Page 2 of Final Girls and F*ck Boys

So, I pushed myself up, wincing as my body protested, and limped over to my mangled bike. The front tire was ruined, the handlebars twisted, but it didn’t matter. I dragged it along behind me as I made my way down the hill, the cicadas still screaming in the trees, the heat pressing down on me like a curse.

The road ahead stretched out like an endless, twisted path, leading me back into the heart of the town I couldn’t wait to escape.

2

The heavy wooden door of the St. Claire mansion creaked open, the sound echoing through the cavernous entryway as I stepped inside. The icy marble floor bit into the soles of my feet, a stark contrast to the sweltering heat I’d just escaped. My bike was abandoned in the multi-car garage, its frame bent and wheels askew—a silent testament to my reckless descent.

Blood trickled from the scrapes and cuts on my legs, leaving a crimson trail on the pristine marble as I made my way down the mansion’s dim corridors. The home was a labyrinth of dark wood and stone, a cold, impersonal place that always felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for the inevitable violence the elder Mr. St. Claire was capable of.

Despite living here, the house had never felt like home. It was a place of grandeur and wealth, filled with priceless art and antique furniture, but devoid of any warmth. It wasn’t mine, not really. The St. Claires had taken me in after my parents died, presenting me to society as their charity case, their good deed to flaunt at every dinner party and gala, but they never gave me their last name. I was still Priestly King, the sad little orphan they paraded around to show how magnanimous they were.

Each step sent a dull throb of pain through my body, the adrenaline that had fueled my reckless ride completely drained, leaving me with nothing but a hollow ache gnawing at my insides. I could already feel the void opening again, that vast emptiness within me always begging to be filled. It was a ravenous beast, always indifferent to what I fed it.

Dicks, thrills, terror—it didn’t matter. It just needed something, anything, to keep the darkness at bay.

Reaching my room, I pushed the door open with a sigh, the hinges groaning like a dying animal. The room was just as cold and unwelcoming as the rest of the mansion, despite the luxurious furnishings that surrounded me. Dark, heavy drapes blocked out most of the sunlight, casting long shadows across the room. The walls were lined with bookshelves, filled with old volumes that smelled of dust and decay. A massive four-poster bed dominated the space, its velvet curtains drawn back to reveal rumpled sheets I hadn’t bothered to make.

I crossed the room, my eyes catching on the pile of mail sitting on my dresser. The sight of it made me pause, my fingers stilling as I undid the braids in my hair. I thumbed through the stack, a mundane mix of magazines and college acceptance letters. One letter stood out among the rest, its ornate envelope immediately drawing my attention.

I plucked it from the pile, my breath hitching as I ran a sharp crimson nail over the deep blue wax seal. The navy was so dark it was nearly black, imprinted with an intricate design I couldn’t quite decipher, but the scrawl of ‘WWU’ in the top left corner made my heart race: West Windsor University.

I was months away from starting my freshman year, yet the very name held an almost magnetic pull over me.

The envelope was made of thick, expensive parchment, and my fingers trembled slightly as I held it. There was something about the weight of it, the way it felt against my skin, thatsent a shiver of excitement through me. It was more than just an acceptance letter. It felt like a key to a door I hadn’t even known existed, a door that would lead me somewhere dark and thrilling, somewhere I’d always known I belonged.

I swirled one of my silver curls around my finger, biting my lip as I let the anticipation build. The sweet thrill of it was intoxicating, the tension drawing out the moment until it was almost unbearable. Finally, I perched myself on the corner of my bed, uncaring about the blood smearing onto the velvet coverlet, and slid my finger under the delicate lip of the envelope.

The paper was thick and resistant, and I felt a sharp sting as the edge of it sliced into my skin. “Ow,” I muttered, bringing my finger to my lips. A tiny bead of blood welled up from the cut, vivid against the pale skin. I sucked at it absent-mindedly, the metallic taste grounding me as I carefully maneuvered the letter out with my other hand.

The interior letter was one-sided, the handwriting elegant and precise. I scanned the words, my heart pounding in my chest as I read them.

“Dearest Priestly King,

You are hereby cordially invited to be Murdered. Join us on Devil's Night this month. Your presence has been specially requested by members of the Order of Scythe and Skull.

Location: The Windsor Manor, 10PM

Attire: Final Girl

This invitation is non-transferable. We expect your attendance.

Sincerely,

The Scribe”

I read the letter once, twice, then a third time, the words sinking in with a mix of dread and excitement.

I had heard of the Order of Scythe and Skull before, in passing whispers at high school parties and the country club. It was a secret society at West Windsor, shrouded in mystery and legend. Rumors swirled around its members—how they wielded unimaginable power, how they threw decadent, lavish parties where anything and everything was on the table.

And now, an invitation to one of their events had arrived for me before I had even set foot on campus. The thrill of it was almost too much to bear, a sharp contrast to the emptiness that usually filled me. I tapped the letter against my thigh, the ornate paper soft against the bruises and cuts littering my skin.

“Invited to be murdered,” I murmured, my voice barely more than a whisper. The words sent a chill down my spine, even as a smirk tugged at the corners of my lips.

“Final girl…” I repeated, the light bulb flickering to life in my brain. This was no ordinary party. This was a Halloween party—on June 30th, no less. A Summer-ween party, if you would. My smirk grew wider as I realized the possibilities. There was no way in hell I was going to miss this.

I reached for my phone, the cool metal a familiar comfort in my hand. There was only one person I could think of who would appreciate this as much as I did: my right-hand bitch, the one who had stood by my side through everything. We only had a few days to plan our outfits, to figure out who we were going to be, but that was part of the fun, the anticipation, the build-up, the sweet thrill of it all.

My fingers flew across the screen as I shot off a message, my mind already racing with ideas. I glanced at the time, noting how little of it we had left.

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