One of my first horror stories! I’m glad I found it in an old folder. Reading it again made me laugh and look back and remember my beginnings (2007/2008). I’ll never forget those days. Never! I’m fortunate to be a writer. The craft has enriched my life.
I realize this story has flaws and weaknesses, but I wanted to post it anyway and have a little fun, let readers have fun with me. I hope you enjoy it and I hope you continue to follow what I do and maybe even tell others about it. As always, thank you for reading.
CUPCAKE
I should’ve seen the signs. How could I have known that Troy was too good to be true , that he had something off about him? His velvety dark hair and hypnotizing smile thwarted all my attempts at reasoning. My judgment was unsound then. Even Troy’s father, Randall, thought of himself as a “lady killer” in his day. That was the phrase he used when Troy introduced me to him for the first time. I perceived Randall as an arrogant man, although I was fortunate that Troy wasn’t as pompous and self-assured as his dad. Troy’s spell easily seduced me, though. As soon as our eyes met at that Christmas Eve party, I surrendered to his charms and boyish good looks. And, as I’ve just learned, what a big mistake that was! Now there’s no one around to rescue me from my own trap, the one I got lured into because I wasn’t paying attention to what was going on beneath Troy’s near-impeccable surface.
I cannot stop second-guessing my past. My thoughts are harrowing. Why did I break up with Brent and run into Troy’s arms? Brent had many strong, enticing qualities. He was sweet, witty, intelligent, shy, humble, not to mention cute in a boy-next-door kind of way. But I have to embrace the consequences of my actions no matter how much it tarnishes my self-esteem, my dignity, my need to feel womanly and singularly exceptional as a female. Troy, lest you wonder, had everything I never thought I was looking for, personality traits I never believed I could be magnetized by. I was enthralled by his mystery, his aura. He knew how to work me like a puppet on a string. His cocoa eyes melted my insides, his voice easily manipulated my heart. When he walked into a room he acted as if the world was his and his alone. That regal presence is precisely what I found irresistible about him. His father, on the other hand, had a chip on his shoulder, a chip that needed to be knocked off. He felt that women had no place doing a man’s job. “Look pretty and keep a man happy” was his philosophy. When he learned of my aspirations of working in law enforcement, he said, “You really want to be a cop one day, Alana? You’re delusional! You’re just a little cupcake!” Troy didn’t share his father’s rather senseless, unjustified opinions. He just helped me live in the moment. In fact I should have listened to what Troy said when he encouraged me to accept that job offer I had to work in an office with his sister, an occupation where your hands stay clean and you’re paid more than double the wage of a security officer. This guard job at the mall was supposed to be a stepping stone to finding more gainful employment and polishing up my credentials—not a spellbinding death trap.
I guess my doubters were right all along. Because here I am. Scared senseless. Too shaken to conceive of a plan to escape the horror that assailed me while doing my rounds just a short time ago. Now my cries are unheard, unanswered. My screams echo within the confines of the long stretches of hallways and the three-tier balcony—like a ruckus of thunder. Hours ago the Gateway Shopping Mall was swarming with happy-faced, affluent shoppers. Now, as I scramble the emptiness for a way out of the maze, I don’t see any light at the end of my dark, self-constructed tunnel. If I was resourceful I wouldn’t be here fighting to stay alive.
My life is dwindling before me. All the doors are chained shut—the security office where I came from is dead-bolted—the only key to the lock is in the jacket that was ripped from my body in an elaborate but terrifying dance for my life in the bathroom five minutes ago. Troy’s words spewed venomously through his stocking-covered face. I didn’t get a good look at him; but his breath was warm and acrid crawling down my neck. I recognized the heart-charm dangling from his neck, the one I had given to him after we had sex the first time.
“Look me in the baby browns, Alana,” he said. “YOU told me they were dreamy, didn’t you!” His voice chilled me to the bone. I kneed him in the crotch and broke away.
The truth is hovering around me like a curse: My chances of living to see tomorrow are next to nil. Oh, no! I hear his axe smashing storefront windows. He’s hollering obscenities, releasing this glottal, dinosaur-like bark. He’s somewhere out there, closing in. I hear him wheezing under the stocking on his head. He’s stalking the halls, drooling for a slaughter—and somehow I’ve become his prey.
