The Truth Hurts

58 │who's there?

Humming to the beat of the song playing from the speaker still blasting music, Peyton bites at the end of her graphite pencil as she stares down at another poorly drawn image of a random girl. She gazes over to a fashion magazine she had snatched from Casey's room, comparing the beautiful model posing on the front cover to the hideous deformity of an imitation she attempted to draw.

When they were holding auditions for the eighth grade talent show at her school a few weeks ago, it came to her realization that she has no talents whatsoever. She can't sing—unless you count when she's jamming out in the shower—can't dance, can't play any instruments, and apparently can't draw. Sighing, she rips the paper out from the spine of the sketchbook and crumbles it into a wad, tossing it with the other failures near the small trashcan that overflows with paper in the corner of her room.

The closet door behind her slowly cracks open.

"Worth a shot." She mumbles to herself, taking the magazine to draw it closer to her. She sets it on top of the sketchbook and opens it, flipping through the pages to look at new trending styles. She kicks her bare feet up in the air behind her, crossing her ankles as she sways them in the air.

The door widens, the pale mask slipping out of the darkness from her closet as the killer steps into the room. He stares at her from behind the bed and slowly begins to approach her, holding his knife at his side as his grip tightens with each step he takes.

Not able to hear his footsteps over the music, she bobs her head to the song as she turns another page in the magazine. Over her shoulder, he now stands right at the end of the bed just mere inches from her feet.

The blade glistens from the lamp on her nightstand as he steadily raises the knife in the air...

"Hey fucker!"

The killer turns around just as the fireplace poker slams into the side of his mask. He stumbles backwards into the dresser, knocking several bottles of perfume and hair products—along with Peyton's cell phone—down to the floor with him.

"Stay away from my sister, you son of a bitch." Casey snarls, standing in front of the open bedroom door with the poker still raised high in the air.

Peyton turns over to see Casey and her eyes quickly gaze over at the killer, who touches at his head as he pulls himself up to his feet. She screams, jumping up in her bed to where her back hits the headboard.

"RUN!" Casey yells at Peyton. She watches the killer as Peyton, not debating this time, slides out of the bed and bolts into the hallway. She stops at the railing, waiting for her sister to follow.

The killer turns around but, before he can lunge at Casey, she takes another swing with the poker. He grabs onto the bar, the curved end of the poker inches from his mask, and yanks it from Casey's grip.

"Casey!"

Casey backs up and turns around to see Peyton, her eyes filling with tears, still standing there.

"Get out of here! GO!" Casey hollers, turning back just as the killer swings the poker at her. She ducks and the curved end digs into the wall next to the closet door. He back hands her with his free hand, sending her falling onto the floor and sliding into the nightstand. The lamp on top of it rattles.

Screaming, Peyton grabs onto the wooden railing and hurriedly runs down the staircase to the front door. Her hands tremble as she reaches to unlock both of the deadbolts, terrified of what may happen to Casey. She swings open the door, immediately running down the steps of the porch to cut through the tall shrubs lining the sidewalk in front of her. After pushing through the shrubs she bolts through their massive yard, aiming directly for the neighbor's house.