The Masked Killer - A.T Ben Saad || English

Chapter 7: Oliver

"Alright, open it then," I say, my voice steady despite the doubt gnawing at me.

"No way, you're crazy! Just stop!" Matt whispers urgently.

"No, I'm serious! I'm going," I insist, my determination clear. I crawl past Matthew, who grabs my wrist, but I pull away. "I love you guys," I say softly before opening the hatch.

"We love you too," they whisper in turn. A smile spreads across my face. Those words are rarely spoken to me, in some strange way.

A faint beam of light filters through the hatch as the others move further back. I exhale deeply. This is going to be harder than I thought. The rumbling above continues. I silently crawl out of the hatch. Tiny splinters prick my fingers as I carefully replace the hatch. My eyes scan the room. The adrenaline coursing through my veins is overwhelming.

I'm in the middle of a slaughterhouse. The commotion above persists. I stealthily move towards the front door. The handle feels cold against the inside of my hand. I gently press it down and try to open the door, but it won't budge from its frame. I curse softly under my breath, searching frantically for that damned key. Normally, it's always in the door, but the killer must have taken it.

Hearing footsteps coming down the hall, I panic. I'm going to die! I glance around. The bathroom? No, that's a bad idea. If I lock the door, the killer would immediately know I'm inside from the red sticker on the lock. Each step brings the killer closer to my inevitable death. Then I spot my salvation: the utility closet.

I sprint toward it, fling open the door, and jump inside just as I see black shoes descending the stairs. Wait, black shoes? I peer through the small gaps in the closet. I recognize those shoes. They're black Nike sneakers in a boot size—definitely the feet of a man.

My focus breaks as the black sneakers come to a stop right in front of my face. My heart pounds in my throat. I try to breathe as quietly as possible. The killer takes a step forward, then another, until his gloved thumb pokes through the gap where I'm peeking. His fingertip brushes against my hand.

I'm screwed. I'm going to die. I'm being butchered. Why did I even start on YouTube? This should never have happened. Then I remember another escape route. The window in the living room is broken; I can jump through it and run through the garden to escape. Without a second thought, I shove the closet doors open with all my strength. They hit the killer's head, and he staggers back. I sprint past him through the hall into the living room.

Glass shards crunch under my feet as I run through the room. I leap through the window and, fueled by adrenaline, I don't feel exhausted. As I race through the garden, I hide behind the shed, planning my next move. Just as I round the corner, a sharp pain stabs through my abdomen. I look down at the wound and see warm, red blood spreading across my white shirt.

I glance over my shoulder and see the killer's terrifying mask in my peripheral vision. He drives the knife deeper into my side. I cough and taste the metallic tang of blood. My legs tingle and weaken. I collapse onto the wet grass. The coldness seeps into my limbs. The killer pulls the knife out, and I scream. Tears of pain and helplessness stream down my face.

I clutch my abdomen and bend forward, hoping the pain will lessen. The killer kicks me in the back, and I fall face-first, barely catching myself with my hands. A groan escapes my lips, along with the cold, dirty blood that spills onto the green grass.

I stare at the blood. "A-are you done?" I ask quietly, my voice laced with rage. The killer crouches beside me, gripping my chin and tilting my head back painfully. It feels like my neck might snap.

"Ah, little Oliver," says an all-too-familiar voice. "You should have paid for your drugs." The voice of the person who has betrayed me, the one who murdered my girlfriend.

"Bastard!" I yell, summoning my last bit of strength to give him a hard shove. He falls to the grass, but when he gets up, his filthy hands grip my head tightly.

"They'll find out. You're screwed if the police get here," I say, my eyes filled with hatred.

"Oh? You think so? Well, it won't matter to you, will it? You won't be around to care." His grin is evident in his voice.

"It was nice knowing you, Oliver. Now I have to kill you for real, otherwise, it just won't be fun anymore, you see?" His hands twist my head into an unnatural position. In a split second, my body goes limp, and everything fades to black. I'm dead. Killed by the one I trusted most. A filthy traitor.