered his brains across the wall.
Aubrey ran for the other door but made it three steps before tripping over thin air. In three short strides the killer reached her, stamping down on her spine. Aubrey couldn’t feel her legs. She felt it when he stamped on her hand though. And when he stamped on her head. After the fifth stamp she felt nothing at all. Blood bubbled from the pulp of her face.
Stevie cowered.
“Please!” she begged.
The killer tilted his head to regard her. He raised a bloodied hand to his mask and pulled it aside.
“No!” Stevie gasped “It can’t be!”
“That’s right!” said Stevie’s twin sister, Bethany. “I was the killer all along!”
“But…why did you kill so many babysitters? Why the hammer if you’re not the mechanic? It doesn’t make sense!”
“I don’t much care.” Her smile was wide, a little drool at the corners.
“Me either,” said CJ.
She loomed out from behind Bethany and brought the switchblade round neatly into the side of her neck.
“CJ!” Stevie cried out as Bethany dropped dead. “You killed her!”
CJ rolled her eyes.
“Don’t worry, she’ll be back for the sequel.”
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