The knife in her hand was laden with blood. She smirked as she watched it drip onto the pavement beneath her feet, a wicked satisfaction she only gained after the loss of another's soul. The blood was red, vibrant and filled with a haunting quality, memories of a life once lived. The victim in question was slouched on the pavement, gravel raked through his light hair, glossy eyes widened in permanent surprise. It was poetic almost, the way he'd departed his mortal existence, at the hands of one who's life he'd attempted to steal, one whose life he had stolen from. It was poetic, and it was perfectly rationalised. At least, that's what she told herself, each time she saw her face in all of their gaunt eyes, devoid of life.
***
The curtains flowed as a cool breeze drifted through the window, welcome after a day of sweltering heat. Victoria Beaumont was home alone, again, on her third 'Grease' re-watch of the summer. As her holidays came to a close, she rationalised that this would be her last time witnessing Olivia Newton-John, and John Travolta grace her screens before her inevitable return to school the next day.
It was sort of a tradition she had, one she previously held with her mother, before she became completely, thoroughly, consumed by her work, the specifics of which she never mentioned. Victoria thought of this night as a ritual, a ceremony of sorts, a welcome into the new year, and a promise- a promise of positive energy for the next three hundred and sixty five days.
Victoria didn't think of herself as much of a musical enthusiast, sure she watched the heathers musical from a glitchy youtube video for two hours, performed in all the productions her highschool had on offer for her, and watched the performances of nearby schools, but she didn't love it as much as others did. Most of the time she didn't get it, why people would devote their lives to the genre. But when the starting beats of 'Summer Nights' rang through the two bedroom apartment she shared with her mother, she thought she understood why.
"SUMMERR LOVINGG HAD ME A BLASTTT" She sung along to the music, as if she was the one singing to her friends, recounting her whirlwind summer romance.
"SUMMER LOVINGG HAPPENED SO FASTTT" Handbrush in hand, Victoria was singing into it like it was a microphone, dancing around her living room, utterly immersed in the song.
"I MET A GIRL CRAZZYY FOR MEE!" She sat back on the couch, panting, a smile plastered on her face.
She took a deep breath before belting, "MET A BOYY CUTE AS..." she stopped abruptly, upon hearing a voice that sang alongside her.
"... as can be" The voice continued, and Victoria almost screamed out of humiliation, cheeks aflame, burning red. The window beside the couch was open, letting in gusts of air and the sounds of the night. Someone had heard her. How did she not notice the window was open?
As the voice from below her window, on the pavement, continued singing along, Victoria, very stealthily, attempted to shut the window without the pedestrian noticing her. Not that that would be easy to do- they most definitely were within earshot when she started belting out the lyrics to the Grease soundtrack.
Though, just to her luck, Victoria tripped and fell over the leg of her couch, falling face first into the glass of the window with a large thud. The person in the street clearly heard this commotion, glancing up as if to determine what had caused such a sound. Not observing anything, they continued walking down the street, dark hair swaying behind their head.
Victoria wished she'd just fallen out of the open portion of the window and down onto the street.
Looking down, avoiding making unnecessary eye contact with a stranger who just witnessed what probably made the top ten most embarrassing moments of her life list, Victoria shut the window, and the stranger glanced upwards once again. This time, Victoria didn't advert her eyes, but really wished she would've.
Because standing there, right down there, on the pathway IN FRONT OF HER HOUSE (?!?), was a masked figure, soaked to the bone in blood, knife in hand, singing along to 'Summer Nights'.
Victoria screamed. For real this time.
***
The room was cold- seeped in a grimness unobservable to the human eye, creating a dark, brooding, mysterious atmosphere, counterbalanced only by the golden glow emitted by an oil lamp that hung from one of the stone walls. Sasha Vaughan stood in the centre of the room, leather digging into her skin from where one of her knives lay to rest in her holster. The other was on the table in front of her, blood turning flakey, creating a cast, as it dried.
"Did it really need to be that messy?" The dark eyes of her brother were screwed, tense. His arms were crossed, voice gruff, and his posture slouched, telltale signs he wasn't impressed with her work.
Sasha merely shrugged. "I did what I had to."
Her brother sighed, heavily. "What you had to? Or what you wanted to?"
"Does it matter?" She snapped back, rolling her dark brown eyes. "He's dead, okay? That's all that matters."
"Not when you look like you fucking murdered someone!"
Sasha just grinned. "But Felix, I did murder someone." She responded, words soaked in her usual sarcastic tone. "And, if you wouldn't mind, I'd actually like to celebrate it."
"The fuck do you mean 'celebrate'? You killed three guys last week and didn't want to celebrate that."
Sasha turned, walking towards the door, away from Felix, shrugging off her black trench coat as she went. Hanging up her mask and coat on the hook nearest the door, she turned back to face her brother, wicked smile upon her face.
"Well, dear brother. They weren't him."
***
Victoria had been shaking in a corner for sixteen minutes. She clutched her phone in her left hand, and held it close to her chest, her only hope of making it out of the night alive. In her right hand was a pillow, the only weapon she could find in the very limited time she'd had from screaming her head off, to hiding in her living room corner.
