The Ties That Bind

         The flashlight in Mark's hand flickered ominously as he quickly whipped it back and forth in a vain attempt to scatter the darkness that was closing in around him.  Nervous sweat dripped from his nose and chin, his hands trembled violently from fear.  The darkness receded a little where ever he pointed the dimming light of the flashlight and would rush in with ever more vigor than before when the light moved on.  Mark could swear he could see things moving in the dark, if only out of the corner of his eyes but nothing was ever there when he would bring the light to bear on the spot.

         The barest of breezes blew through the darkened cabin from the shattered windows.  Fear gripped his heart as he took a few steps backwards, farther into the kitchen of the cabin he and his girlfriend, Jessica, had rented.  It was supposed to be a romantic weekend away from the stresses of their day jobs.  It was supposed to be just the two of them, living life to the fullest.  It was supposed to be....  There were a lot of things this weekend trip up into the mountains was supposed to be but it had turned out to be none of them.

         His hand outstretched behind him bumped into the kitchen table, knocking a glass over.  Mark nearly jumped out off his skin at the sudden noise and whirled in its direction.  He almost breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the water glass over turned on the table, water slowly soaking into the tablecloth and dripping of the side of the table.

         But only almost.

         His relief was extinguished at the moment of its birth as he felt a puff of warm breath on the back of his neck.  The hairs on the back of his neck stood erect and he dared not move for whatever was stalking him through the cabin was right behind him, breathing down his neck in the most literal of terms.  He wanted to at least catch a glimpse of his soon-to-be murderer, to slowly turn his head, hoping to catch a glimpse of it before it killed him but before he could do more than entertain such thoughts, two hands shoved harshly into his back, forcing him off balance and into the table.

         The corner caught his right hip and spun him around as he fell backwards to the kitchen floor.  He landed with a grunt, eyes tearing up, blurring his vision, and the wind knocked out of him.  The flashlight skittered across the tile floor, spinning wildly, splashing eerie beams of light across the kitchen floor until it smashed into the cupboard floorboard, shattering the bulb.  Mark blinked away the tears in his eyes as he scrambled backward across the hard, cold tile.  A blurry, black figure stood over him, its hooded head turning to follow him as he tried to put the table between them.

         Desperate for a new source of light, Mark clawed towards the sink counter.  He regained his feet and dove for the kitchen light switch next to the sink.  He felt the breeze on his ear and heard a dull whistle as something swung past him, barely missing his head in the dark.  His hand reached the switches and he frantically fumbled to switch them on.  The garbage disposal roared to life as the kitchen light flickered on reluctantly.

         Mark spun around to face his attacker but as he scanned the room, he was the only one there.  Heart racing in his chest and the adrenalin pounding in his ears, it took his brain a second or two to process that he was thoroughly alone in the kitchen.  Doubt slowly began to flower in his thoughts.  Did he simply have the most terrifying daydream of his life?  Was he going crazy?  He didn't think he was going mad but then again the maddest of them all thought themselves sane.  It didn't take him long to decide that now was not the time to dwell on such thoughts nor to let his guard down for if he wasn't crazy and it had happened, then his attacker couldn't be far.

         His hand blindly worked its way around the sink looking for a knife while his eyes scanned the blackness of the surrounding rooms.  With the light on here in the kitchen, he could see nothing but vague shadows in the other rooms.  And as he waited quietly, nothing moved.  He dared not turn off the light, even though it would enable him to see better into the other rooms, for, like the flashlight, the kitchen light seemed to push back the almost conscious oppressiveness of the darkness.

         His hand found the knife block, almost knocking it over in his focused intent on a weapon.  His fingers spread over the top face.  Nothing.  Every knife was gone.  He remembered seeing it full of various knives when they arrived here  but now they were missing.

         “Perhaps Jessica used them today while I was out” he thought to himself.  “Maybe they are simply ALL in the sink.”

