The Slasher

The Slasher looms at edge of the treeline. On his face is an old, worn hockey mask, expressionless, a grave threat. Ahead is a tent, the silhouette of a camper within.

If it were any other misty night, the Greenville forest would be alive with the sounds of wildlife. Tonight, there is silence.

He takes stock of anything useful scattered near the tent: rope, tent spikes, a hacksaw. Gripping his machete with a strength that could crush the handle, he steps from the shadows.

A quick swipe tears the tent open.

It’s not a camper that stares up at him. It is… something else. Almost human. Skin twisted and deformed in a familiar way. Mouth fixed in a perpetual grin. Covered in blood, holding an axe. There are signs of a struggle, yet no victim to be seen.

The creature watches and waits, twitching with uncertainty. The Slasher stares back, fixated on its misshapen face.

“Can you help find my cat?” asks the creature, voice shifting between pitches. Without warning, it plants its axe into The Slasher’s chest.

The Slasher doesn’t hesitate. He reaches out and snaps the creature’s neck, wrenching it backwards.

It remains standing.

He stabs his machete into its belly. The creature’s head twists back into place. Moonlight reveals dark holes where its eyes should be.

A fleshy proboscis extends from its neck and opens.

A booming force strikes The Slasher. He staggers, disoriented.

The creature’s axe cuts through his muscle, hits bone. The Slasher slams his hand forward, through the creature’s chest. His fist tightens around what feels like a beating heart.

He rips his hand out, holding not a heart but a clump of entangled flesh. The spidery thing crawls up his arm, stabbing with hooked protrusions. He rips it off, chunks of skin coming with it.

The creature seizes the advantage. Knocks him down, tosses the axe aside, and wails on him with surprising force. Ribs snap like dry wood.

The Slasher reaches for the hacksaw. He slashes it across the creature’s throat. Pink ooze spills onto his mask. The creature continues its assault. The Slasher scrapes the blade deeper, cutting through thick, sinewy flesh until the creature’s head falls from its body.

It writhes in the dirt, a desperate, violent, and ineffective movement. After a final thrash, it collapses, lying motionless.

The Slasher turns away, scores of wounds across his body, and strides into the darkness. A crimson trail follows his every step.

Behind him, a warbling voice calls out.

“I could use a hand here.”

In a flash, the headless creature charges on all fours. Tentacles burst from a gaping maw on its back and seize The Slasher. Snapping jaws emerge, burrowing into his body. He spasms. Blood seeps from the holes of his mask. The moon’s glow darkens.

With one final push, The Slasher thrusts his fists through the worming appendages and into the maw. He rises to his feet, lifting the creature, impaling it on his arms. With an overpowering heave, he slams it into the ground.

Still, it moves. The Slasher grabs its legs and swings it into a tree. A sickening crunch. He swings again. He doesn’t stop until he holds in his hands two legs, unconnected to the fleshy puddle of gore that lies beneath him.

Something twitches in the puddle, as if thin threads of muscle twine back together. The Slasher looks around. The mist that permeates this forest turns black.

In the gloom, he glimpses visions of skittish, fearful people roaming the forests. He storms through the dark cloud, wisps parting to reveal a young woman, olive skinned, scarf around her neck.

Her eyes widen in terror. He swings his machete.

Her screams are cut short as she chokes on the blood that spews from her throat. Her death echoes through the realm as a warning.

Jason is here.