He just wanted a drive, just to clear his head, just to piece the whole bloody jigsaw of his life together.
But without the headlights on, he never sees it coming.
And neither will you.
I am privileged to have lots of people in my life – friends and family – who also have creative minds, a talent for writing, or simply share my love of horror! I have several collaborations planned for the future, but ‘Headlights’ is the first that has been completed and ready to send out into the world; an idea put to me by my cousin Matthew Rachel who had actually written the original story as part of his A Level English coursework (much the same as part of my debut novel – ‘BITE’ – was used for my A Level English coursework!). I took some liberties with the story to allow it to become part of the spooky Southumberland world which I have created, but the general plot, and the final, brutal, shocking climax, are all Cousin Matt’s. When he first told it to me, I was so excited and knew that I just had to write it. It was shocking to me just hearing it verbally, so I hope I’ve done it justice in my writing.
Strap yourself in…
Headlights
By Keelan Berry and Matthew Rachel
He took another swig from the bottle and tried to put the top back on it, but couldn’t, so chucked it out of the window instead. Fiddly bloody things anyway. He put the bottle on the passenger seat and looked at it, then shook his head. “No.” He whispered, reaching over again, pulling the seatbelt across it. He fumbled with it, and it slipped from his hands a few times, but he finally clipped it in; it was barely touching the bottle. “Better.” He slurred, and chuckled a little, patting the bottle and then stroking it affectionately before turning back to the steering wheel.
He gripped the wheel and looked ahead at his house. He sighed. He had spent, what, almost half of his life in that house? Twenty years he’d lived there. How old was he now? He released the steering wheel and held his hands up in front of him. On one hand he held up four fingers, “Four…” He whispered to himself. Then he stared at the other hand for a few moments, and slowly lifted his little finger, “One…” He paused again. Were there enough fingers? “Two, three… four…” He left his thumb down. What month is it? He lifted it finally, “Forty-five.” He said to himself, and nodded at his triumph, gripping the wheel and facing the house again.
He was never going to come back – he couldn’t stay there anymore, not after everything that had happened in the last few months.
Instead of starting the car, he reached for the bottle of whiskey again, and took a massive swig. It plunged down his throat like fire, and his teeth clenched. He put it back in the seatbelt.
He thought he’d been a good man all his life – and he ended up like this?
Married the girl he’d loved since school, worked hard, built a home and a family with her… and now…
He reached for the bottle again. He wanted to think about it all, wanted to run through everything that had happened just to clear his mind – but his mind wouldn’t let him. He had to clean his mind first with the whiskey, just like he used to clean his bike chain as a child to get it moving again. It was the same, very much the same.
He started the car finally.
The drive might help too.
Drive… to test. He thought determinedly to himself, test if the chain is working yet, or if it needs more cleaning.
Clean the chain on his bike…
He reversed the car slowly, the road only illuminated by the light coming from the streetlamps; the moon and stars mostly blocked out by dark clouds.
Clean the chain…
Am I in the wrong lane? He looked around and shrugged – there was nobody else on the road at this time of night anyway.
…on his daughter’s bike…
He could remember her. Good. That was a start. He remembered her bike – small and pink – and teaching her how to ride it for the very first time. She had gotten the hang of it so quickly, but at the same time she was always so careful, never riding without a helmet and never going too fast.
Why then-no.
Why-NO!
His hand reached for the bottle again, but his eyes stayed on the road. He could remember her, but he could only go so far with those memories. That one particular memory was especially off limits. He couldn’t get to it – it was sealed off in a secluded part of his brain. He wanted to think of it, to put it all together, to finally be at peace with it all. But he couldn’t.
He brought the bottle to his lips and tipped it up, still trying to keep his eyes on the road. He could feel the car veering into the other lane, but he didn’t even know if he was in the right one anyway, so it didn’t matter. There was nobody around anyway. Not at this time of night.
He kept drinking. He drank as though it was a hot summer’s day and the bottle in his hand had water inside. It was burning, but that was good, he needed it to burn, that meant it was getting better.