         Even as the thought crossed his mind, his rational side started to dismiss it as wishful fantasy and the rest of him hoping against all reason that that was simply the case.  He knew he wouldn't find the missing knives in the sink but he had to look.  He had to be sure.  He slowly turned his head towards the sink, dreading every inch he had to move.  The closer he got to being able to see into the sink, the less he could of the other rooms, a less and less appealing prospect as he was now convinced that he had not been dreaming.

         Quickly he darted his eyes from the surrounding rooms to the sink and froze.  In the sink was a solitary fork, blood covered the tines like red paint, the water dripping from the faucet causing the blood to slowly flow into the drain in a sickening red stream.  His heart seized in his chest and the other rooms faded from his mind as it worked tortuously to process this image.  That's when he heard the front door slam shut.

         Like a frightened animal wary of a hungry predator, Mark stood stock still in the brightly lit kitchen.  His white-knuckled grip on the counter behind him sent a steady dull throb through his hands but he barely noticed.  His eyes darted around in search of something, anything he could use to defend himself against his unknown attacker.  The house was dead quiet save for the steady drip, drip, drip of the faucet behind him, though that gave him no sense of relief.  Rather a sense of dread, of the ax about to be dropped, slowly filled him from the ground and left him terrified.

         He willed his limbs to move, to force his legs to bend to his will despite the rigor of fear that locked them in place.  Slowly, one foot then the other responded and he made his way to the doorway to the dining room.  The room was completely dark, lit only by the light that spilled around his silhouette from the kitchen.  Fear and reason warred within him, to stay in the light or to venture into the darkness?

         Without warning, the decision was made for him.  The cabin was powered by a single generator that sat in a shack set apart from the house itself.  From the shack he heard repeated blows of metal on metal and the power to the cabin died in an instant, plunging him in to utter darkness.  With his mind seized in fear, his legs took over for themselves.  He plunged into the dining room, knocking over chairs and dishes, banging into unseen obstacles at every step, scrambling for the den and the stairs up to the second floor of the cabin.

         He was halfway through the den when his mind caught up to his feet.  Whoever attacked him must have disabled the generator, all the better to assault him in the anonymity of darkness.  Whoever it was, they were sure to be making their way back to the cabin at this very moment to finish what they had begun and if he wanted to survive the night, his only recourse was to find a room in which to lock himself and stow away for the night.  His hope was that if he could find such a place, he could remain undiscovered until dawn, or at the very least, remain safe until he could find a way to call for help.

         The den was lit slightly by the moon outside on this clear night and his eyes had finally adjusted after their cruel plunge into darkness.  He could make out the figures of the sofa and chairs, the various tables and lamps, the deer head mounted over the cold and barren fireplace.  He turned to the stairs and grabbed the rail, nails digging into the soft wood in desperation.

         He had just placed his foot on the first stair when the cabin door flew open violently, the malevolent figure standing there, framed by the moonlight and the blackness of the cabin walls, a sledgehammer gripped in its right hand with the head dragging along the ground.  The sudden surge of adrenalin and fear that coursed through Mark's veins was almost a welcomed friend at this point.  It would make him faster.  It would help him survive and so he embraced it as he would a loved one after a hard and long absence.

         He shifted his weight to the stairs to begin his rapid ascent and the first stair squeaked raucously.  He had completely forgotten about how loud this old and rather unattended staircase was.  He stopped cold at the noise and turned to look at the figure.

         At the noise, its hooded head swiveled with malicious purpose to the stairs and Mark could feel the cold, hatefully stare find him in the dark.  He knew it had seen him and he entertained no more doubts as to this figures purpose.  It was here to kill him.

         His legs burned as he flung himself up the stairs, not daring to look back, knowing the figure had seen him and would be following with inexorable patience, secure in the knowledge that its prey wouldn't escape it in the close confines of the colloquial cabin.  To add to his problems, small though it seemed compared to what was sure to follow him, the hallway in the upstairs of the cabin was windowless and therefore completely devoid of light.

