Diary of a Slasher: Entry 2

True to my word, I headed out the next day.  To watch.  Certainly some vile things were happening; not every person at church camp was there to study the Bible.  Some of them had to be pursuing some extracurricular activities.  No group of teenagers ass all good.  All I needed was one frisky couple and I’d be set.
Listen.  I’ve been doing this a long time and discovered one ironclad rule of the universe: if you put a group of kids in their late-teens/early-twenties in a secluded location, there will be sex.  Always.

Sure enough, I spotted a couple heading off to a cabin.  They appeared to be looking around to see if anyone was watching them.  Maybe that was my imagination – that I wanted them to be doing something they knew they shouldn’t be – but I don’t think that was the case.  Under the cover of the forest, I followed.  They opened the door, giggled, and went inside.

Showtime.

I like to wait until their moment has passed, then strike when one of them has gotten up.  I’ll kill the one still in bed, wait for the other one to return, then kill them while they’re in shock.  It’s a well-used method and it has served me well.

The cabin was raised up a bit, so I was able to lurk below the window without them detecting me.  It wasn’t long before I heard the familiar sounds: muffled voices and a couple proclamations of “Oh God.”
They stayed in bed for a while afterwards.  I could hear their voices talking, but I couldn’t make out the words.  Eventually I heard the familiar sound of old bed springs squeaking as one of them exited the bed.  I expertly navigated the back steps – careful to miss the spots that would make noise – and pushed open the back door (I had applied WD-40 to all the hinges before their arrival: never let it be said that I lack preparation).

The boy was still in bed.  He was sitting up with his back to me.  I thought it was odd that he was fully dressed, but it didn’t change what I needed to do.  I raised my axe and put it through his head with one fell swoop.  It was then I looked down and noticed what was sitting on his lap: a Bible.  They weren’t having sex: they were having a secret Bible study.  The proclamations of “Oh God,” were shouted out in prayer.

I couldn’t believe it.  How could this be?

As I stood there in shock, the girl came out of the bathroom.  Like the boy, she was fully clothed.  She looked at me and opened her mouth to scream.  With one step I crossed the room and put my axe through her mouth.

I stood there, looking at the scene.  It was clear what they were doing in here, but I couldn’t let this get out.  I’d never live it down.  So I did what any killer would do in my situation: I undressed both of them, took a picture and sent it along to my text thread of other killers.  “Guess they weren’t so pious after all,” I wrote.  I would have felt bad about it, but my soul left me when I died, so it didn’t bother me.

Then came the clean up.  I wasn’t ready to alert the rest of the campers to my presence, so I put the two “love birds” in bed and covered them with a blanket.  With no mop in the cabin, I grabbed a brush, got on my knees and started scrubbing up the blood.  I wondered if Jason Voorhees had ever pulled a stunt like this, and I came to the conclusion that he probably had at some point in his career.

With my first kill out of the way, it was now time to hit the others.  Church camp be damned, I would take all of them out.


 

You can read Part 1 here.

Diary of a Slasher: Entry 1

I wait just beyond the treeline.  I like to listen.  I have to listen.

It’s a little tricky.  I can’t reveal myself too soon or everything is lost.  It’s all part of the game; part of the code.  It’s not going to fall on me to screw it up.

Let me back up.  They call me Johnny Blood.  When I was alive, my name was John Hansen.  I must admit, I’m a fan of the name Johnny Blood.
I used to hang out around Camp Snowgrass during the offseason.  I liked to climb the trees and borrow a boat for an afternoon.  One day I happened upon a group of older children who did not take kindly to my presence.  They threw rocks at me.  The first couple didn’t bother me, but once they started to draw blood, something snapped.  The townsfolk found the bodies in one of the boats.  The boat was filled to the brim with blood – no small feat, let me tell you – and the bodies were hacked to pieces.
There was a quick bit of mob justice, and John Hansen was no more.