He tried to gulp more down, but there was only air left. He almost choked, but managed to cough it away quickly. He threw the bottle out of his window and heard it smash in the road. He laughed and pushed down on the accelerator.
Was this what they had been doing? Was this why it had happened?
He gripped the steering wheel tighter and clenched his teeth.
He squinted; the streetlamps were more spaced out near Wald Forest, and the tall trees blocked out whatever small amount of light was coming from the few stars above.
His hand hovered, did he turn on the headlights? No, not yet. He would avoid it for as long as he could. He just had to make it to the motorway.
But, even with the headlights off, he could still see her outline in the darkness. Just her outline. No features yet, and that was good, because seeing her in full was the worst part. He could handle just the silhouette.
He saw her all the time when he was trying to clear his mind. Outside the house, at the window. Inside the house, standing in the corner of the room. Now, she had followed him outside. He could see her in the road.
Something was different this time, though.
All the other times she appeared, she was just standing, watching. This time… he couldn’t put his finger on it. She wasn’t moving, but she was doing something. His hand moved again. If he put them on, just for a second, he could see.
He lifted his foot off the accelerator.
He flicked the lights on.
They lit up the road, and there she was.
He turned them off again, the car veering into the other lane. She was already dead – real or not – he knew that, but he couldn’t drive through her. No. He wouldn’t. Now think, he told himself, what was she doing? She looked the same way she had when they – he and his wife, her mother – had seen her for the first time after it had happened. Clothes torn, splattered in blood, skin grazed and flesh dangling in some places. Her face… One side, beautiful. Her blue eyes sparkling, her red hair silky and shining, her skin soft and… intact. The other side was burned, some skin and flesh still attached, but the skull below it all was mostly visible. Blackened and charred. Below, shards of glass jutted out of her neck.
He closed his eyes, eyelids pressing hard against one another. Don’t think about that, no, no, no. Not the way she looks. What was she doing?! Not what she looked like.
He reached for the bottle again, and remembered it wasn’t there. Come on, what was she doing? He remembered flicking the headlights on, seeing his daughter… and… yes, there was something different. She was pointing, pointing to her right – his left. Left. He looked to the tall trees of the forest, which was when he realised he was on the wrong side of the road.
He turned the wheel slightly until he was in the other lane and then straightened it again. Seconds later, another car zoomed past him. Must have got on from the motorway, he thought, which meant he shouldn’t be too far away now… Left.
He looked again, the trees closer now. He looked to the other lane, and that was when the realisation fully hit him, as though the air bag had exploded into his face. She had been pointing left, she had shown him he was in the wrong lane, she had saved his life.
Was this what they had been doing? Was this why it had happened?
He knew the police had told him and his wife how it had happened, but he couldn’t remember anymore. He’d barely been able to listen at the time, and since then he and his wife hadn’t really spoke of it. They didn’t really get chance to speak about it – at first they both mourned silently, and by the time they had found their voices again, she’d… No. She had drifted away… Don’t. She had-NO!
He couldn’t think about that. He almost reached for the bottle again, and brought a fist crashing down on the steering wheel when he remembered that he’d finished it. The short but blaring beep! that followed made him jump slightly, and he almost sobered for a moment – the world stopped spinning, his eyes opened wide – but seconds later he slumped down again, head banging in a whirlwind.
He could think about his dead daughter – just about, now that he had cleaned the chain – but his wife? No. He couldn’t think about what had happened there.
They could have gotten through it, he knew they could have, and they should have. A few days of not talking? Surely normal after such a violent loss. But they didn’t even have chance to speak before-NO!
Fine.
He turned the wheel to the left slightly and braked hard. The car stopped and he got out, realising he hadn’t put his seatbelt on. The car was diagonal, the back end still on the road, but that didn’t matter. He opened the back door and rummaged through empty bags and packages, empty cans, empty bottles… There had to be something else.
He slammed the door and nearly fell backwards, his arms rotating in the air as he tried to balance himself. He finally did fall when he saw her again through the car windows. Facing him, body slightly turned, she was pointing still. He tried not to look at her face, and just followed her finger instead. Nothing but trees.