         He quickly plunged into the void, groping for doors as he hurriedly made his way along the hall.  His feet seemed to drag with an unwillingness to enter the dark while fear and the will to survive refused to allow them to stand still.  He stumbled on the woven runner that ran the length of the hall, hitting the floor in a flailing heap of arms and legs.  He clawed forward, trying to stand and yet not daring to take the time to.
In his half crouched state, he ran headlong into the small chest of drawers that stood in the hallway, the various knickknacks and bones atop it noisily falling over and some spilling onto the floor of the hall.  The bottom stair squeaked as his pursuer began its ascent.  The sound was like the wail of a banshee, heralding a painful and untimely end of those who hear it.

         Mark's right hand found the yawning gap of the bedroom doorway.  He grabbed the door frame much in the same way a drowning man would grab a tree root that stuck out into the water.  Still on his hands and knees, Mark hauled himself through the open bedroom door.  He rolled onto his back and slammed the door shut with his feet, the wall shaking with the force he exerted.  Quickly, he climbed back to his knees and fumbled for the lock in the dark.  He could hear the footsteps of his assailant in the hallway, they paused before the door and for a moment, all he could hear was a steady breathing on the other side of the door and the noise of his fingers scrabbling at the door frame, searching for the lock. 

         Without warning, his attacker kicked the door and it smashed into Mark's face, splitting his eyebrow open and nearly knocking him from his knees.  In his desperation, he threw himself at the door, pinning it shut with all his weight.  The figure outside the door rammed it repeatedly, each time causing the door to inch open before slamming shut again with Mark's weight behind it.  Again and again he felt the shock of the attacker ramming the door.  Again and again he unceremoniously hit the wall as the door slammed shut again.  Again and again his fingers returned to their search for the bolt to lock the door fast.

         Just as he thought he would no longer be able to hold his attacker at bay, his fingers found the latch and slammed it home at the first opportunity.  Mark leaned against the door, weary from exertion as he felt the continued shock as the door shuddered against the latch as the shadowy figure outside beat on the door.  His lungs burned and his heart raced, pounding in his ears.  Sweat and blood trickled from his forehead, stinging his eyes.  He turned and sat against the door, using his weight to assist the lock in keeping whoever wanted him dead outside.

         As he blinked the stinging salt water and blood away from his eyes, he took a blurred look around the ill-lit bedroom. The bedroom was dark, lit only by the clouded moonlight that seeped through the curtains covering the windows.  His mind, clouded by the terror of tonight's events turned every ambiguous shadow into threatening shapes.  The room was simply furnished, as to fit the rustic decor of the cabin.  Unfinished oak nightstands and armoire.  The queen-sized bed dominated the center of the room, adorned with fake flowers and carved animal heads.  The bathroom was off to the right, the door ajar and the tile gently glistening in the moonlight.

         It was the shine off the tile that caught his attention.  Nothing in this cabin had the polished look, let alone being so polished as to shine.  There was no reason for the tile to shine.  No reason he could come up with, that is.  As he focused his eyes on the shine, he realized that the entire floor didn't glisten.  Just a swath from the bed to the bathroom.

         “The wooden floor of the bedroom couldn't possibly be shining”, he thought.  “All of it is barely polished wood, sanded just enough to not give you splinters if you walked barefoot on it.”

         The more he stared at it, the more alien it seemed.  He bent his mind to this puzzling view so much he failed to noticed that the door no longer shook with his attackers efforts.  He slowly stood, attempting to get a better and closer view of the glinting floor.  It looked as if something had been spilled here, some liquid that reflected what little light crept into the room.  He bent carefully and reached out his hand, his finger dipping into the very viscous fluid.  It felt syrupy, like molasses.  The faint scent of copper reminded him of something though he couldn't quite remember what.

         That is when the breeze blew the curtains back a bit and the moonlight hit the floor in full.  Even in the moonlight, this close the reddish hue was unmistakable.

         Blood.

         The only room in his thoughts turned to where it had come from and the answer seemed all to apparent.  His eyes slowly followed the blood from the bathroom, across the bedroom to the bed, where it slowly dripped from the sheets to the ground.  The sheets lay on the bed in a disheveled manner, thrown back as if someone had recently risen from nap and forgot to make the bed.

