Where the Fire Starts
Chapter
March 11, 17:26, rainy.
(Route 77)
Our heroine stands next to the highway patrol officer, feeling a fleeting, but probing gaze laying on her.
Officer
- Where did the robbery take place?
Blonney
- Just off of Interstate 77. If you’d listened to me earlier, you wouldn’t be asking again now.
Officer
- Just taking things down for the record, Miss. Can you tell us more about the incident? Do you have a description of the robbers?
Blonney
- I’d just parked near the stop sign when a bunch of masked crooks swarmed over. About six of them.
- Before I even knew what was happening, one of them had hopped into the passenger seat, and pointed a gun in my face.
- They wanted cash. But I never carry much cash on me, so I gave them my checkbook and credit card.
Officer
- Was anything else taken away?
Blonney
- Yeah, my suitcase! It had my first aid kit in it, my camcorder, and most importantly, my damn film reel!
- That was my entry for the festival! If I don’t get it back, this whole trip will be pointless!
Officer
- Understood. Thanks for the info, Miss. We’ll do our best to get your stuff back ASAP.
Blonney
- And just how soon is “ASAP”? Because I’ve gotta submit that sample to the judges.
Officer
- Just jot down your contact number on this form for us, Miss. We’ll let you know if we get any leads.
Blonney scribbles her parents’ contact info on the form, signing off on a whole hour of nothing but boring questions and stress.
Blonney
- This whole trip could end up being a waste of time.
- Whatever. At least I’m still in one piece, and so is my car.
She turns her trusty car onto the highway, foot slamming on the pedal, heading south along the main road as she leaves the patrol officer behind her.
She drives through the heavy rain, past gaudy vinyl banners and signs that sway in the misty downpour.
Driving through the night is not the best decision, especially in her current state.
Blonney
- Well, looks like I’m crashing in the back seat tonight.
Blonney crawls back over the console and slumps into the seat, only to find her back meeting a sudden sticky sensation.
Blonney
- Urgh! What the … Is this grease?! Oh, my God!
She almost springs up from the shock, only just managing to avoid smacking her head on the roof.
Blonney
- Huh?
- Alright, whatever, Blonney, do you have any other options? Whatever happens next, I just don’t give a damn!
She curses, then reluctantly lowers herself back into the seat, pulling the blanket up over her head.
The drumming of the rain lulls her into a grumbling sleep and then into a dream.
She is running down a hallway with a raging fire following behind her. The flames suck in the air around her, leaving her choking and gasping.
Blonney
- …
Beneath the blanket, Blonney’s expression becomes fierce and agitated as she tosses against the nightmare.
Of course, reality is not much better.
???
- RAAAUUGHH.
A hoarse, crackling voice drowns out the rain.
???
- Help me.
Blonney
- …
The knocking on the window grows more and more frantic.
“Knock-knock-knock.”
Blonney
- Who’s there?!
She pulls out a lighter from her pocket, its tiny flame illuminating the darkness around her.
Everything comes back into focus.
A pitch-black handprint appears before her.
Blonney
- …!
???
- Help us!
She holds her breath, and hears nothing, not even the figure’s own breathing. The pounding stops, and all goes silent.
Blonney
- Is it over?
She opens the car door, slowly and cautiously. But the figure has already disappeared into the night, leaving only the echo of heavy footsteps.
She runs her fingers over the handprint, pulling off a fine black powder as she does, with a lingering scent of burnt wood and ash.
Blonney
- Charcoal?
The footprints extend from her car into the shrouded forest close by. An ominous darkness that seems to radiate out from its shade.
Blonney
- Huh. Did I just have a run-in with an honest-to-goodness highway ghost?
She smiles and turns toward the forest. The rain drenches her clothes and hair as she begins to follow the footprints.
The grass is bent unnaturally in one direction. She hunches down for a closer look.
Blonney
- Drag marks. Looks like our highway ghost isn’t the only one haunting this place.
The footprints and drag marks intersect, and together they lead to a den beneath a leafy ash tree.
A black and yellow critter jumps out, baring a row of sharp little teeth.
Critter
- Squeak! Squeak-squeak!
Blonney
- Was it only just a critter?
Critter
- Squeak-squeak! Squeak-squeak!
Blonney
- You didn’t eat that ghost for dinner, did ya?
(Battle)
The critter squeaks again before scurrying back into its den.
Blonney
- Wonder if he’s scared or just going back for reinforcements?
- Weird, the footprints and drag marks are gone. So, is this some kind of critter prank?
- Another rough night. You know what, I’m just gonna look around for a hotel nearby.
(Night Owl Inn)
The Night Owl Inn is nestled about four miles off the highway in a secluded spot.
Blonney
- Could be worse.
Blonney flips down the mirror, takes off her earrings, kicks off her tennis shoes, and puts on a pair of black satin cowboy boots. Followed by a wrinkled white linen shirt, with a couple of buttons undone below the collar.