He felt his gaze moving to her face and he slammed his eyes shut. “Please…” He whispered, “No more… No more.” When he opened his eyes again, there was just the black outline of a bush waving side to side in the wind, leaves rustling.
He stood up, the roads silent, and moved around to the back of the car. He opened the boot and this time had to move around bags and clothes that he hadn’t seen for-Bingo! His hand clutched onto a can, and he could tell straight away it was full.
He opened it and immediately started pouring the contents down his throat. It wasn’t as cold as he would have liked, but it was better than nothing. He finished the can with a burp and tossed it into the trees. He plunged his hands into the piles of bags and clothes and rubbish again, hand moving across another can, and another.
He smiled, “Thank you.” He whispered, grabbing them and bringing them with him into the front of the car. He opened one and put the other on the passenger seat, making sure to fasten its seatbelt. He started the car and slowly made his way back onto the road, sipping eagerly from his can at the same time.
Did it matter if he was only driving with one hand? No. He’d only seen one other car in, what, fifteen, maybe twenty, minutes?
Anyway, where was he?
Think about where it started, he told himself, build up to everything slowly.
“Okay.” He nodded. Build it like a jigsaw, piece by piece, and it will all come together.
He sucked in a deep breath, chest filling, and then slowly exhaled through pursed lips.
Now, how long ago was it? Almost a year? Probably not even that… ten, nine, months? She’d brought him home. She’d told them about him only a few days before, and they moved forward with introductions so quickly. He came in; tall and well built, shirt pulled tight across his chest as though it was going to rip, dark hair clipped short and his eyes… He was friendly, okay, shook his hand, shook his wife’s hand, made good conversation… but the eyes… Piercing. Blue. They gave him away. He hadn’t been able to put his finger on it, but there was something not right. Those eyes were wild and full of fire, but what could he say? That he didn’t like him because he had ‘wild eyes’? He knew exactly what his daughter would have done: laughed at him and said that was what she found attractive about him, and he didn’t want to hear it.
So, of course, he kept his mouth shut. Besides, the kid was friendly enough, wasn’t he? He knew not to interfere – that would only backfire. She’d turn on him and choose her boyfriend. That was natural, wasn’t it? He remembered what it was like to be young.
Anyway, they’d stayed for dinner, and everyone had gotten on fine. He wasn’t overly fond of the guy, but would he ever feel that way to anyone his daughter was going out with? No. He could tell that he was somewhat a narcissist – if he wasn’t, he would have covered himself up more for that first meeting, but he’d decided to show off instead. But he was young, wasn’t he? He’d grow out of it. And besides, he trusted his daughter’s judgement, and so he thought for her to bring him home so quickly was a good sign rather than one of recklessness.
“What did you think?” He’d asked his wife after the boyfriend had left and their daughter had gone to bed.
She’d nodded, “Nice.” She said approvingly, “Polite. Gentlemanly. Talks. What more could we have asked for?” She’d paused and looked over at him, “What did you think?”
He’d nodded back.
“You don’t like him.”
“I do.” He protested, “Obviously it will just-”
“-take some getting used to.” His wife finished one of his most used phrases along with him with a slight eye roll and a smile. “He’s nice.” She repeated, “And if he turns out not to be – which I’m sure won’t be the case – then all we can do is be here for her, and she’ll learn from the experience.”
He’d nodded slowly and thoughtfully.
She placed her hand on his shoulder, “We can’t always protect her.”
“I know.” He said to the steering wheel, “I know.” He repeated, and blinked away the tears in his eyes. He finished off the can he had opened and tossed it lazily out the window.
And he hadn’t been able to protect her. It wasn’t the guy’s fault, he knew that. It was just an accident, and he tried not to blame him, but he had lived and she hadn’t. He remembered going to the hospital with his wife to go and see him, and when it came to it, he couldn’t go in. He’d gone back outside and waited in the car.
