The Bait and the Blade
⚠️ CHAPTER WARNINGS: Graphic Violence, Decapitation.
“I thought I was the only one running. I didn’t realize I’d be the only one left breathing.”
Lucy
There’s an urban legend in our town, Goreshore. The name is intentional. If you knew the horrors that took place here, you’d know it’s accurately named.
I believe this tale, even though I’ve never seen it for myself. Deep in the woods is Dr. Frank. Could be his real name or not.
He created three men. Despite them being sewn together by other body parts, they’re supposedly handsome. They were made to lure women back to Dr. Frank’s castle in the woods. His taste for gore unmatched.
He’s not Dracula, not a Zombie, but his taste buds could be. Dr. Frank is a balding man. Crooked, gargantuan nose. Hairy, oozy moles on his head and face.
His looks are enough to scare the most desensitized person running. Bad for him, he’s also weak.
The men he made Reaper, Grim, and Grave fetch for him. They lay out traps late at night. This tale used to haunt me, but after never seeing them, I buried it in the recesses of my mind.
Now, as I run from home, covered in blood in the middle of the night, it’s all I can think about. The road is windy. A cliff’s edge to my right and fog rolling from behind the trees to my left.
“You’re giving me that pussy. I waited until you were eighteen, dammit. That, in and of itself, is a reward.” My father’s drunken, slurred words play in my head, burrowing deep beneath my skin, making it burn and itch.
I squeeze my eyes shut and push off the pavement hard in an attempt to forget the things that followed his conversation.
It’s unnervingly quiet. Only my breathing and the footfalls of my Converse tennis shoes can be heard. A hitch in my side forces me to slow down.
Shrill screaming of a woman to my left pulls the hairs of my body up. My stomach coils, and an icy dread builds in my chest.
It’s a terrible thing to have to choose between your life and someone else’s. Tonight, I’ve already done that twice, and I’m about to make it a third.
There’s no way I can stop for her. It’s too dangerous, and since it’s coming from the woods, it could be the Frankenpeen boys.
This probably isn’t the time for jokes, but it’s my defense mechanism. Like a fucked-up superpower. Dark humor helps me get through the worst trauma.
Out of my peripheral, there’s movement. A figure emerges from the tree line. I was too inside my head to realize her screams had grown louder.
Another superpower—disassociation. I had to be far gone not to hear her. One minute, she’s at the edge of the woods, and the next, she’s in front of me.
Crimson in thick, tar-like strips saturates her flesh. I can’t tell if it’s her blood or someone else’s. She looks like Carrie running home from prom.
Only Carrie walked calmly as she fucked people’s shit up. “Help me!” She grabs my arm.
“You’ve got to help me. They’re coming!” She’s frantic.
My brain is slow. I stand there, letting her anxiety befriend my own. Who are they? “Shit.” She looks over her shoulder to her right, my left. Three enormous frames are lit up by the moon.
That’s the smack I need. I keep my hands on hers and keep running in the direction I was going. A safe house for teens. This woman looks to be in her twenties, from what I can see of her features, but they’d take her all the same.
My feet slip and slide on the dewy grass. I tuck us back behind a row of sheds. It’s a bad idea since they run along the woods, but the men are too fast. We can’t keep moving on the road. There would be no escaping them. Hiding is the best option.
Deep huffing echoes between the planks of the sheds. It takes effort not to peek. They know we are here, the same way we know they are here.
Thankfully, they are loud. I move us down and to the side of one as they draw closer. Our breath puffs in clouds as we breathe. I cover mine, and she follows.
It’s not freezing, but cold enough that you can see your breath. As I’m peeking over the side, after I said I wouldn’t, a blood-curdling scream comes from behind me.
It’s the woman. Her blonde hair-stained strawberry red from blood, fisted into a man’s large hand. He’s big and broad. Tattooed and stitched up. His white silvery hair buzzed, and his white, dead eyes narrow on me.
His eyes that of a lion catching an elk, him being the lion, me being the elk. “Good job.” He says to the girl, lifting her up as if she’s nothing more than a feather.
He slices her neck, silencing her. The man keeps cutting until her body drops. Her head still floating by her hair in his hand. Tendons hang like spaghetti. Red, gooey blood streams like snot.
When he drops her head, I realize I should be screaming. I’m scared, but I’m also a sick fuck. The sight was too goddamn fascinating.
He’s shirtless and wearing tattered jeans that are hanging loose from his hips. For all the stitches covering his body, he’s built.
As he gets closer, I notice his tattoos don’t line up. Like a quilt that ran out of its pattern. He leans in and gets an inch from my face. “Fuck, you’re going to be hard to resist.” His deep voice tickles up my spine.
Again, I lack alarm bells. Strong arms wrap around me tight enough that I can’t breathe. The pressure increases until my vision blurs and eventually goes out.
Too dark for inkitt
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