And from the passenger-side glove compartment, a plastic handgun with “Nicole Lace Model Corp.” engraved on its side.
Blonney
- Sure, it’s fake, but it’s the only fashion accessory no girl should leave home without.
She jumps out of the car and walks briskly toward the hotel from beneath a dim streetlight.
(Reception, Night Owl Inn)
She pushes open the door.
The lobby is furnished as if it had been a grander place in better times, an antique crystal chandelier, cushioned sofas, hand-crafted coffee tables littered with dated magazines. From a radio behind the reception, Hotel California plays out with odd serendipity.
Blonney
- “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.”
The hotel owner is leafing through a copy of Seventeen magazine.
Blonney
- Got anywhere I can lay low for a while?
Hotel Owner
- Rooms start from $120 per night.
Blonney
- Uh. What planet are you living on, buddy? You think I’d pay that much to stay in a dump like this?
- Geez, a rat! Ugh, and it smells like a sewer.
A rat scampers dangerously close to her shoe. Her frustration boils over into rage.
Hotel Owner
- Yeah, could be. Pipes are backed up. But hey, could be worse? You got any other options, little lady?
Blonney
- So, about that price, you’ve gotta be joking, right?
Hotel Owner
- Like I said, Miss, you got any other options?
- Think of it this way, the walls are so thin you’ll be able to listen to the radio here free of charge. So, could be worse.
- You’re out of cash, got nowhere else to go. I’ve heard it all before, but this ain’t a charity. You want somewhere to eat, drink, and sleep? You’re going to have to pay up somehow.
Blonney
- Fine. How’s this for collateral? It’s a one-of-a-kind, worldwide limited edition!
Blonney slams the film festival invite on the counter.
Hotel Owner
- Ah. Nice! Thanks for playing ball, Miss. What’s your name?
Blonney
- Call me Blonney.
After she leaves the counter, the hotel owner peeks over his magazine.
Hotel Owner
- Blonney, sure, just you’re everyday typical Blonney.
- Enjoy your stay.
(Room 13, Night Owl Inn)
The hotel room is tiny, barely bigger than her car.
Blonney
- Ugh, that musty smell! Is this really all $120 a night gets you?
- One night—that’s all I’m giving this place.
Who would have guessed that getting robbed would suck. She huffs as she flops on the thin spring mattress and grabs the TV remote.
The screen flickers to life, as a talking head on the news reports on a certain “Highway Killer” known as Baptiste. The police have yet to release their findings.
A light breeze flutters up the threadbare curtains on her window.
Blonney
- Is someone there?!
She cracks the window fully open, and a symphony pours in—the soft, rhythmic patter of rain, punctuated by yells, shattering glass, and the click-clack echoes of high heels coming from the restaurant.
Blonney
- Geez, can you all quiet the hell down!
(TO BE CONTINUED…)
March 12, 18:22, rainy.
Our heroine, sheltering at the Night Owl Inn, endures a sleepless night, her mind entangled with rumors—woven from threads of misfortune, death, and crime.
Rumors. This place is teeming with them.
Blonney
- Geez, this whole thing is so formulaic—like, of course, a side character would wind up here!
- But …
Of course, this particular character had once worked in a hotel before. She knows the ins-and-outs of the work, and knows it’s exactly the right place to find a good story.
She overhears the animated discussions of the guests at the restaurant. Catching fragments of their chatter, a strange set of words that light up her imagination, “brains,” “decapitation,” and “ghosts.”
She makes a silent but certain decision.
Hotel Owner
- You wanna work here?
- It’s just … I figure someone like you could be a model. Or at least make good money at a casino or a club, I mean, on tips alone.
- And if you’re looking at getting into the entertainment biz, those are the kinds of places you’ll meet the real big shots that are looking for pretty things like you.
Blonney
- Yeah, maybe. But I need to get my invite back and finish a new script before that festival ends.
Hotel Owner
- …
- Well, here’s hoping you nail that script soon. Maybe one day you’ll write the next Dick Tracy.
- But until then, the dinner rush is coming, so how about you get in that kitchen and start cooking that slop?
Blonney
- Hah, I’ve been meaning to tell you, the slop you’re serving here is awful.
- At least you’re aware of it. That tells me you’re not a total psycho. Pleasure working with you, boss.
Blonney finds a shopping list and some coupons on the kitchen counter, along with a bright pink leaflet about a water outage.
The sink is oddly clean for the state of the place, and even the hardwood floor is spotless, save for a light-colored mark that catches her eye.
Blonney
- What’s this? A bleach stain?
Blonney opens the cupboard under the sink, and the smell of lemon-scented ammonia hits her in a burst.
(Lobby, Night Owl Inn)
At 10:10 p.m., Blonney hijacks the front desk radio to suit her own tastes.