He’d wanted to face him, to try and rid all the bad blood early on, but he wasn’t ready. He couldn’t trust himself, and so he did what he thought was best. He would see him in his own time. But the longer he left it… would the resentment grow rather than fade?
When his wife finally came out of the hospital, over an hour later, she was smiling for the first time since they’d lost their daughter. In that moment, he was angry; he wanted to scream at her, ask how she could dare to smile, but she explained herself before he’d lost control. She said it was therapeutic, and that her mind was clearer after speaking to him.
“You should see him.” She said.
“I will.” He’d replied, “All of this… it’s just going to…” He didn’t finish his sentence; both of them already knew what he was going to say. Instead, he’d asked on question that was burning furiously inside his mind: “His face… his skin… is…?”
“He looks okay.” She’d said, almost reluctantly. “He’s hurting.” She’d nodded, “Some bruises and scratches, but he’s mostly okay. Thank God.”
And that was the most he and his wife had said to each other since the accident. Those last two words… how could she have said them? He reached over for the other can and opened it. He hadn’t seen his wife for almost a month. The last time he saw her…
He started to chug the can, he felt the car veering into the other lane and back again a couple of times. He braked gently as he finished the beer, before letting the can drop by his feet.
He had to be close to the motorway now. He’d been driving for over half an hour. Yes, he was close, he-
There was movement in the rear-view mirror, he looked, and there she was. Sat on the back seat, her face mangled yet holding a serious expression, her finger pointing to the trees.
He braked – hard this time – and turned the wheel aggressively. The car turned almost the whole way around, but stopped pointing slightly towards the trees. But there was something else ahead, too. All he needed to do was turn on the headlights. It wasn’t her; she was still in the back of the car, he could feel her presence.
So he flicked the headlights on once more, and the forest lit up. Directly in front of the car, though, was a large green sign with bold white lettering:
WELCOME TO
SOUTHUMBERLAND.
He turned around in his seat, as though checking his blind spot (being careful not to look on the back seat), and there it was. The motorway. Suddenly, seeing all the headlights in the darkness, he didn’t want to get on the motorway anymore. Instead, he slowly started the car, drifted into the right lane, and started to drive back the way he came.
She was still in the back seat. He felt her move. What was she doing now? Just look. She’s already saved your life once tonight, just look.
It was then that he began to question why he wasn’t looking. He thought it was the difficulty of seeing her the way she was, and the sadness and anger that came with it, but that wasn’t what he was feeling right now. Right now he felt fear; he felt sweat creeping into his eyebrows, his heart thudding against his chest slowly, as though ready to burst.
His eyes moved quickly from the road and to the rear-view mirror, and there she was, eyes looking into his, finger still pointing – to the right this time, still towards the forest. He looked back to the road.
“Why?” He croaked, “Why? Why? Why?”
He looked towards the forest as a car overtook him with a beep of the horn, and there was nothing but the tall trees still; no movement, no figure, nothing. “Why?” He asked again.
“I wanted to be close to her.” He heard his wife say; the memories now coming to him rather than him searching for them. “This… it made me feel like I was.” She went on, “For the first time since the crash, I feel like she’s with me.”
He shook his head, “You’re disgusting. Sick.” Had he said those words to her at the time? He must have. Something like that.
He slowed the car and looked towards the trees. That was where she kept pointing, so that was where he would go. There had to be something there that she wanted him to see. Answers, maybe? But it was an accident… he knew that much, he just had to force himself to accept it. It was nobody’s fault, not hers, not his.
Him. Her boyfriend. He had seen him after the accident, and it had been the worst experience of his life. Worse than the loss of his daughter, because that was an accident, that couldn’t be helped. It hadn’t been just seeing him, no, it had been what he was doing.
And what was he doing? Go on, think about it, you’re nearly there now. The jigsaw is nearly complete. Just this last piece. The trickiest piece to place.
An opening appeared in the trees, big enough to fit the car through, and he turned right sharply. Headlights shone towards him, somewhere in the distance, but he pushed down on the accelerator just in case. Lot of maniacs on the road. The car rumbled down a slight incline, and then thudded into the forest.
