Slasher Crasher Read online

  Slasher Crasher

  David Nora

  © Copyright David Nora 2019

  Black Rose Writing | Texas

  © 2019 by David Nora

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.

  First digital version

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-68433-328-8

  PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING

  www.blackrosewriting.com

  Print edition produced in the United States of America

  Thank you so much for checking out one of our Horror novels.

  If you enjoy this book, please check out our recommended title for your next great read!

  Doll House by John Hunt

  “Doll House is a deeply felt and admirably realized tale of an unending real-life nightmare.” –Mallory Heart Reviews

  “I absolutely loved this book.” –Bolton Library

  Dedicated to my father, David Sr., for bestowing upon me the greatest gift of life—horror—and my mother, Marian, for providing infinite support to a child who lives on dreams.

  All the days, Joo.

  And to my best friend and muse, Kathleen: nothing.

  Don’t do it, Eleanor told the little girl; insist on your cup of stars; once they have trapped you into being like everyone else you will never see your cup of stars again…

  - Shirley Jackson

  The Haunting of Hill House

  Guys, I think I lost my vagina.

  - Samantha

  Lunch, Sophomore Year

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Recommended Reading

  Dedication

  Quotes

  I. The Day He Just Wanted to Get the Fuck Home

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  II. Slasher Crasher Presents: The Senseless Murders of Six Insignificant Characters

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  III. The Gay, the Fat Bitch, and the Final Girl Gone Bad

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  73

  74

  IV. I Survived a Mass Murder And All I Got Was This Lousy Stockholm Syndrome

  75

  76

  77

  78

  79

  80

  81

  82

  83

  84

  85

  86

  87

  Epilogue

  Note from the Author

  About the Author

  BRW Info

  I.

  The Day He Just Wanted

  to Get the Fuck Home

  1

  Nick Roesch, 5:00 a.m.

  It started like an ‘80s slasher film. Not John Carpenter’s Halloween, the classic of suburban horror, but the countless, mostly Canadian copycats that emulated its simple-but-effective formula of the escaped mental patient who [choose one: had been burnt in a high school prank, buried in your run-of-the-mill mining accident, and/or mentally abused by Santa Claus] and picks off a sexy group of no-good teenagers on [a beloved American holiday].

  In this crude rip-off, it was Halloween, and Nick Roesch, a massive, pineapple-shaped teen wearing an oversized gray sweater and blue scrubs, was running through the vast wooded area surrounding Summer Hill House, the psychiatric hospital in Hannibal, New York, where he’d spent the last five years. After a window dive from the hospital’s second floor, he was following the early-morning light that trickled through the pines, hoping it would lead him to a house or road.

  Eventually, Nick got lucky. After barreling through the maze of trees for nearly thirty minutes, the eighteen-year-old, pale-faced beast came upon a long stretch of road and stopped in the middle of it. Gotta get home, he thought, bending over and heaving a deep breath. Need car.

  He stood up and scanned the road, waiting for the next vehicle. Again he was lucky; a moment later, as a red Volvo wagon popped out of the horizon, his strained breath eased into its normal inhale-wheeze-exhale rhythm. Spotting the dingy car racing toward him, he puffed out his chest like a superhero and walked directly toward it, initiating a horrific version of chicken. Unfortunately, the driver, a seventy-five-year-old man with the distant vision of a headless mole, couldn’t see past his headlights and unwillingly entered the game.

  About twenty yards away, the man finally noticed the towering figure in the road—“Bigfoot!” he screamed—and swerved out of the way. It was too late, though; he was going too fast to brake and slammed into the guardrail with a thunderous crack. The car lifted off the ground, spun around, and rolled forward, creating an explosion of smoke and dust. After a couple seconds, it stopped, the front end twisted into a modern art sculpture. Still, the left headlight remained intact, shining a yellow beam through the brisk autumn air, while the engine buzzed with a hint of life.


  With a wicked grin, Nick turned around and marched toward the car. When he reached it, he opened the door and pulled out the white-haired driver with his large taloned paws. The elderly fellow, his face smeared with blood, was writhing in pain, mumbling, “No, please,” but the giant didn’t care. He dropped the old guy onto the road like a wad of bellybutton flint and climbed into the Volvo.

  And then, finally, Nick’s luck ran out. As he reached for the gear selector, his malicious smile disappeared. The car had a manual transmission!