Tuna salad, as best as she could make, lies in large bowls on the table, with jars of sauce and fixings heating up above the fireplace.
Above the jars on the fireplace mantle, there is a revolver hung up on display.
Blonney
- Oh! That’s a gorgeous gun.
- But uh, why do you get that up there? You expecting some kind of trouble?
Hotel Owner
- Hah.
- Now’s not the time for chit-chat. Get to work, missy.
Blonney hears the clinking of cutlery on dishes as the first guests begin to fill the hotel lobby for dinner.
Blonney
- Evening, ma’am! Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea, or something stronger?
Pamela
- Water will be fine, dear.
Blonney
- Alright, ma’am! This bottle here is $32!
Pamela
- What?!
Tom
- You found yourself a real good cook here, boss. And such a beauty too!
The man is clearly drunk and practically shouts the words at her.
Tom
- Miss, you are, how do you say it, a hottie? I’m sure you can tell I’m not from around here. I was just transferred here from Paris.
Blonney
- Really, so how’s your French?
Tom
- Hah. Let’s put it this way. I’m fluent in their kissing techniques.
Blonney
- You might wanna do a better job of hiding that one track mind of yours.
Tom
- Et tu, ma cherie?
Blonney
- Wow! That accent is horrible. You sure that wasn’t Paris, Texas?
Tom
- Boss, I’m really digging this new girl.
She pays no mind to his jokes; she knows his type.
They might not be ideal guests, but they are useful for something. They can never keep their mouths shut. It’s all too easy to get all the best and juiciest stories out of them.
Blonney
- Huh? Why are you heading out so late, boss? And what’s with that bucket of paint?
Hotel Owner
- You musta seen the notice—the water’s off tomorrow, so I’m heading out for supplies. There’s a delivery at the door. Just put it in the cellar.
Blonney
- Wow, a case of Bristol Cream Sherry. Does this place really have a wine cellar?
Tom
- That’s right. The old owner, Mr. Stahl, was a real wine fanatic. He even built a cellar right beneath where you’re standing.
- Your boss helped build it back in the day, and then he stayed on to work for Mr. Stahl.
- Since Mr. Stahl’s gone, he’s taken things over temporarily. *hic*
As the drunk man hiccups, Blonney turns away to hide her disgust, before returning with a Texas-wide smile.
Blonney
- So, what happened to Mr. Stahl?
Tom
- He went missing.
- Yeah, it was the night of that big old forest fire just outside of town. Coincidence? I think not!
- But the cops said there was no sign he got snatched up or killed. They reckon he just decided to get up and leave.
- Me, I can’t decide. One part of me thinks Mr. Stahl is still alive and kicking out there somewhere, the other that he’s gotta be some kinda vengeful ghost.
Blonney
- A ghost?
Tom
- Considering all he went through, and all those poems, maybe he had a hideout ready and was just waiting for the right time—then, poof!
Blonney
- I’ll bite. What crap did he go through?
Tom
- His wife got murdered.
Blonney watches as he pours the $32 mineral water into his glass.
Blonney
- And what about the forest fire?
Tom
- I think the police said it was about four miles from here.
- Why, you planning on scoping out the place?
- Ma cherie, you …
The blonde girl interrupts him.
Blonney
- I know what you’re about to say. I look just like a typical victim in a slasher flick, right?
Tom
- The blonde hair, that figure, those looks—you fit the part.
Blonney
- Hah, yeah, crazies and criminals love to go after girls like me. Don’t worry. They all end up regretting it.
She slaps the check on the table.
Blonney
- That’ll be $32.
(Hallway, Night Owl Inn)
Blonney
- Room service.
Blonney pushes the food cart to the guest’s door.
The darkness at the end of the stairs spreads out toward her, as if calling to her with an irresistible pull.
Blonney
- Hello! Room service!
???
- Woof, woof, woof!
The tightly shut door opens to the sound of barking, and a haggard woman stands there, keeping a dog at bay.
The walls of her room are covered with photos—all of her in stand-up clubs, clearly old photos of her younger days. Time seems to have robbed her of comedy and her senses.
Judie
- Stahl! Get some more of that sherry, the good stuff, my “happy water,” the kind you used to send, okay? Do me a solid, hun? Please, I know you got it stashed away.
Blonney
- Uh, I think you’ve got the wrong person, ma’am.
Judie
- Damn it! You’ve changed, Stahl! Ever since you took that old bottle from me, you’ve been nothing but a grump!
Blonney
- Christ.
Judie
- You promised me you’d let an old woman drink in peace. But now, all I’ve got is that awful rot-gut you keep sending me.
The dog starts barking again, louder and whinier than before.
Judie
- Don’t worry, Finney. We won’t let little Jack see it, will we? Finney! We’ll play with little Jack next time, okay?
Finney
- Woof.