He drove slowly through the trees.
Was this what they had been doing? Was this why it had happened?
He’d first seen the boyfriend after getting home one night. He’d told his wife he was going to see some friends at the pub after work that morning, but as the day had gone on, he’d decided he wasn’t up to it yet.
He hadn’t told her he’d be home straight after work.
“I can’t fucking see anything!” He shouted into the night, huffing and sitting back in his seat. He let his muscles relax, and he felt his head lolling to one side, his eyelids shutting.
NO!
Nearly there now.
“Nearly there now.”
He carried on driving.
He’d walked up to the front door and tried his keys, but it was already open. He’d looked around; curtains closed, also weird. His wife’s car was there, okay. And-
There it was.
A motorbike. A new one. Parked next to her car.
He’d let himself in the house and stormed into the living room. Already he’d been able to hear her moans, her cries of joy, emotion in her voice that he hadn’t heard for a long time, maybe even since before they’d lost their daughter.
And what had he been doing when he saw him for the first time since the accident? He was doing his wife.
He hadn’t been able to see her properly, she was covered by him, underneath him.
Perhaps the worst part, they’d carried on. Over their own noise, they hadn’t heard him come in. He couldn’t remember what they’d been saying, but he remembered their voices. The emotion, the excitement, the passion.
He hadn’t been able to bring himself to do anything or say anything. The sheer shock he felt overrode the boiling anger. Instead, he’d just stood there and watched the climax.
He’d thrusted, she’d screamed. His groans had grown, and he pulled backwards, grabbing his cock, his muscles flexing.
He remembered what she’d said then. Oh yes, he remembered that alright. And now that he was finishing the jigsaw, it made perfect sense, it was all suddenly clear to him.
“Keep it in,” She’d panted, “Keep it in.” And she’d grabbed onto him, managing to pull him back into her. He resisted a little, but the feeling had clearly already overcome him. Still holding onto himself, he pumped into her, head snapping back and almost growling.
That was when she saw him, her head coming to rest on his shoulder.
They’d covered themselves up quickly, and he still hadn’t moved. She’d quickly dressed, he’d moved into a different room, and that was when the conversation happened.
“Why?” He asked again.
Close to her.
He could barely remember the rest of the conversation, just like he couldn’t remember the conversation with the police after seeing his daughter.
Then they’d left together.
She got dressed and left with him on his motorbike.
In that moment, watching them go, he wished her the same fate as their daughter.
The car crashed lightly into something, and without thinking he turned on the headlights.
He closed his eyes quickly. What was there? He’d seen something, but not her. Some other movement, beyond the mammoth tree trunk that he’d bumped into. He opened his eyes and looked. It wasn’t as close as he’d first thought; there was movement, but far into the darkness. Only small shadows were visible in his headlights.
He leaned forward slightly over the steering wheel and squinted. Two… men? Struggling? Yes, that’s certainly what it looked like. Two men struggling against one another in the night. One of them had a weapon, he was sure of it, he could see it in the shadows (unless it’s a fifth limb, his mind said to him).
He sent the thought quickly back to whatever drunken, twisted part of his mind it had come from and left his car, leaving the headlights on; he had his phone with him, but apart from any light that could provide, he had nothing else. The headlights would guide him.
This is why she’s brought me here, he thought, she was pointing me towards a murder.
When he’d set out earlier that night, he didn’t really know why; there was no reason other than to clear his mind. Then she’d followed him from the house, stayed with him along the way, saved his life, and shown him towards another life in need of rescuing.
This was his purpose.
This was the start of his new life.
He slammed the car door shut and his footing almost immediately gave way. He managed to balance himself and stay grounded, but stepped backwards to observe the incline that the car was on. About ten metres down, there was no way he could navigate his way down by walking, he’d have to slide down.
He sat down on the cold forest floor and shuffled forwards, legs resting on the incline.
If he could get down and save whoever was under attack, he could bring him back to the car and drive him to the police; the media would surely quickly get hold of what had happened and interview him. He could be in the local – maybe the national – news! That would show her. Oh yes it would. And him.