She would've called the police, if the service on her phone would actually work. She'd attempted to facetime her mother- her very last resort, but she wasn't picking up, even after the forty missed calls. Losing all sense of hope, Victoria turned to the one thing she could trust.
"How to survive serial killer" she muttered as she punched her question into Google. Within seconds, an array of answers appeared, and she clicked on the first one that caught her eye- a WikiHow article.
"Step One," she read. "Lock all doors and windows in your house."
Crap. She'd seen all six scream films, and was a self proclaimed serial killer expert. She knew that locking the door– locking all doors and windows, was the most logical thing to do- for goodness sake she'd complained about the characters blatant dumbness for the first half of all of the movies. Clearly, it was much more different in practice.
Wearily, she rose, pillow held out in front of her, as if it would protect her from anyone lurking around the house. She tiptoed around the apartment, as fast as her quiet scrambling would allow. Reaching the front door, she paused, inhaling deeply, before turning the lock with a little flick, and testing the doorknob to make sure it was actually locked. Satisfied, she made her way back to the living room, though not before the sharp ringing of the house phone startled her.
-Brrrrrring- Briiiiiiing-
-Brrrrrring- Briiiiiiing-
-Brrrrrring- Briiiiiiing-
Her first instinct was to avoid the call, defy the rules of horror movies. But something in her was urging to pick up the phone, and talk to whoever was on the other side. It was important, she thought, it would be dumber to not pick it up.
Making her way over to the kitchen, she grabbed the handle of the phone, and accepted the call.
"Hello?" Her voice was timid, afraid. She knew that whoever had answered had something important they needed to share with her, something that would determine the outcome of the rest of her life, the difference between life and death.
"Hello!" A cheerful voice burst out of the phone's speakers. "Are you in need of some new fans miss? We have square an–"
Victoria hung up.
Evidently, she was wrong. A telemarketer? Really? Ashamed for not the first time that day, she made her way back to the couch, and satisfied with the security of the apartment, settled in to watch the last couple minutes of Grease.
***
Sasha glowed, face alight with the feelings she only associated with murder. She was alive, a feeling so rare, she felt it immeasurably deep when she did. Finally. She'd finally had an assignment where the death had felt so much more integral to the core of her very being, deep rooted in the essence which made her, well, her.
She was sitting at the chair on her desk, her celebratory antics including smiling so wide she thought her face would rip, and crossing a name off her list. One of the two names on her list. She couldn't believe it.
What Sasha also couldn't believe was why she started singing alongside that random person. She was just so out of it, she rationalised, so glowing with the aftereffects of death that she couldn't help but get swept up in the festivities, the joy, of those around her. It's not like she ever got to celebrate anything on a daily basis anyway.
She stood from her desk, and glanced around her room. It was small, and dark, but held all she needed. Strictly the necessities. A wall of knives, daggers, all lined up in a perfect show of twenty three, two missing from the collection. A draw filled with her list, and old newspaper fragments– anything that referenced that one night. Her laptop stood in the middle of her desk, her only confidence, and object she trusted with the depths of her soul.
The room wasn't horrid, far better than places she and Felix had shared previously. The owners had had an unfortunate incident that trapped them permanently out of town, leaving Sasha and Felix to do whatever they pleased before the authorities caught on. Not like they ever would.
Nonetheless, the house was perfect for now, a good base for when they worked within the city. Felix was in the basement section, doing god knows what, when Sasha decided she'd done enough celebrating– the dead guy wasn't worth all that much, and made her way back down to check on her brother, to see if he had made any more progress.
"Found anything?" She appeared from behind Felix, startling him.
"Fuck! Sasha! I told you not to do that!"
"Whoops." Sasha deadpanned.
She glanced around the room. Her knife was still on the table, doused in blood. Clearly Felix hadn't thought of cleaning it. How considerate. The man in question was glancing over a web of notes, photos and old newspaper clippings scattered on the table in front of him, notebooks open, a sea of words. She saw the faces of those she'd killed, their lifeless expressions burned into her eyelids like scars. Like trophies.
Noticing Sasha watching his work, Felix turns to face her. "I have a lead."
"I'd hope so." Sasha says as she turns to collect her bloodied knife, using the edge of her t-shirt to wipe off the dried blood. "Thanks for cleaning this by the way."
Felix just huffs in response. "I've got a lead," he repeats, "But you're going to have to get answers from them."
Sasha rolls her eyes, unimpressed. "You know I don't do that." She muses. She doesn't do getting to know people, interrogating them, all the likes. No. She prefers to find them, watch from a distance, then pounce, like they're her prey. In a way, they sort of are.
"This one is different."
"How so?"
Felix beacons for Sasha to join him at the desk once more. When Sasha gets there, she notices he's left a file out on the desk in front of him. Staring back at her is a photograph, the eyes of a soul she's been hunting for almost five years.
Without hesitation, she responds. "I'm in."
***