         Jessica lay on the bed, her features Mark was just able to make out in the dim and filtered moonlight.  Her silhouette stood out starkly against a moonlit patch on the far wall.  But what stood out most was the many knife handles that stood erect from Jessica's chest.  There must have been fifteen or twenty, buried to the hilt in her chest, and left there as if her murderer didn't care anymore once the deed was done.  Jessica's face was turned towards Mark and her dead eyes sparkled dully, encrusted with salt left over from the tears she had shed as her murderer had repeatedly stabbed her.

         It was all too much for Mark's frayed nerves.  He could do nothing but break down and sob there in the moon and blood soaked room, the reality of what he was experiencing came crushing down upon him.  He knew in that moment he was going to die tonight.  He could see no other outcome.  The force that was after him was unrelenting and diabolical, tireless in its pursuit and heartless in its execution.  Without warning, the door shuddered from a massive blow and the sound stunned Mark senseless.  His attacker was back and coming for him with a vengeance.

         Mark sat in the dark bedroom, Jessica's blood pooling around him, as the figure that pursued him repeatedly struck the door.  The wood of the door had begun to splinter and the hinges groaned with each blow.  He knew it was only a matter of time before the door gave way to the beating it was taking and the figure would be in the room with him.  He knew if he was going to survive this night, he had to find a weapon. After he had something to defend himself with, he could find a way to escape or even confront his attacker, though that alternative was one he wished to avoid if at all possible.

         He slowly stood, still flinching at every impact on the door, and looked around the room for something with which to defend himself.  He need something, anything, with which he could defend himself.  A chair or table leg, a piece of wood, a knife......

         As the thought of a knife popped into his head, his eyes alighted upon the knives that protruded from Jessica's corpse.  There were many of them, all different sizes from small paring knives to larger butcher knives.  His stomach recoiled at the thought of pulling one from her chest.  He had to find something else.  Surely there was something else he could use.

         He walked to the other side of the bed and opened the armoire.  Nothing.  Just some clothes on hangers.  There weren't any chairs in the bedroom and the tables were solid blocks, no legs he could break off.  He made his way to the bathroom, giving the bedroom door a wide berth.

         The bathroom was very dark, no windows to allow the moonlight in, and Mark had to feel his way around.  He began searching for the toilet.  If he could take the porcelain top of the back of the toilet, he could use that as a club of sorts.  His hands knocked over the toothbrush holder and turned on the water by accident.  The faucet gurgled and spat, with no electricity there was no pressure from the well pumps.

         His hand finally found the toilet.  He quickly searched around for the back of it but there was none.  He was sure there would have to be a reservoir for it to work but where was it?  Confused and feeling the pressure of his time growing short, he pawed at the darkness madly in search of the reservoir.  Then it occurred to him.  This toilet, like most everything else in the cabin was a rustic throwback to older times.  The reservoir for the toilet sat on the wall, about head height with a pull cable to flush it.  And it was made of wood.

         He heard the door crunch again as it gave a little more.  He knew he was running out of time.  He turned back to the bedroom and knew he had no alternatives.  He took a small, furtive step toward the bed, his stomach churning and his head dizzied by nausea.  Step after step, he fought with dizziness and nausea as he approached the bed and Jessica's body.

         He reached out and took hold of the bedpost.  The door groaned louder than ever as it shook from another blow.  His hand inched out slowly for one of the larger knives sticking out of Jessica, his vision blurry as tears welled up in his eyes.  His fingers brushed the handle, reluctantly wrapping around it as he positioned himself to pull it free.  He imagined he could feel her gaze on him, condemning him for further mutilating her body.  His other hand braced against her chest, his breathing shallow and erratic.  He closed his eyes to avoid her gaze.

         “I'm sorry” he whispered and gave the knife a stiff tug.  The body gurgled as air and blood shifted in her chest but the knife stayed firmly lodged.  Mark fought off waves of nausea at the sound.  He knew the time was growing short and that his attacker would be through the door any second.

