Switch Blade Romance

People Who Died

March, 20th 2008

The cabin sat squat and dark against the pines of Manatachie Falls, Arkansas, on that raw March night in 2008, the kind of cold that sneaks under your skin and reminds you winter isn't done chewing on the world yet. Wylie Parker had been tucked against David Chambers on the back steps, his Letterman's jacket still warm from his body, their breaths fogging the air like little ghosts. Then something shifted in her—something small but sharp—and she stood up, walked out into the yard without a word.
"Babe?" David called, shrugging the jacket off his shoulders and draping it around her. "What's the matter?"
She stared at the black wall of trees. "Nothing, Davey. I'm fine."
He gave that low chuckle he always used when he knew she was lying. "Wylie Jean Parker, we've been doing this dance for two years. I know 'fine' when I hear it, and that ain't it. Spill."
She sighed, the sound thin and tired. "It's this place. Coming up here... I don't know if it was smart. Not with that bastard still out there. Mrs. Stoddard—she used to watch me and my sister when we were little, braid our hair and sneak us cookies. Two weeks ago they found her in her own kitchen with her throat open like a second mouth. And six others before her. Six. And here we are, playing house like nothing's wrong."
David pulled her in tight, arms strong around her shoulders. "I didn't know it hit you that hard, baby. I knew you knew her, but..."
"Yeah," she said, turning to face him. "And then we drag that fucking creep along for the ride. Charles. I know he's Matthew's boyfriend, but Jesus, Davey—he gives me the willies. The way he watches Matthew, like he's afraid someone might steal him. Nina Barksdale saw him grab Matthew's arm outside Pittman's the other night, hard enough to leave marks. Bruises, Davey. That's not love. That's something else."
David nodded slowly. "It's not right. But what do we do? Tell his folks? They already act like Matthew's some kind of disease because he's gay."
Krystal—wait, no, that was me thinking ahead—Krystal wasn't there yet. Just the two of them in the yard, the wind rattling the branches like bones.
"Come on," David said. "Let's take a walk. I seem to recall promising you a reward for me not sucking at practice this week."
She managed a small laugh. "Yes, sir."
They wandered toward the woods, hand in hand, the cabin lights fading behind them.
Inside, at the kitchen door, Charles Grady stood listening. He had always heard things other people missed—footsteps a block away, whispers through walls, the soft click of a heart skipping when it shouldn't. The others were in the living room, music thumping, laughter rolling like it was just another weekend. Even Matthew was smiling, hopeful. Charles had wanted this trip to be clean. A fresh start. He hadn't planned on killing anyone—not while Matthew was here. But some things you can't help. Some things come for what's yours.
He slipped out the back, quiet as smoke.
Out in the trees, David had Wylie pressed against a big oak, kissing the side of her neck, hand under her blouse. She moaned, fingers working his jeans open. "Fuck, baby, I want you so bad," he breathed.
"Mmm. Right here. Against the tree."
He lifted her, fumbling with her tights. "Ouch—easy, doofus. Mom'll kill me if you rip these."
"Sorry—"
A twig snapped.
They froze.
"David?" Wylie's voice was small.
"Just a deer, probably."
Another snap. Closer.
"Seriously. Stop."
He sighed. "Wylie Jean, relax. It's nothing."
But the crickets had gone dead quiet. The whole woods held its breath. David knew that silence—from hunting with his dad and uncles, from years of listening to the world go still when something with teeth was near.
He scanned the dark. "Hey! Anybody out there? Quit screwing around!"
Nothing answered.
"Come on," Wylie said, straightening her clothes. "Back to the cabin."
They started walking. Ten feet. Maybe twelve.
Then the bushes exploded.
Charles Grady stepped out, eyes shining a weird, almost luminous green in the moonlight—like pond water over something dead.
"Grady, what the fuck?" David said.
Charles smiled, slow and wrong. "Thought I'd surprise you two."
Wylie's stomach dropped. Those eyes weren't right. Nothing about him was right.
David opened his mouth again—and Charles lunged, the big kitchen knife flashing. It went in low, under David's ribs. A wet grunt. David shoved back, but Charles twisted, pushed deeper.
Wylie screamed, turned to run. Charles grabbed the back of David's jacket—still on her shoulders—and yanked. The blade sliced through fabric, into flesh. Hot pain bloomed across her back.
David, bleeding, grabbed Charles's wrist. "Run, Wylie. Run!"
She fell forward, scrambled up, and bolted. Branches whipped her face. Behind her, David's screams turned wet and final.
She burst out of the treeline, staggering. Cordelia, Krystal, and Thomas were on the back porch, peering into the dark.
"I told you I heard screaming," Cordelia said.
Then Wylie lurched into the light, blood soaking her shirt, sobbing.
They ran to her.
"What the hell happened?" Krystal asked.
"Inside," Delia said. "Now. Where's David?"
"He's dead," Wylie gasped. "Charles killed him. Stabbed me too."
Matthew appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Guys? What's—oh God."
"Call 911," Delia snapped.
Matthew bolted for his phone. Gone. Krystal's—gone.
Phones missing.
Thomas and delia carried Wylie to the couch. Matthew stared at her blood. "Charles wouldn't—"
Then David's body crashed through the big living-room window in a spray of glass and meat. He landed in a heap, face ruined, eyes open and empty.
Screams.
Charles stepped through the shattered frame, blood-smeared knife in hand, smiling like a man who'd finally come home.
"Hi, guys," he said softly. "How's everyone's night going?"
Matthew took a step forward. "Charles... why?"
Charles raised the knife to his lips. "Shhh. You're about to see."
He came on, slow and sure, the way a storm comes on when you've already bolted the doors and know it won't matter.
And the rest, as they say in those old stories nobody quite believes until it's too late... the rest is history.