2. Final Girls

“You never get the grits at a Waffle House.”

It was 2 a.m. and she was standing beside the only occupied booth in the place. She’d waited in her car, fingers rapping against the dash, until the two truckers at the counter finished their eggs and coffee, flirted with the waitress, paid their bill, and left. She wasn’t sure how this was going to go. It could end up in a scene, and she didn’t want some semi-toothless meathead to insert himself where he didn’t belong, protecting the “little lady” just trying to eat her breakfast in peace.

“I’m sorry?”

Erika leaned in, repeated herself. “I’m from Connecticut, and even I know you don’t get grits at a Waffle House.” She stuck hands in her hoodie’s pockets. “They’re all...watery. Taste like shit.” The woman in the booth kept an icy eye on her.

“You from CNN? The Times? What? I told you I wanted nothing to do with any of you.”

“I’m not from CNN.”

“I’m not talking to anyone. I never did. I’m not starting now. I don’t know how you found me. I don’t know who you think you are --”

“I’m you.”

Erika was proud of that one. It was a good line, a movie star line. She let it sit there a moment. Then she fished a worn newspaper clipping from the pocket of her hoodie, and offered it to the woman in the booth. The woman took it, glanced it over, looked back up at Erika, eyes softer, mouth looking for words. Erika beat her to them.

“I’m you. Claudine Branfield, from Baltimore, Maryland. 20-something-years-old and just trying to forget. You don’t sleep--not well, anyway. When you close your eyes, you see him, so why even bother? You end up at a Waffle House at two in the morning eating shitty grits because there aren’t any shadows under the lights in here.”

Claudine pushed her plate aside, leaned forward. She looked down at the newspaper clipping again, chewing the right side of her lower lip, weighing the odds. The halogen buzz of the lights above filled the dead space.

“You wanna sit?”

Erika slid into the booth. Claudine pushed back against her side, putting as much distance between her and her guest as possible. Erika kept talking.

“And… I’m me. Erika Henricks, from Newtown, Connecticut. I’m 20-something-years-old and I’m fucking tired of trying to forget. I don’t sleep--I stay up at night trying to remember every inch of him. I can draw you the mask, describe every line of the jumpsuit. I can tell you how he smells, what size shoe he wears, how he combs his goddamned hair.”

Silence, again. And then.

“So… this is you?” Claudine pointed at the newspaper clipping. Erika reached across the booth, laid an index finger on it, slid it back towards her. The girl in the clipping was eighteen years old, a bright smile gleaming. Her senior photo. There were features on her face Erika halfway remembered. She lifted the clipping, folded it up again with delicate precision, and slid it back into her hoodie pocket.

“The Woodbury Woods Massacre. 2013. Nine dead...and then me.”

“Towson Park, 2011. Four dead. Mine was the first.”

“There was another one yesterday.”

Claudine scooped up grits with her fork, let them fall through to the plate.

“That’s not--that can’t. He’s dead.”

He is dead. He was. That had made things more bearable. Until.

Until the news reports scrolled across TVs and phone screens and the impossible words came with it. “Found dead.” “Single survivor.” “Bears a striking resemblance.”

Erika dropped her eyes. Focused on the watery grits. Across from her, Claudine went through all the things Erika had experienced when she heard the news, just 24 hours ago. Finally, Claudine found the words.

“They told me. After the last one. The officer--from my--he said. He called, then he came over. He told me he saw the body.”

“I know. Me too. But. Yesterday. Boulder. The police are still combing the sorority house. 15 dead. Probably more. He’s got it down to a fucking science now, it’s been so long. I’m sure he left some surprises. He always did.”

Claudine formed a question with her lips. Erika answered before the words came out.

“A girl named Grace was taken to the hospital. She’ll live. Lots of stab wounds, none of them lethal.”

Claudine shoved her plate to the edge of the table. “Bastard.”

“That’s right, he’s a bastard.” Erika’s heart beat a little faster. “That’s why I’m here. I need you. We need you.”

“Hi, honey. Welcome to Waffle House. I’m Irna. Get you something?” They hadn’t heard her coming. Erika shivered in her hoodie, then sat up straighter, taller. She glanced at the front door, then back. Irna had coffeepot and cup at the ready.

Erika looked over at Claudine, raised an eyebrow in question. She’d been the hardest to track down, the one who’d been the best at hiding. After they’d released her from the hospital, Claudine had practically disappeared. It took months of phone calls and emails, and most of the people Erika talked to thought she was dead. Killed herself, most likely, but maybe he’d caught up to her after all. Maybe that gash on her right leg was even worse than the doctors thought. Just finding Claudine, the first of their tribe, was a miracle. Erika had already gotten farther with her than she’d expected, but she needed more. She needed her to join them.

“Whatever she wants, Irna.” Claudine snarled her lips into a smirk. “Start her off with a coffee and the grits.” 

* * * 

Within the hour, all of the plates and mugs and silverware and napkins had been pushed to the perimeter of the booth, and Erika had laid out the contents of the folder she’d kept tucked in her hoodie. She’d only brought the most important documents, the ones she felt made the most compelling argument, and they were now spread out, like jewels in a case, in front of Claudine.

“This is… this is a lot.” Claudine leaned back and took the last swig of her coffee.

“I know. But you see it, right?”

“Boulder’s nowhere near any of us. It’s not him.”

