Horror Story 7

A wicked grin twisted his dry, blood-caked lips. “I’m here, my lovely,” he rasped, coming around the corner, jagged knife raised.

The figure cowered against the wall screamed, a shrill, piercing cry. “Please! No!”

“What the…” The man with the knife swore loudly. “What is this supposed to be?”

“Please, please don’t hurt me!”

“Where’s the hot girl? I was promised a buxom blonde who mysteriously has various articles of clothing torn off until she’s standing there screaming in a bra and some ripped up pants. Not ideal, but it’s PG-13, after all. What do I get? Some fat, mutton-chopped man in a three piece suit! What kind of low-budget crap is this?”

The man’s look of terror faded. He glared over his pince-nez. “I happen to be excellent prey. People all over the world would like to viciously murder me.”

“Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that.” He lowered the knife, glowering. “I only took this insane serial killer gig for the chicks. No way I’m gonna try and cut through all of the layers of suit and skin to kill you, Buddy. Go find yourself another psycho.” Shaking his head and muttering, he limped away.

The man in the suit watched him go. Never before had he been on the receiving end of rejection, and it cut deeper than any jagged knife would have. “People everywhere would pay to see me killed,” he muttered, pouting. “Maybe if I went blonde…”

--Kiersten