I still don’t know quite how – lightning strike to my casket seems the most likely culprit – but I awoke in my grave with a single goal: kill those responsible for my death.  Also, to kill teenagers.  I don’t know exactly why I am driven to kill random teenagers, but I am.  You won’t find me complaining about it.

You’ve heard some variation of this story a hundred times by now.  So what makes me so special?  Nothing really.  Just another dime-a-dozen killer.  I wanted to keep this diary for…oh, who knows what reason.  Boredom, I guess.

Where were we?  Oh yes.  “Just beyond the treeline.”

It’s a tradition among visitors to Camp Snowgrass to gather around the campfire and tell the story of Johnny Blood.  I say it’s tricky because there’s a timing to it all.  I can’t make a noise until they finish telling the story.  So I have to be within earshot, but I also have to be perfectly still.  Easier said than done when waiting in a forest literally crawling with all manner of bugs.  I can’t even reach under my mask to scratch my nose.  I swear those kids at the campfire wait to tell my story on purpose, just to put me through all of this.  I’m glad they’ll be dead soon.

The campfire stories always start the same way.  They tell the one about the hook on the car door.  The stranger in the backseat.  Eventually, someone says, “Sure, those are great.  But let me tell you a really scary story.  And it happened right here in this camp.”  As soon as my story is over – embellished a little more every time it is told, naturally – I step on a dried branch on the ground and move away quickly.  They’ll all snap their heads around and someone will say, “Did you guys see that?  I think I saw something.”

And then it’s on.

Last night, a new group of campers came in.  So there I stood, just out of sight, listening to their voices unite in song.

They started in song.  They always start in song.  Someone who knows 3 chords pulls out their guitar and butchers their way through a handful of songs.  It’s always “Kum Ba Yah,” followed by a few songs that were popular 10+ years ago.  It’s like a bad coffee shop performance, but with more marshmallows.

The sweet, sweet sounds of “Kum Ba Yah,” started up and I got myself mentally prepared.  They followed that up with “Let It Be,” then “Onward Christian Soldiers.” They finished up with “It Is Well.”
Then they prayed.
It’s a church group.  I’m stalking a church group.

I mentioned before that there are a lot of killers out there like me.  We have a Slack channel where we swap stories.  Dejectedly, I typed, “Church group.  They’re praying. Can you believe it?”
LOL
LMAO
LMFAO

The replies came fast and furious, which led me to believe none of them were doing any killing that night either.  Slow day, I guess.

I stood there listening but not really hearing anything.  Eventually I heard, “Let me tell you a really scary story.  And it happened right here in this camp.”  My ears perked up.  Maybe there was hope for them yet.

The story was all wrong.  I didn’t hear a single word about dismembered bodies or boats filled with blood.  Not once did they call me Johnny Blood.  They referred to me as, “that poor, tortured soul,” and they all agreed to pray for me.

The story was done and it was time for me to play my part.  So I stepped on a dried branch and moved away quickly, but my heart wasn’t really in it.  I didn’t even hear anyone ask, “Did you guys see that?”  Probably because their heads were all bowed in prayer.

Disheartened, I trudged back to my dilapidated cabin.  How was I supposed to kill these kids if they weren’t scared of me?  How was I supposed to kill them if they didn’t engage in any lewd sexual encounters?  That’s how I always kick off my killing spree: wait until a couple is off in the throes of passion, then pick up two quick kills. The group doesn’t notice they’re missing for a long time, as everyone believes they’re engaging in some passionate necking.

Sure, I could still kill these kids, but what’s the point?  The other guys would all mock me.  “Tell me again about the time you snuck up on those praying kids and ripped their heads off with piano wire,” they’ll laugh.  They’re ruthless.

Maybe this will be different.  Maybe this will be the kind of church camp where everyone rebels and are hopping into each other’s bunks every night.
I don’t really believe that, but I have to hope.
Tomorrow.  Tomorrow I’ll head back out and watch.  Maybe they aren’t as squeaky clean as they appear.