Page 17 of Hunt Me
She should be.
That burning hormonal mind I seemed to have developed when I first saw her has returned. Only this time, what is going through my mind is nowhere near as innocent as it was earlier.
I bare my teeth as I walk up the stairs and into the red sandstone building — images of what I will do to my little deer when I catch her flashing through my mind.
I will catch her, and when I do, I’ll never let her go.
She is never getting away now I’ve had her in my sight.
I am the hunter and she is my prey.
I don’t bother to make my movements light. Nor do I bother to avoid the broken glass scattered at the entrance. She should know I’m coming. At least then she’ll never wonder if I’ll give up just like that.
I’m a man obsessed.
And I will make her regret ever considering running from me.
The building she ran through is reasonably intact, with only minor signs of being broken into by the smashed glass at theentrance. The furniture surfaces are layered with hard dust, and years of unoccupancy are evident.
It’s easy to forget how much we disturb our surroundings when we pass through. The buildings we built to depend on us and when we are gone, oh how quickly they crumble. They wither. Not nature though — that didn’t wait long until it began to take back its land. Cracks in the structure give way to roots, plants taking charge and erasing the destruction we caused.
Sometimes I wonder if the world is worse the way it is now or if it has done us a favour stripping back all the bullshit. The virus pulled back the curtains that allowed the truly evil to hide, exposing them plain as day.
My little deer wasn’t smart enough to think of the dust. To predict how it would expose her hurried steps and the imprints her clammy hands would leave on the doors she has flown open in her escape.
I head for the double doors that her footsteps lead to, stopping to trace the outline of her fingertips against the wooden frame. Inside the stone work flooring is eery as it leads to the grand opening of the middle hallway. Stood old and proud at the front of the concert hall is the organ. I can almost hear it’s haunting symphony from when I’d first entered these double doors as a wee boy.
That boy died seven years ago and a monster was born instead.
Patches of dust have gathered on the stones surface and I grin as I inspect the markings my little deer has left in her attempts to flee.
Callouses brush my lips as I cup my hands to project my voice. ‘Better run, little deer. I always love a good hunt.’
The sound of her steps faltering rings out, and a shriek comes from the gallery to the left. I grin, following the sound of her quickening footsteps.
The scent of her fear permeates the air, fuelling my hunger to find her. She has no idea what she had started when she called down to me in the sewers, but one thing’s for sure: I am going to finish it. There is nowhere she can run that I will not follow, and there is no limit on how far I will go to make sure she is mine.
I follow the patches of disturbed dust through into an art section. Straight across from me, illuminated by the full moon that peaks between the shut blinds, is a bearded man looking skyward. He clutches a phone in his lap, but his gaze is not focused on the screen. Instead, he looks to something more horrifying, hidden from my view.
The biggest monster is always the one you cannot see. The one out of sight to others but clear as day to your imagination.
My little deer’s imagination must be running wild right now. The need to know what could be running through that incredible mind of hers fuels me on.
She will be thinking of me; I know that for certain, but what else? How long does she want me to wait before I catch her? How far does she want me to take this game we keep playing?
I round each partitioning but have no luck in my hunt for her. She is more devious than I thought, her tracks spinning in circles and overlapping to confuse me.
I’m not easily fooled.
The room stands empty, all but me and forgotten artists standing still in time. Only my mischievous little deer has resurrected us — brought us out of hiding and back to life.
My chest thrums with anticipation as I walk through the archway into the next room.
A skylight above illuminates the room more than the one I just exited from, and I use the extra lighting to look around. There is an eeriness to this room that the last did not have. Stuffed animals stand tall behind glass cages as if being trapped during their years alive were not enough. They have to suffer for all of eternity behind invisible walls.
My little deer’s markings on the floor are more clumsy ahead of me, and I follow, intrigued at what game she is playing this time. The dust is dry on my fingertip and I avoid the splattering of mud next to it, unsure of why she intentionally made a mess. I stand to look around.
The back of my head knocks something solid, and I bolt backwards, hands raised in a defensive stance.
