Page 138 of Sinister Legacy
Whatever shit the killer has planned, I want it over with. Even if it means I have to die. It wasn’t that long ago that I wanted to put a bullet in my skull or slice my wrists open. Knowing I’ll most likely die soon should comfort me, right? But it doesn’t. Not when it’s on someone else’s terms and part of some twisted game. It will always come back to this. To my father. My legacy. I can’t escape it, and I can’t pretend it’s not a part of me.
The lock sounds in the door to my left, the bolt sliding against the old wood. The rusty hinges creak loudly, and the door slowly inches open to reveal the robed killer and his red, metallic mask that shines beneath the fluorescent lightbulb.
He watches me for a moment, eerily silent as his chest rises and falls, his fingers tightening around the blade’s handle. The curved knife has been replaced with a meat cleaver. I don’t know what’s worse—a thin, long blade or this fat one?
I lift my head and watch him while the seconds tick by. He doesn’t speak as I wait him out. I refuse to let him see the effect he has on me. If he wants me to cry and plead, he’ll need to make a move and not try to unnerve me with his silence alone.
His heavy boots finally shift, crossing the threshold. He walks up to me and grabs hold of my upper arm. I’m hauled to my feet and thrown against the wall behind me. Stepping onto the mattress, he digs the meat cleaver into my throat as his boots leave dirty footprints on the stained sheets.
“You removed my shackles,” I comment. I’m not as calm as I portray, but he doesn’t need to know how my heartbeat thrashes so wildly that I’m growing lightheaded. I will it to calm down.
“You need your hands untied for this next part.” He digs his fingers into my tender wrist through the denim and drags me out of the room and down a narrow, dim hallway. I’m missing a shoe. My sock soon dampens as grit sticks to the fabric. I try to wrench free and run, but I’m shoved to the floor instead and kicked in the side.
Hot, blazing pain lashes across my ribs, and I roll over onto my front. Groaning pitifully, I dig my forehead into the ground. “Fuck, that hurt!”
“Get up!” Distorted, twisted, evil.
When I don’t move fast enough, he pulls me up by my hair and shoves me forward while I clutch my burning ribs.
There’s a door to our left, bolted just like the door to the room of horrors I was in. With a fierce grip on my arm, he slides the bolt aside, rams it open with his shoulder, and pulls me inside. It’s dark in here. Dark and damp. The stench of blood prickles my nose. I crinkle it as the monster beside me pulls a string by the door, flooding the room with a harsh, silvery, fluorescent light. I blink, shielding my eyes with my hand while taking in the scene before me.
Two metal chairs.
Two tied-up people, each with a burlap sack over their heads and dressed in similar robes to the killer.
Stepping back, I collide with the devil behind me, who curls his fingers around my throat and points the meat cleaver at the people on the chairs. “Two people you care about. Only one of them gets to live. The choice is yours.” The meat cleaver slides to the left, where a digital clock is mounted to the wall. “See how it ticks down? When it reaches zero, it’s game over. If your friends are still alive, I’ll kill you all. If one of them is dead by your hands,” he points the meat cleaver to a camera in the corner to let me know he’s watching, “I’ll let the other one walk out of here alive, and you surrender yourself to be killed in their place. If I return and they’re both dead,youget to walk out of here to see another sunrise.”
“Why are you doing this?” I choke out around his tight grip on my throat.
“Why do you think? True monsters are psychopaths, remember? Soulless monsters, incapable of compassion. How deep does your illness run, Keira? How deeply rooted is it? Do you truly love the people you claim to care about, or is it all a nicely constructed lie, a facade you wear to hide the killer behind the mask?” His fingers ease up on my throat, stroking my pulse point. “Did your father ever love you, Keira? Was he capable of human connection? If you were tied to one of those chairs,” he points the meat cleaver in the direction of the slumped figures, “would he have surrendered himself to let you live, or would he have slit your throat to save himself?” His mask presses into the crook of my neck as he whispers, “Would he have enjoyed it?”
“You forget one thing,” I reply, gritting my teeth. “Psychopaths can love people in their own way.”
“Well,” there’s a smile in his distorted voice, “that remains to be seen.” He shoves me forward, then walks out of the room and bolts the door. I stand there for a moment, not daring to breathe or move as I stare at the tied-up figures in front of me. As soon as I remove the sacks, I’ll know who they are, and this will all become a reality.
Right now, I can’t guess. They’re both dressed in the same black robes the killer wears to conceal his clothing, but I can hear their labored breathing and the rustling of their robes as they struggle against their binding.
Stepping forward, I pause. Duct-taped to their arm is a weapon each: a corkscrew and a small switchblade.
I stare at the corkscrew, wondering why the killer thought to include it. The message is clear: I have to kill the person with the chosen weapon.
My eyes skate to the clock on the wall. I’ve wasted five minutes already. Ten minutes left and counting.
Before I can let my nerves get the best of me, I walk forward and pull the burlap sack off the first person. It’s Madison. I press my palms to my mouth, my head shaking violently back and forth. I can’t do this. I can’t fucking do this.
Her mouth is duct-taped, too. I peel it off, causing her to wince. “Fuck, Keira, there’s never a dull moment with you, is there?”
Choked laughter rumbles in my chest. Only Madison would joke in a situation like this.
She slides her eyes to the left, to the hunched figure beside her, who’s wrestling against the restraints. I pull the sack off and stumble back when I see King staring up at me with his wild, dark eyes and unruly hair. His nostrils flare as his chest heaves.
Darting forward, I remove the duct tape over his mouth and fall to my knees in front of him. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Looking over at Madison, I ask her the same thing.
“I’m fine. We’re both fine,” King breathes out, clearly not fine as he grimaces in pain.
“Where does it hurt?” I ask, my voice edged with fear. I fall back onto my ass, pull my knees up, and clutch my head. Fingers braided in my matted hair, I pull sharply to distract myself from the mounting panic.
I can’t do this.