I am running through the store screaming for help, weaving my way toward the counter in the Dollar Store, where my old friend Valerie used to work, hoping to find a phone and call the cops. As soon as I approach the desk I go behind it and look for anything to arm myself with. I have to think fast on my feet. It is the terror coursing through me with free reign that forces me to make use of evidence I learned of long ago. I remember now… It’s not Troy who’s after me! It’s that weirdo, that guy who has been known to lurk around the mall on weekends. One afternoon I was here patrolling when I spotted a man staring at me from across the hall. He leaned against the railing like a drunk, barely staying on his feet. It was unsettling to see his body language, his posture. His eyes bore down on me grimly. He followed every step I took. Some time later, Valerie visited me on her break. She saw the man’s foreboding glance. She had seen it countless times before but nobody paid much heed. She pulled me into the bathroom and said, “That’s Mr. Grainer watching you, Alana. He’s been to this mall quite a lot. He walks the halls aimlessly, gawks at girls but never buys a damn thing. I heard him introduce himself to another girl. He called himself Grainer. Watch your back, okay?” she said.
I often told Valerie that maybe I wasn’t cut out for police work. Nobody thought I could handle the rigor and intensity of true -crime solving, standing up to the slime of society, making some kind of difference, however trivial. Valerie, however, was the only one who believed in me—not including my mother of course (my dad lacked confidence in me too) and knew I had the skills to prove myself when I got the chance. But look at me now! I’m not sure I believe in myself anymore. The first real threat of my life has me cowering like everybody told me I would. I feel defenseless and cold, bereft of ingenuity and bravery.
Another window is smashed at the end of the corridor; the clatter of erupting glass pierces my body like needles. I run to the stockroom to find a weapon and a place to hide. I enter the back room and creep up and down the aisles on a scavenger hunt for a box cutter, pipe—something that’ll do damage. In the far corner of the room a flat shovel and push broom are leaning against the cold cement wall. I grab the shovel and find a dark spot to conceal myself. I sink in the corner. Through the walls I hear clothes racks being knocked over barbarically, one after another. The noise is bloodcurdling. I pray that he’ll give up on me, find something else—someone else—to hunt. My body is weak. My stomach is tumbling. I lean against the wall and inhale deeply a few times to fight the nausea that’s wrenching in my stomach. My white security shirt is saturated with sweat; my badge is dangling from the loop above my pocket. The door swings open. The groan of springs twisting alerts me to his presence. Troy is a determined man. I suck in air—hold my breath—cover my mouth with my hands. I do everything in my power to avoid detection. Fortunately, he starts prowling the front of the room. His squeaky boots are indications of his steps. His breathing is strained. My pulse is rising faster now. I keep my focus on his movements. He tiptoes to the back of the warehouse scraping his axe along the concrete floor. The sound is irritating, disturbing like nails on a chalkboard. It’s a scare tactic that I try to ignore. I need to stand strong, alert, and ready to make a move. I crawl from the corner toward the swinging doors. I sneak past the first row of the stockroom. Each side is lined with shelving. Boxes stand ten feet high.
The coast is clear. I continue…
I inch toward the second aisle—one more to go. My legs are cramping. A spasm shoots up my calf, then into my thigh. I pinch my lips to prevent crying out in pain. I peer down the aisle, up at the ceiling, at all the unseen dark places; I’m trying desperately to track his movements.
I push on.
I take two more painful steps…a sharp noise startles me. He has smashed a locker door with the axe. The slamming back and forth of the doors—the sonorous bang-bang-bang—forces me to cower again. The bashed metal doors snap back and forth rapidly. Troy’s hostility is rising precipitously.
Suddenly he says something: “Alaaaaana.” His voice is calm, controlled, raspy, eerie. He doesn’t raise his tone at all. He’s a lunatic—a smart one too. He knows I’m in here and this is a game of cat-and-mouse we must play to the death. I have to get into the security office and call the police. I’ll have to break the windows because I’ve lost my keys. Behind the information desk is a steel flashlight. I recall seeing one there yesterday. I’d rather have that than no weapon at all.
“Alaaaaana. I smeeeeel you. C’mon. One more date... pretty please?”
I bust through the door and sprint as fast as my legs will wheel. My hair whips madly on my head, thrashes my face. I ignore the throbbing pain in my legs and keep on running, mustering all the energy I possibly can. Fear pushes me to the brink, to a place I never knew existed. My survival instinct is deteriorating under the sprawl of empty space and dark corridors.
I see the information desk ahead!
I leap across a set of stairs that divide the two levels of this section, stumble and turn my head sharply. Troy is running with the axe clenched in his hands. He’s swinging it crazily, allowing me a preview of how he’ll chop me to pieces once I’m in his fearsome grip.