  He let out a growl then punched the busted dashboard with a hairy fist. How the fuck was he supposed to get home? He couldn’t drive a car with a stick shift! Dr. Bonesteel had never taught him!

  2

  Betsy Coleman, 7:29 a.m.

  Betsy lay on her white iron bed, her round angelic face fixed on the heart-shaped clock on her nightstand. “Okay,” she said under her breath. “You can do this. Just stay calm and try not to s-s-s-stutter.”

  After moving onto her back, she kicked her mattress and exhaled a hard sigh. Thirteen years of speech therapy and you still stutter. Might as well forget about the party and just…stop talking! As a pink-colored rash crept up her neck, her large brown eyes peered through the dim room, attempting to tuck the teen angst into the pocket of her mind that stored overdramatic anger. “All right, calm down.” She closed her eyes. “You’re just nervous. You need to t-t-t-take a deep breath and f-f-f-focus on something in the room.”

  After a long steady breath, she opened her eyes and turned to the other half of her small bedroom. In the right corner stood a glass-top writing desk, the two compartments underneath filled with school papers and drawings saved from childhood. In the left stood a light-brown four-drawer dresser, only three of which worked. A wide smile stretched across Betsy’s face as she stared at the wall behind these two items.

  The dusty wall, like the other three, was painted plum blossom, which instantly had become her favorite color when she was perusing the paint samples at Kmart. She was ten years old when she had asked her parents if she could paint her room. Her father, John, the sheriff of Onondaga County, immediately said no, telling her they didn’t have enough money. Betsy’s mother, Patricia, Syracuse School District’s Favorite Pre-K Teacher twelve years in a row, interjected and suggested it could be a Christmas present. After bickering with him back and forth for an eternity (which actually was three days), Patricia finally persuaded her husband into letting Betsy paint her room.

  Still smiling, she took another long breath. Don’t worry. Daddy will let you go to the party. Just ask Mom one last time. There was a hard knock on her bedroom door. “It’s seven thirty,” Betsy’s father said in his gruff voice. “Time to get up.”

  Startled by the sudden noise, Betsy’s body went century-old corpse. Okay, she thought with a quick breath. You got this. Just stay calm and don’t stutter. A second knock came. “Betsy?”

  “Yes, Daddy,” she said with a sleepy but sweet pitch. “I’ll be right down. I just need to say my p-p-p-prayers.” Her face winced. Damn it.

  “All right. Do you want me to make you some eggs or something?”

  “No. It’s okay. I’ll just have sssssome c-c-c-cereal.” Betsy threw her head back, mouthing, “Oh my God.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “All right. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  “’K,” Betsy replied, listening to his slow footsteps descend the stairs. She turned back to the wall, her plump lips pinched in disgust. Great, she mumbled; her stutter was out of control, and she hadn’t even gotten out of bed. She definitely needed to talk to Mom.

  Sitting up, she brushed the dirty-blond strands of hair away from her forehead, made the sign of the cross, then recited the Our Father. She inhaled deeply and continued. “Good morning, Mom. Happy Halloween.” She gave a small smile. “Hope you’re doing good today. I’m doing pretty good myself.” The smile disappeared. “Well, not really. Ashley R-r-r-rathburn’s party is t-t-t-tonight.” She stopped for a breath. “I uh…know I keep asking, b-b-b-but I really want to go. Luke Gerasi said he would come, and I like him, and I think he l-l-l-likes me, so uh…please, if you can, make D-d-d-daddy let me g-g-g…” A frustrated shot of air expelled from her nose. It would be a horrible day if she couldn’t control her stutter.

  After a second of silence, she took another deep breath. “I promise…nothing will happen…between Luke and me. I swear on my life.” She paused, turning to the nightstand. Next to the clock was a framed picture of her at age eight, along with her mother—a large woman with curly blond hair and the same brown eyes—standing in front of Niagara Falls with big touristy smiles. “Okay. Thanks, Mom. Love you.” Betsy made the sign of the cross again then stood up and walked to her dresser.

  It was Friday, which meant that she—a senior at Bishop Dullen, one of the three Catholic junior-senior high schools in Syracuse—could skip the khaki pants and green polo with the school’s name embroidered on the chest (the standard Dullen uniform) and dress down. On most Fridays, she wore a pair of jeans and a basic cotton top from Old Navy or JCPenney, but not today. She had her best outfit (a pair of gray sateen pants and a blue-striped oxford from Abercrombie & Fitch her Aunt Carol had given her for Christmas) laid on top of the dresser.