         He braced himself once more and gave the knife another tug, harder this time.  It wrenched free and he slid off the bed.  He could fight the nausea no more and turned to vomit beside the bed.  He stood, doubled over, holding onto the bedpost as the bile exploded from his mouth.  He shuddered with the effort but it was soon over.  Tears ran down his face as he wiped the bile from his mouth.  He straightened slowly, keeping his balance with his hand on the bed.

         “Now is not the time for this” he thought.

         The door shuddered one last time and he knew his time had run out.  With an explosion of splinters, the sledgehammer head broke through the door just over the lock, sending a broken slat to the ground with a crash.  A hand reached through the gap and twisted the knob on the inside of the door.  The door slowly swung open, a gaping hole into the black abyss, the hooded figure barely visible against the stark blackness of the hall.  Terror gripped his heart with an icy fist, his breath caught in his chest, as his mind raced for an escape.

         The figure stepped into the bedroom without hurry.  It knew its quarry had no where to run and felt no need to rush.  The figure lifted its sledgehammer to rest in both hands across its body as it continued its slow but inexorable advance into the room.

         Mark moved backward carefully, dragging his feet to avoid tripping over unseen obstacles as he moved to place the bed between him and his attacker.  He held the knife before himself, his hand shaking from fear.  He half-hoped that the sight of the knife would convince the figure to hesitate, if not leave entirely, but he knew that such thoughts were false hopes.  He could imagine the smirk that must have crossed its face as it noticed the knife, the contempt that radiated from it was palpable.

         The shadowy figure began to move around the edge of the bed.  It slipped in and out of the moonlight, starkly contrasted against the light and nearly disappearing in the shadows, as it approached Mark.  Mark brandished the knife, trying to appear aggressive and dangerous but the figure gave it little regard.

         “Stay away from me!  I am warning you!” Mark shouted as he continued to back up until he ran into the nightstand at the head of the bed.

         He had run out of room to avoid his attacker and it was rounding the closest corner of the bed.  The figure was tapping the haft of the sledgehammer against its palm, its menace unmistakable.  Mark thought about diving over the bed and making a run for the hall but with Jessica's body in the way, he would surely be caught before he could make it to the hall.

         Suddenly, a thought occurred to him.  Behind him was a window, albeit a second story one.  Perhaps he could get out the window and jump down to safety.  Once there, he could run and lose his attacker in the woods.  The figure would never give him enough time to open it so if it was going to work, Mark would have to hurl himself through the window and hope for the best.

         He turned and with all his strength, he flung himself at the window.  His shoulder smashed into the pane and he heard it crack but it didn't give right away.  Pain lanced up his arm and he heard a short gasp behind him.  As desperate as he looked, the figure hadn't thought he would try jumping out the window.  He pushed off and took another run at it as the figure charged forward with the hammer cocked back for a swing.  Mark flung himself at the window once more and with a tremendous crash, it shattered.

         He flew through the razor sharp pieces of glass and out the window.  He vaguely heard the sharp thud as the sledgehammer crushed part of the frame where he had just been.  For a moment he felt weightless, as if he could fly.  Then he crashed into the shingled awning that extended from the house to cover the porch.  Glass stabbed and cut him from all directions as he landed and he began to roll.  Fear gripped him as he realized he wasn't going to stop before the roof ended.  Twice he bounced and then the roof was gone.

         He was falling through the air with next to no sense as to what was up and what was down.  He threw his arms and legs out in an effort to stabilize but it was too late.  He landed on the ground in a twisted heap, a scream ripped from his throat as pain shot up his leg.  He looked back at it as he grabbed uselessly at his leg.  It was twisted at an unnatural angle and blood was soaking through his pants.  He knew it was broken and nothing could be done with it.  He couldn't walk, much less run, like this.  He also knew that unless he moved right then, he wasn't going to be able to hide in time to evade his pursuer.

         He began to crawl for the wood line, pain almost overwhelming him every time his broken leg moved or was bumped.  His hands dug into the soft dirt for purchase and he desperately hauled himself away from the cabin.  The wood line was his salvation.  If he could only reach it, he would be safe.  He would live.