HA!
What if it’s the clown? They never found the second clown killer after the Halloween murders, did they? He was still on the loose. And a family had just been attacked by a clown a few weeks ago near Tornwich. What if he was going to be the one to stop the killer clown?
Southumberland wasn’t short of horrors – my God, what if it’s the cannibal teacher? He was old enough to remember the original killings back in the eighties, and then the spree in the nineties after he escaped before disappearing. What if this was him, finally come back? And he was going to be the one to stop him!
Could just be two homeless men.
No, no, no! Not here, not in Southumberland, never anything as simple as that here, he thought about the welcome sign he had seen earlier:
WELCOME TO
SOUTHUMBERLAND.
It was missing blood red lettering, dripping at the bottom; that would be more fitting. Maybe then people would know what they were getting themselves into when they came here.
He pushed himself forwards, and he started to slide slowly down the incline, taking leaves with him. He got about halfway down before he stopped moving. He cleared some leaves, shuffled slightly, and pushed again. He moved forward only a metre or so, but was close enough to the ground now that he could just jump down. He carefully got to his feet, and then propelled himself forwards.
As he fell down, he felt vomit rising inside him. He fell face-first onto the forest floor, rolled over quickly, and spewed vomit across the leaves. He started to gag, and quickly got up onto his hands and knees, throwing up again.
He spat and made his way to his feet.
The world was more still, his head somewhat clearer. He breathed in the fresh woodland air as he placed his reached inside his pocket and placed his keys between his fingers – they were all he had on him to improvise with.
He turned around and looked back up at the car. He couldn’t make it out against the blinding rays of the headlights, but could tell that it was facing downwards slightly, held in place by the tree. The headlights would give him a path closer towards whatever was happening inside the trees.
He turned around again and faced the maze of trees. He could see the shadows ahead of him, on the ground. His eyes followed them into the trees, but the shadows of the fighting men only led into the shadows of trees, and their figures were lost somewhere in the maze.
If he followed the shadows as far as they went, then he would probably be able to follow the sound of the struggle and locate the men, so he started forwards, fingers clutched tightly around his keys.
The headlight’s beams didn’t span as far as he thought, and after a few metres he was out of the strong rays of light and into dimness. He kept switching his gaze from the ground to around him, making sure he wouldn’t trip on any twigs or walk into any low-hanging branches.
“Argh!”
Grunt.
He looked around, fingers gripping even tighter, so tight that it felt like the skin was going to burst. The grunts continued, followed by bursts of heavy breathing; a quivering voice was responding, but so quiet that he couldn’t make out any words.
He looked around once more, but this time not looking for any ongoing struggle; he was checking to see if she was still following him. He turned all the way around, his head spinning when he was facing towards the sounds of a struggle again. She was no longer with him. She had shown him what she’d needed to, and now she was gone.
She had started his life again for him. Yes, he could feel it.
Ahead there was a small clearing surrounded mostly by bushes, he turned around and saw that he’d come further than he thought; his car was probably about a hundred metres back, but he could still see in the darkness okay. Eyes must have adjusted.
He turned back to the clearing and could see the figures – not shadows – but the actual figures of the men fighting in front of him.
This is it.
He crouched low and moved around a bush, staying back at first – he wanted to get a closer look at the attacker and judge whether he could tackle him head-on or if he was a large assailant, in which case he would have to take a more stealth approach.
The victim didn’t look very old – perhaps his daughter’s age. His face was racked with terror, his hands clasped onto the wooden handle of an axe that was wriggling towards him. He wasn’t homeless – he could tell that – but his shirt was torn (and bloodied). He’d already been hit, but he was still fighting.
The man holding the axe was slightly taller, but still only around average height. His face, though, was covered by a cheap plastic mask. An animal mask. What was it? A cat? Mouse? No… White, the nose pointed out, the imitation of long, floppy ears. It was a rabbit.