Finally... I get to the information desk.
I jump over the counter and tear apart the shelves tossing papers, boxes, and supplies aside. I slide my hand along the shelves, down in the cracks, everywhere. “Where the hell is this th...?” I see the top of a flashlight protruding from beneath the bottom rack. I reach down and pull it out. There’s a phone on the wall. I pry it off the cradle and dial 911. I quickly look back. Troy is gaining on me. He’s too close now to waste anymore time here. I leave the phone dangling from the cradle and run for my life. My body is blazing down the hall toward the security office. Troy is fifty feet behind me. As he closes the gap between us I hear him making noises through his mask. He’s a murderer salivating at an easy kill.
“You’re going to die,” he squeals.
The security office is twenty feet away.
Troy tackles me and the flashlight is jarred loose out of reach. His axe tumbles to the far wall. We wrestle. I feel his dominance over me, all of the power and brute strength is more than I can defend against. He pulls my hair and yanks my head in all directions. The pain is excruciating. He slaps me with an open palm square in the jaw and my head snaps back to the hard floor. For a moment my vision goes blurry. I can’t lose consciousness; if I do the morning shift will be sweeping up my blood and appendages. My attacker rises and goes for his weapon again. I am given a break from the beating. It won’t last long and I realize it’s now or never. As he grabs his axe I slide the badge from my shirt and disguise it in my palm. With my thumb I finesse the pin so the point is extended all the way. The psycho is recuperating. He starts limping toward me. The axe is loose in his grip, his guard is down. I focus—find my fulcrum—and take a deep breath.
He drops to the floor and sits on my waist. I am weakened but I have to fight back or I’ll die right here on the floor of the empty mall. My wrist shakes with anticipation. My fingers lock around the metal badge and without hesitation I push the needle through my fingers and plunge it deep into his eye. He shrieks in pain, leaps off of me. I watch him squirming on the floor. I hustle over to the axe and pick it up, ready for him to come at me again. “C’mon, I’m begging you, get up!” I taunt him, persuade him; but with blood spraying from his eye I realize I’m safe at last.
Sirens roar outside. The cops are in pursuit. I calm myself down and feel lucky to be alive. Now that I stand over him I think of an excuse to chop his damn head off. “Please jump at me so I can end you,” I howl. I’d love to swing this blade right through his throat and watch the son of a bitch’s head roll down the hall.
Now I understand why I used to be uncertain about my survival instinct. Could I persevere when faced with real danger? That question plagued me day after day, like a relentless, blood-thirsty ghost. The answer has finally found me: I’m stronger than I thought, smarter than I imagined, and alive because of it.
The men in blue pull up. Their flashing lights fill me with relief. Ear-piercing sirens sing. The patrol lights flicker like strobes through the thick panes of glass. It must be a great feeling to be in that car and be a crutch to mankind. One day I want to live like that, experience the rush—be a hero to someone who’s clinging to life by a margin yet has the will to overcome the odds and stand tall and do battle with any nemesis. I want to fulfill my quest to empower women in ways they’ve never dreamed of.
The police arrive and take Troy into custody. They pull the stocking off his head.
My body freezes. The crazy guy in the mall was not my assailant! Neither was Troy! What the hell is this? The man standing in front of me in handcuffs is Troy’s father… Randall!
The bastard got what he deserved then. When it comes to his opinion of my womanhood, I guess I’ve proved him wrong singlehandedly. How about that for a young girl like me? It’s time to give my story to the cops…and then to the whole world.
It's hard to write from a woman's point of view in first person if you are a man. But Eva's exclamation is good reason to think that she believed your portrayal. As a non-reader of horror, but having grown tired of watching horror movies, I found that the story really lacks the type of fear that sometimes a really good horror story in video can produce with its music and suspense.
So I won't judge whether it was a good horror story or not. Just that it didn't scare me like a couple of instances in an old movie I saw with Audrey Hepburn as a blind woman being harassed by a savage murderer, Alan Arkin. Made me jump from my theater seat twice.
WEIRD RHODY is a short story collection featuring five strange tales all set in Rhode Island and written by five Rhode Island authors. The anthology is a tribute to H.P. Lovecraft, the Ocean State's famed author of pulp horror.
Pray for the light. Pray that you last that long. The Long Hour Before Light is a classic collection of Horror tales, re-mastered by Champagne Book Group
CUPCAKE
