“Ssshhh. Not a sound, sugar. Mr. Candyman’s about to create a masterpiece here.”
Verna closed her eyes.
Let him have his kicks.
Any which way he wanted. After all, he was the guy with the dough…
Blood sprayed the Candyman’s face.
He grunted, opened his mouth, and licked his lips.
The knife slicked down Verna’s torso, jerking a little going past her breastbone. The Candyman slowed down, then dug in deep, opening her guts like she was a sheep in a slaughterhouse.
Verna’s red mouth sagged a little in surprise.
Her baby blues snapped wide, then quickly glazed over.
Fascinated, the Candyman stared into them. He liked the way Verna fixed her eyes. All that black eyeliner. And those long black lashes. Way back, she told him she’d been a singer at some club in downtown Frisco. Yeah, it figured. Gals in Verna’s line a’ business knew all about makeup.
He stood back, tilting his head.
An artist surveying his masterpiece.
He liked what he saw. Verna was a work of art.
He stared at his creation.
Opening her up made her breasts flop over, each pointing outward, either side of the bloody ravine down her middle. Her breasts were big and white and splashed with red.
How ’bout that?
His lips curved in a tight smile.
He dug the way it flowered beneath her, like some exotic jungle orchid.
A strand of black hair peeked out from beneath the blond wig. He removed the wig, watching the way her head wagged, all loose like a rag doll. Her lids drooped. She coulda still been alive. Asleep.
He tossed the wig to the floor.
Carefully, he stroked her long black hair, smoothing it into place over her shoulders.
He rearranged her arms so they stretched out from her body. Engrossed in his work, his mouth opened slightly.
Verna’s legs gaped apart; blood oozed from her orifice.
It was still pumping from her belly.
Mmmm. She looked like a five-pointed star.
“Doing the bitch a favor,” he murmured, “rearranging her like this. Only way
Grinning, he stabbed the knife deep into Verna’s middle. Her body shook; her breasts wobbled precariously. Spats of blood sprayed up from her guts. Landed on his belly.
Glistening gobs of it clung to his pubic hair.
His head buzzed inside. Like it was full of swarming bees.
He got angry. Couldn’t stop stabbing…
Sweat beaded his brow, droplets stung his eyes. His breath came out in harsh, wheezy grunts.
Seconds later, he’d calmed down.
Wiping his hands on Verna’s bedsheet, he picked up his camera and clicked away.
TWO
The footsteps got closer.
He,
Her legs pumped hard. Her lungs gagged for air.
The thing followed with superhuman speed.
Heaving, panting, she drew to a halt…
A bony hand clawed her shoulder.
Hooked her throat.
Deana jerked awake, heart pounding, nightgown twisted up above her waist, clinging like a live thing to her sweat-soaked skin.
Her breathing evened out a little.
Puffing out a gusty sigh, she relaxed.
Dream?
Try a fucking
She sighed again—in relief this time. Turning her head on the sodden pillow, she saw familiar shapes in the weird half-light. She relaxed some more.
Then…
Her heart began racing again.
She could hear
Footfalls.
Soft, scrunching sounds on the gravel outside.
Her eyes darted to the window. The filmy curtains stirred in the breeze… Moonlight filtered pale gray beams across her bed.
She scanned the window. Saw a tall, hunched shape move across it. Shaggy hair sticking out from beneath a long floppy hat.
The shadow paused, stiffened, and turned, looking over its shoulder like it was scared of being followed.
Then the big hook nose pointed forward again.
Like a giant bird of prey…
It carried a hatchet on its shoulder.
Can this
Deana clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling the scream rising in her throat. Her breath huffed out in ragged, hurting gasps.
“Ah’m a-comin’ to getcha, baby…”