The Bunny-Man. Another of Southumberland’s horrors – but that was only an urban legend. An urban legend that is sometimes taken too far, he reminded himself, remembering all the reported sightings of the costumed, axe-wielding maniac on Halloween nights from the small town of Trexham which neighboured his own. Hadn’t there been a murder one year? He couldn’t remember.
This was no Bunny-Man: a cheap plastic children’s mask, a plain shirt and jeans. The axe looked real enough, but this was a copycat – another local kid taking the whole thing too far.
Would he be the one to unmask the ‘Bunny-Man’ and end the whole fucking thing? Was that his destiny?
He stood and ran forwards, both heads turned to look at him, and he attacked the fake Bunny-Man from the side, sinking a fist into his ribs. The keys cut. He heard the shirt rip, felt the keys plunge into and scratch the skin beneath. The fake Bunny-Man grunted and fell backwards, his axe falling from his hands and to the floor.
“Safe… now!” He shouted to the victim and tried to look back at him to check on him, but stopped halfway, only looking back to where his car was (the headlights of which were shining brightly in the distance, but could probably pass for large torches), before deciding to keep his focus on the danger in front of him first. He turned back to the would-be-killer and struck again, aiming for the face this time.
His hand crashed into the plastic mask and the keys shredded it, cutting into skin again, slashing the eye. The man beneath the mask looked young too, and he fell backwards to the floor clutching his face.
He looked around himself, grip not loosening on the keys, and spotted the axe. He bent down and ran his left hand over it. It was fake, but made from wood, the head glossed a shiny grey. He picked it up, leaving his keys on the ground and stepping forward towards the attacker.
The sound of footsteps rustling the leaves made him spin around. Sidekicks? He hadn’t been prepared for that. But no, as his eyes adjusted, he saw it was the kid who had been attacked running towards the headlights.
“No!” Was all he could manage to shout, “s’alright!” He slurred, “Safe now kiddo!” And he turned back to the attacker who was lying on the ground.
Did he have a girlfriend? How long would it be before he killed her? How many wives would he steal?
The kid who’d been attacked, though… he’d been running towards the car. He turned to follow him; he couldn’t let him get to the car and take it, let him crash it and kill her all over again…
But no.
He’d noticed something else again before he’d turned, his mind only registering it now. Something in the trees. Was there another attacker? He stumbled towards the trees, knocking branches out the way with the wooden axe, getting closer to the black outline against the dark night sky. It wasn’t a person… no… it was an object… on a stand… a… camera?
What sort of sick bastard-?
He pushed it over, listened to it fall and land on something other than dead leaves.
He knelt and pushed the camera aside again, pulling whatever it had landed on towards him. A white pile… of papers. He squinted and held the papers up higher, showing them to the stars and the moon, trying to read what was on them.
He could make out some names on the front sheet, and worked his way further down, and the next line seemed to jump out from the paper and take him by the throat.
Film Studies Script #1.
“No.” The word wriggled its way out of his throat. He let the papers fall back to the floor, where they landed on a foot. Her foot.
He looked up at her and asked why. He reached out to her, but couldn’t bring himself to touch her. “Why?” He asked again, “I thought you were trying to help me.” He managed to squeeze out before his teeth clamped down tightly, stopping more words from escaping.
She looked ahead, beyond him, and pointed.
He looked back to the fake Bunny-Man, climbed back to his feet, and made his way slowly over to him. He was lying motionless, eye swollen, cuts dripping blood. And yet, despite the inflicted deformities, it was a face he knew.
He thought he’d got it all wrong – that this ‘Bunny-Man’ was only an actor, not a killer. But he was a killer. Oh yes he was. Oh yes.
He stood over him, and recognised him.
“You.” He snarled.
In that moment, it didn’t matter that he knew he didn’t go to any college or university, that he was too old for it, that he had moved away with her only the other week. He was there, in front of him, lying on the floor. Helpless.
He opened his mouth to speak, but all the came was a whimper.
He lifted the wooden axe above his head in both hands.
He saw his daughter ahead, watching from the trees, not pointing anymore. She was just watching.
This is why she had brought him here – for justice.
And he brought the axe down.
And the headlights came closer.
July-August, 2019
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