  Betsy’s cheeks filled with excitement as she lifted the shirt by its sleeves. “Tonight’s gonna be so amazing. Like a million times better than my birthday party.” Suddenly the glee was sucked out of her face as if those last two words were emotion-extracting vacuums. “Shoot.” She returned the shirt to the dresser then quickly made the sign of the cross once more. “Sorry, Mom. I almost f-f-f-forgot. K-k-k-k—” Pressing her lips together, she groaned. She followed it with a brisk inhalation then went on. “Kathleen…is coming back…to school today, so…if you could, please let me not run into her, okay?” She waited for a moment in silence. “Okay, thanks. Love you.”

  She made the sign of the cross one last time then headed to the bathroom to shower.

  . . . . .

  Sheriff Coleman, a broad-shouldered man, forty-two, with dark, angular features, sauntered into the small ‘90s-styled kitchen. Tightening his maroon robe over his plaid pajama bottoms, he stopped at the tile countertop and curled his thin lips into a sour pout at the Keurig machine. It had been four years since he’d had a good cup of coffee. Or a good drink. Stop it, he chided himself, biting his upper lip. You shouldn’t be thinking about that. Especially today.

  As he presided over nineteen towns, fifteen villages, and eleven “census-designated places” as county sheriff, his plate was always full. Today, however, would be particularly laborious. He had no doubt that a plethora of teenagers would be out on the road drinking or doing something equally stupid. And he had to make sure the dumb kids didn’t kill each other or anyone else.

  “Good morning, D-d-d-daddy.”

  Fear flashed through his bright-green eyes when he turned to his daughter, who was entering the dimly lit room. Where’s her uniform? his fatherly instincts questioned, and Why does she look like a college student? “Good morning, honey,” he said hesitantly. “Is it dress-down day?”

  Betsy stopped and looked down at her clothes. “Yeah,” she said, looking back up. “It’s F-f-f-friday, but I think a lot of people are going to wear costumes.”

  Sheriff Coleman blew a mental sigh of relief. She was wearing a nun’s habit compared to some of the outfits he’d seen girls her age wear. “You’re probably right. You sleep okay?”

  “Yup.” Smiling, Betsy walked up to him, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed his cheek. “You?”

  “Like a baby.” Sheriff Coleman flashed her a grin back.

  Betsy laughed lightly. “That’s good. Could you hand
me the c-c-c-c-cereal?”

  “Of course.” He handed the box of Apple Jacks on the counter to her.

  “Thanks, Daddy.”

  “You’re welcome.” He turned to the Keurig again. As the hot, bitter-smelling coffee dripped into his mug, Betsy poured herself a bowl of cereal then grabbed a carton of milk from the fridge. Taking his cup of coffee, Sheriff Coleman let out a hearty laugh. “Just in time. Can I get the milk after you?”

  “Of course.” Still smiling, Betsy poured some milk into her bowl then handed him the carton.

  “Thanks.”

  As Sheriff Coleman stirred his coffee, Betsy grabbed a spoon from the dish rack and sat down at the Formica table in the center of the kitchen. A thick air of silence passed between them as Sheriff Coleman blew on his coffee then took a quick sip. His lips squeezed in revolt. It wasn’t horrible; it just wasn’t his Patricia’s coffee.

  “Daddy?”

  He turned to her, wiping the residual coffee from his salt-and-pepper mustache. “Yeah, honey?”

  “Um”—Betsy stared at her cereal—“is it okay…if I g-g-g-go t-t-t-to Ashley R-r-r-rathburn’s party tonight?” She looked up with an innocent expression. “P-p-p-please?”

  Sheriff Coleman released a frustrated breath. So that’s why she’s dressed up. “No, Betsy.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…” He paused to think. There were several reasons why he didn’t want his daughter to go out tonight, but he chose the most obvious answer. “Did you forget what happened at your birthday party? I caught people drinking.”

  “Sssso.” Betsy knitted her brow. “That was t-t-t-two weeks ago. And I wasn’t drinking.”

  “But your friend was—”

  Betsy’s befuddled expression twisted into a web of furious lines. “Kathleen isn’t my friend!” her raspy voice echoed through the kitchen.