         Mark glanced back at the bedroom window.  The figure stood, framed by the broken glass and lit by the moonlight, in the window staring down at him for a moment.  The shattered glass stuck out from the frame like jagged teeth and the wooden crossbeams hung limply as they held on by just a few unbroken fibers.  He knew it was watching him, maybe even laughing at his futile struggle for survival.  It stepped back from the window and was gone, the darkness seemed to have enveloped it.  It was coming for him and the clock was ticking.

         He turned to his escape with renewed vigor.  Hand over hand he crawled, always towards the woods.  He was sure he was leaving a trail of blood and disturbed ground but that didn't matter right now.  All that mattered was putting as much distance between himself and the cabin as he could.

         His spirits rose as he saw his car, parked on the path up to the cabin, just a little ways from where he was.  If he could get to that, he could drive to town, get help even.  His leg screamed in pain but he crawled onward, hope now rekindled.  It wasn't far now.  His fingers and arms ached from pulling his body along the ground but he refused to stop.

         “Just a few more feet left” he thought.

         Something about his car caught his attention as he got closer.  Something was off about the way it sat on the path, about the way it was leaning to one side.  Dread slowly rose in his throat, threatening to smother his hope.  As he got closer, he could see the wheels on the side closest to him had been slashed.  Nothing but rims and rubber strips remained.  With the path up to the cabin being nothing more than a dirt trail, there was no way that car would make it down the mountain, much less to town.  He was stuck here, unable to walk, a killer on his heels.

         If he had had time, he would have stopped to cry, curled into the fetal position but, sadly, he didn't have such a luxury.  He could hear the front door out to the porch swing open and slam shut.  His time was running out.  He had to hurry if he was going to make it through tonight alive.  He threw his arms forward and begin to hurriedly crawl towards the woods.  The hooded figure would be on his heels any minute.

         As quickly as he could, he inched closer to the wood line and his salvation.  The screen door to the porch creaked angrily as it was flung open and the heavy footfalls of the figure's boots on the few stairs that led up to the porch echoed throughout the small clearing in which the cabin was built.  Mark scrambled harder and harder for the wood line, ignoring the ache in his arms, the intense pain from his broken leg, but despite his efforts, the light at the end of the tunnel was dwindling.  He could hear the hooded figure's boots crunching through the forest floor in pursuit getting louder.

         The woods seemed so close and yet he felt unable to reach them.  The figure rounded the rear of the car, following Mark's trail of blood and disturbed dirt.  It was only  twenty or so feet behind him now and walking straight at him.  His vision blurred as tears filled his eyes.  Tears from the pain.  Tears from despair.  The figure trotted a few steps as it cocked the hammer back and brought the head down with crushing force on Mark's broken leg.  His scream echoed through the night and he rolled onto his back to grab the injured limb.

         The hooded figure paced around him, walking in circles at a casual pace.  Holding his broken and battered leg, Mark tried to scan the ground for something to fight back with but the tears welling up in his eyes and the dark of the night made that all but impossible.  Another grunt and hammer blow, this time to his back just to the left of his spine.

         Mark tried to hold in his scream, tried to keep from giving his tormentor the satisfaction, but it escaped him despite his efforts.  Every breath now brought new pain.  He was certain his ribs were broken and he might have been worried about internal injuries if he had thought he was going to live long enough for them to matter.

         Once more the figure raised the hammer to strike, once more it fell down on Mark, once more bones broke and the silence shattered with screams.  Mark lay on his side, clutching at his freshly broken arm, and looked up at the silhouette that had stopped its pacing to stand directly in front of him. 

         “Please!  Don't do this!  I will give you whatever you want!” he cried.

         The figure didn't move, sledgehammer in one hand dragging the ground.

         “But I had all I ever wanted” she said.

         With one hand, she threw back her hood.

         “I had you, Honey.  I had our lovely home in the suburbs.  We were planning to start a family soon.  But you couldn't just be happy with all that, could you?  Oh, no.  Not you.  You just had to go and get a mistress.”

         With a grunt, she raised the sledgehammer over her head.

         “Well honey, looks like the 'til death do us part' thing is going to happen a lot sooner than we thought.”