Page 2 of Little Puppet

I’ve often pondered it, but as of late, I find I don’t give a fuck. They stay out of my way. I don’t kill them. There’s a truce between me and the town of Dunhaven.

I kill those that wander through or don’t heed curfew, and the townsfolk remain safe for another year.

I think all is well that ends well.

When her Civic turns onto Panther Trail, I feel a giddy tightening in my stomach. She’s driving into my trap, and it’s time to play.

I give it a few moments as she rounds the first and only curve in the road before I shift and redline my truck, pressing the gas to the floor as I near the rear of her car.

I can almost smell her fear, nearly taste it on the wind that rips through my open windows.

Her frantic eyes must be in the rearview, but I can’t see them.

I nudge closer, hovering near the back of her car.

She tries to get away, and I get even closer, gripping the wheel with a smirk growing on my lips behind my mask.

Now and again, the woman on the other end of my anger is a local, so the mask comes in handy.

But for her, my lucky little puppet tonight, the mask will only add another layer of fear to the cake I’m cooking for her. The one laced with venom and rage.

When she hits the spikes in the road, she’s going nearly ninety miles per hour, as I’m going eighty-five to keep up.

She swerves, trying her damndest to keep on the road, even when her tires are completely blown out.

Oh, this one has fire.

I like it when they have a bit of nerve.

Even after her best efforts, she loses control and rolls into the ditch before Grimrose House, wheels spinning and engine smoking as she hangs upside down in her seatbelt.

I’ve run many women off the road, but it has never looked that spectacular, and my heart has never beat so rapidly.

I pass her, slowing and downshifting as I turn my truck around. The diesel engine hums, the turbo whistling as I pick up speed and crawl back towards her wreck site.

Once I pass her again, I throw the truck into reverse and look over my shoulder out the back window, reversing as I whistle a Christmas tune. Thrill is humming through my skin like a wild animal who knows it’s about to be released.

When I get out and don gloves, her screams cascade through the air on the salty breeze. Closing my eyes, I let them serenade me.

It’s six days until Christmas, and my present has come early this year.

I can’t deny how excited I am.

Working the winch off the back of my tow truck, I hook it to her rear tow hooks, listening to her beg for help. Beg for me to free her.

My whistling never ceases. It’s what’s going to keep me present. It’s going to keep me on task.

Don’t want another fuck up like two years ago, when I got so excited about hunting that I accidentally killed the girl in the first two hours.

No. This one deserves my time.

I ignore her pleas and sniveling cries and get back into the truck, pressing the gas and towing her slowly from the ditch, still upside down.

The sound of the roof grating over asphalt drowns her screams as I turn into the drive to the right of me that leads up to Grimrose House, her car’s metal pleading with me to stop, to flip it back on its blown tires for relief. But I don’t.

I continue to tow the car through the haphazardly cut trails I’ve towed many vehicles on, deep in the woods behind the house. Florida’s mix of palms, palmettos, and oaks blend for a beautiful Everglade effect the deeper I tug her car behind me.

My whistling has moved on to theFirst Noel,and I let it soothe my soul. Even if it was the song blasting through the speakers as a neighbor slit my mother’s throat.

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