“It’s him. Claudine, look—“

“He never killed that many before. 15? How’d he kill 15? It’s not him.”

“He left her. On purpose. She’s a message. To all of us.”

“He didn’t even leave the letters. His whole… It’s not fucking him.”

Irna cocked an eye their way, pretending to restock coffee cups under the counter.

“I feel sorry for this girl. I know -- we know what’s she going through. But he’s dead.” Claudine slid down in the booth, pushed a hand into her jean’s front pocket, and fished out a twenty. She dropped it on the table. “Let him stay dead.”

“Hey, wait --”

Claudine slid out of the booth in one swift motion, slinging a backpack that had been sitting in the booth beside her over her shoulder. She waved at Irna, who offered a half-hearted smile in return.

“Twenty covers both, Irna.”

“See you tomorrow, Rebecca.”

Claudine turned to Erika and leaned in. “I gave you the time; I listened. Don’t follow me. And don’t fuck with me.”

As Claudine moved toward the Waffle House’s glass door, Erika scrambled to collect the pages that littered the table. She shoved them into the folder, tucked the folder into her hoodie again, zipped it up, and ran after her.

Erika pushed through the door, the bright fluorescent glow of the Waffle House emptying into the night. Her car was the only one in the parking lot. Her eyes searched for a bike or a motorcycle or the figure of a woman walking the shoulder of the highway in front of her. But nothing. Claudine was gone.

“Fuck.” Erika felt her chest get tight, her cheeks warm over, and the wet beginnings of tears formed in the inside corners of her eyes. It was a feeling she was all too familiar with. It was the plan that didn’t work the way it was supposed to. It was the shame and self-flagellation of not saying the right thing, not explaining it clearly, not closing the deal. It was not knowing whether to hide in the shed out back or run towards the main road. It was the world pressing its thick dirty hands against her mouth, around her neck; his thick dirty hands and his sour breath as he pinned her against the wall. It was the bodies, the blood, the last thing he said to her before things got fuzzy and went black…

The crunch of gravel pulled her back to the parking lot. Around the corner of the building. She’d heard it, she was certain. She wasn’t imagining it. It’s him, a scared voice fired off in her brain. It’s him, he’s there, he’s following you, he’s waiting. More gravel, and a soft thunk of fabric against fabric. You’re dead. The scared voice was insistent. This is where he wins, Erika. A fucking Waffle House parking lot. This is where you die.

The sound of crying. A woman. It was a sound Erika knew like the sound of her mother’s voice. The scared voice retreated. She walked around the corner of the building.

Claudine was on the ground, knees pulled up to her chest, face buried in her hands. Erika could see her chest thump with sobs. She took tentative steps in. She didn’t want to startle Claudine.

“I know you’re there.” Claudine lifted her head just enough to catch Erika’s eye. “I fucking hate that you’re seeing me like this.”

“I’ve seen worse. Hell, I’ve been worse.”

Claudine let out a half chuckle, and pulled her head up, wiping the wetness from her eyes, the snot from her nose. “You and me both.”

“I didn’t come here to fuck with your head --”

“I know, I know.” Claudine motioned for Erika to sit. Erika did. “It was just a lot. I could feel this coming, sitting there, looking at all that… I wasn’t gonna fall apart in a goddamned Waffle House.”

The two women sat there for a moment, still, quiet.

“Tell me about him.”

Claudine exhaled through her nose, closed her eyes. “Big. Too fast for someone that big. He smelled like the ground, like--you know. Like soil, or whatever the fuck.”

“What else?”

“Heavy breather, but with short, fast breaths. Like a boxer.”

“Yes. Tell me about the knife.”

“It was...sharp.”

“How did it feel? Going in?”

Claudine opened her eyes. “It fucking hurt. What the fuck do you mean, how did it feel? What is this shit?”

“Just--It’s. Just do this, okay? Tell me what it felt like when the knife went in. It was always a--this sounds so dumb. Getting stabbed was always such a fear, you know? Like watching old horror movies, I didn’t care what the killer looked like. That wasn’t the scary part. The scary part to me was the knife going in.”

“It hurt more coming out.”

“Yes! Yeah, they don’t tell you that part in the movies. What else?”

“It didn’t burn and it wasn’t like ‘ice’ or whatever. It just fucking hurt. Like a shock to the system. Like lighting or something.” She instinctively scratched at her left leg.

“And then he pulled it out--”

“And the pain started all over again.”

They were silent for a second, only breathing, only being.

There were things you didn’t have to say when you were a final girl. You knew the rhythm of his fucked-up breathing, the way his knife shines in the moonlight. You knew he had a crooked scar running down the right side of his neck. You could feel his breath, on you always and getting closer and closer in the dark. You traced your scars. Weird, pink gashes that ran the course of you. Down your left leg, just missing a major artery. A diamond-shaped hole that poked through your shoulder blade and came out somewhere near your heart. Just missing death. Lucky girls. And not. You just sat, and breathed, and knew.

“I don’t want to push you, but I have to say --”

“I’m in.” Claudine’s voice was forceful, abrupt. “I--I mean. I don’t ever want to see him again.” Claudine crossed her arms, hugged her chest. “But I want him to die.”

“Okay.” Erika put her hand on Claudine’s knee. “Okay.”

Next Chapter: 3. Little Lies