The Butcher of Pepper Hill [An Interactive Story]

75

Wes leaves you there all night. It's impossible to sleep: the combination of your uncomfortable position, the occasional sounds of the woman in the stall next to you crying, and the impenetrable gloom of the place combine to keep you at your wits' end.

You try to converse with your fellow captive, but she does not respond to you at all. It seems like she's beyond reason.

Morning breaks. You're stiff; your shoulders ache, your knees ache, your head aches. You roll your shoulders, trying to stretch your muscles, but this has the effect of reminding you of the gruesome gift Wes left you: the noose of nylon rope, which still hangs at your neck, a macabre adornment.

You're almost grateful for the lingering nausea, because if you felt like yourself, your stomach would be snarling with hunger; the last thing you had to eat was a granola bar at the office yesterday morning. You didn't even stop for lunch.

The sound of a car door sends a shock of fear through you. You're instantly alert. The rattling of the chain on the outside of the barn door comes to you, and there's a rustle of wings: a pair of pigeons taking flight in fear.

If only you had wings.

The barn doors creak open. For one insane moment of blind hope, you're certain it's the police or some good Samaritan coming to investigate, coming to save you, but by the sound of his footsteps, you know it's Wes.

No. No. No.

"Afternoon, ladies," he calls cheerfully. "Brought you somethin' to eat, if you've been good."

Just the thought of food makes you want to vomit. You've never felt so sick in your life. The thought of food offered to you by Wes is even worse.

He comes into view, lifting a brown paper bag that smells of fast food, and your stomach roils.

"Hungry?" he asks. He leans against the gate of your stall.

You shake your head.

"Huh." He opens the bag and and peers in, then reaches in and picks out a fry. Popping it into his mouth, he shrugs. "Suit yourself."

He moves away. Once he has taken a few steps, you can no longer see him from your low vantage point. "What about you?"

There's a soft sound. Maybe it's a human voice. Maybe not.

A creak. More footsteps. You think he is going into the other prisoner's cell, kneeling down next to her. Perversely, you wish you could see; these things happening outside of your range of vision is frightening. If you could only see him, you might get insight into who he is, why he's doing this.

The crinkling of the brown paper bag comes to you. More low voices.

Time passes. You can't be certain how much, but you're pretty certain the muted sounds are of a person eating, and you wonder if she's still tied up, if Wes is feeding her like he offered you water to drink before. When the woman speaks again, her voice is clearer, but hollow, as if there's no person behind the words.

"Thank you, Wes." A pause. "Please...please...will you please let me go now?"

The sharp sound that rings through the barn can be nothing other than a strong man striking a woman. Her cry pierces you like a knife, and the sound of her muffled crying brings tears to your own eyes.

Wes does not even respond to her—not that you can hear. His booted footsteps move across the floor, and you hear a creaking sound that you think must be another gate closing. He comes back into your line of sight, looking pensive.

Reason with him. Reason with him. That's what you decided to do...

"Wes...You have a choice here," you say.

He glances toward you, as if he had forgotten you were there.

"You need to let us go."

Wes turns now, facing you. He cocks his head. "Do I, now?"

"They know that we're missing. The police. And they're not going to stop looking for us."

"Oh, the police are real good at finding things," Wes says. "Real damn good."

"They are. They're going to find us and you're going to go to prison but if you let us go—"

Wes slams the heel of his palm against the gate. It rattles, and you shrink back, cold fear washing over you. He unlatches the gate and wrenches it open.

"Please be reasonable, please think—please, you don't have to do this, you have a choice," you say, your mind racing ten miles ahead of your mouth, or maybe it's the other way around.

"You know what the police are good at findin', Kendall?" Wes asks. He leans down, and you pull back, trying to evade his grasp, but he isn't reaching for you—he is reaching for the tail end of the noose you're wearing.

"No, no, no," you beg, twisting, trying to get away, but with your hands bound as they are, you can't evade him.

"They're real good at findin' dead bodies in ditches," he said. "Here. I'll show you."

He wrenches the cord. The noose tightens. You instantly feel the alarming sensation of blood pounding in your neck and your face. You squirm, shifting your weight so that you can free your legs—the only limbs you have free—and you try to kick him away from you.

He ignores your flailing feet. He's pulling on the end of the noose, and it tightens, tightens, tightens. You can't breathe. You can't think. You jerk and shudder and buck, gasping, grunting, but you're helpless.

Mercifully, unconsciousness comes before death.

ENDING ACHIEVED: Murder's a Cinch

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If you want to achieve all 24 endings and need a little help, check out the END NOTES chapter (mild spoilers) for a story map!