Page 39 of A Christmas to Die For
I don't care to find out. I leap over the puddle, my heel skimming the edge of the towels I threw down.
While they wrestle with the ax, trying to yank it free from the wall, I grip the shotgun and point it in their direction.
But instead of aiming and pulling the trigger, my foot lands on another loose floorboard. My weight shifts and I stumble backward.
The gun fires.
The shot misses the attacker entirely and blasts straight into the front door.
I grew up around guns, and I know that sound. Buckshot. The pellets shred the door, punching through the wood and scattering tiny spotlights of daylight across the room—like a constellation of holes ripped into the cabin.
Hasn't this place endured enough? I'm half-hoping it collapses on us all.
"Fuck!" I scream. I always swore I wouldn't be one of those idiots in horror movies—wasting ammo, fumbling a shot, but the floor gave out, and now I'm exactly that person. Useless.
At least my shoes aren't melting from the acid. I yank my leg free from the open flooring, wincing. My balance is off, but I manage to stand.
The front door is my only option now. It doesn'tlookrigged, and nothing set off when we initially stepped through the threshold. It might be the only chance I get. They're right behind me.
I twist the knob, heart pounding, and nearly cry in relief when it turns. The gunshot must've loosened whatever had jammed it shut.
The door creaks open, and escape is within reach. I just need to get to Sabrina's car. The key fob is already in there, and it'll be as easy as pressing a button and peeling out of here. I'm racingtoward the broken steps, I'll slide down the handrail on my ass if I have to, when I feel an awful slicing pain cut through my ankle.
"Ahhh!" I spin awkwardly, nearly toppling over, but manage to point the shotgun at the mystery attacker like some battered action hero. I pull the trigger.
Click.
Nothing happens. The one loaded shot was wasted on the door.
I look down and nearly vomit. A coil of barbed wire is wrapped tight around my ankle, the rusted metal biting straight through every layer of clothing and deep into flesh. Jagged points are embedded, tearing muscle, dragging skin back in raw, curling flaps.
Pain detonates in my body. A wave of cold sweat breaks out across my forehead as shock slams into me, draining the blood from my face.
I can't walk. Hell, I can't eventhinkabout putting weight on what remains of my left leg. It looks like it's been through a blender.
"Who are you?" I scream, my voice rasping with fear. I'm sprawled on the creaky wooden deck, broken and bleeding like a trapped animal.
This unknown assailant steps outside with me, nothing but a dark figure watching and waiting.
For me to bleed out? To give up?
"You really don't know who this is?" The voice is muffled behind a ski mask and goggles, almost like they're purposely distorting it.
"I don't know!" I whimper, scrambling backward on my elbows, dragging myself with my one good leg. The wire scrapes along the wood, tightening, sending bolts of agony all the way up my leg and spine. I stop moving once I've hit the snow, paralyzed by the pain, breath fogging in the icy air.
They step closer but leave enough space between us as she pulls off her mask.
It's the last face I ever expected to see.
"Holly?" My voice cracks.
Holly. The woman who killed her serial killer boyfriend in an act of self-defense. The woman we're about to feature in our next podcast episode.
She smiles and pulls a switchblade from her jacket pocket and tosses it from palm to palm, taunting me like she can't decide which hand will land the kill shot.
"Why?" I choke on the word. Fat, salty tears blur my vision. My thoughts unravel, reason collapsing under the weight of pain and panic. My strength is bleeding out with every second that passes.
And then, it hits me. "Youkilled all those women, not Jack."