Finney whimpers, his sorrowful eyes staring at the stairs toward the end of the hallway.
Blonney
- Great. An isolated hotel in the middle of a storm, a missing former owner, irrational guests, and a secretive new boss, and Finney here seems to have pointed out another strange guest. I’ve got all the ingredients I need right here.
She walks toward the stairs at the end of the hall. That magnetic pull returns. She makes her way up, the stairs creaking a warning under her boots.
Blonney
- Hah, a new ingredient: a locked attic! Does this place have a Bluebeard too?
She lines up the key with the jagged keyhole, slides it in, and turns. A crisp “click” echoes. Then, the door swings open.
(Attic, Night Owl Inn)
A mouse darts along the baseboard in a panic.
In the attic stands a four-post bed, its sheets in disarray. Blonney reaches out to straighten the bedding, but finds a curious, soft pile beneath.
She flips through the blanket and pillows, discovering a photo under the pillow, accompanied by a line of small text below.
Blonney
- “Happy Birthday, son. Heinz Stahl and Jack Stahl, 1983.”
The man in the photo is holding a boy. The boy is holding a life-sized doll that looks exactly like him.
Blonney
- So, this must be Jack’s room.
???
- *sniff*
Blonney hears a strange sniffing sound coming from behind her.
Blonney
- It’s coming from the closet.
She tiptoes over to it, noticing a small hole in the door.
She directs the flashlight through the hole. Its beam glides over stacked clothes before landing on her target.
A boy’s face, identical to that of the boy in the photo.
Blonney
- …!
The boy’s eyes glimmer in the darkness, as wide and black as a baby deer caught in the headlights.
(TO BE CONTINUED…)
March 13, 00:04, cloudy.
The storm subsides, and the moonlight casts a dark indigo hue over the horizon, like a bruise.
The boy crawls out of the closet.
Jack
- You’re not my dad. Who are you?
Blonney
- No, really? What are you doing hiding in here, kid?
Jack
- Playing hide and seek with Dad.
Blonney
- Anyone ever tell you your eyes look like an animal’s?
- I bet those eyes of yours could land you a spot in the movies.
- If you want, you could be the star of my latest flick!
Jack
- But what if Dad comes back while I’m out making a movie with you and he can’t find me?
Blonney
- Your dad?
She recalls the photo and then asks in surprise.
Blonney
- Mr. Stahl?
Jack
- You know my dad?
Blonney
- Not really know, but he seems like a real central character. Seems like everyone wants to find him.
Jack
- …
Blonney
- I just know there’s a story worth digging into behind all this.
Jack
- He should be looking for me.
Blonney
- I think you’re the one that ought to go find your dad, you know. He’s your legal guardian, and if you wanna be in the movies, we’re going to need him to sign off on it.
Jack
- Well, if you help me find my dad, then sure, I’ll be in your film.
Blonney
- It’s a deal then.
(Crime Scene)
The shadows of the trees loom from above, devouring the two figures.
Blonney
- The boss didn’t come back last night. Who knows if he got it, but I left him a note—whether he sees it or not.
She shines the flashlight into the dark, revealing the tangled trunk of an old cypress tree. A critter’s eyes flash, then disappear into the dark den below.
Blonney
- Stay close, Jack.
She looks back toward Jack. He’s mesmerized by the shriveled corpse of a blackened beetle on the ground.
Jack
- Blonney, why do insects get all dry and empty when they die?
Blonney
- ‘Cause all the gooey stuff in their bodies gets eaten up by bacteria and fungi and things, but their shells are too tough to eat, so that’s what gets left behind.
Jack
- I think maybe it’s ‘cause they lost their souls. Once the souls are gone, they just shrivel up.
Blonney
- A soul? Nah, they rot because they’re dead. That’s all there is to it.
Jack
- My dad likes to read me stories about death and souls from Mr. Dark’s poetry collection.
Blonney
- You should probably cut back on that stuff, kid. I like a good dark film as much as the next gal, but there’s enough pretentiousness in the world already.
- Every wanna-be “auteur” out there goes on and on about the meaning of the soul and death, always death! They just think being edgy will win them awards.
- Art films, especially.
Jack
- Are they bad stories?
Blonney
- I don’t think they’re great, but even crappy movies have their uses. They give people a start in the business.
- And people need to eat, after all.
Blonney walks deeper into the forest.
The sawgrass around her is filled with narrow, vein-like puddles. After making a closer inspection, she realizes they were formed by rainwater collecting in old tire tracks.
Blonney
- These are old and deep. Maybe Mr. Stahl drove out here. It’s worth a look anyways.
- But if this is anything like a horror movie, the car will probably be empty, or …
A faint yellow light flickers deep within the dark forest, briefly flashing past her eyes before vanishing.
She catches a whiff of a foul, tar-like chemical odor, sweet yet nauseating.
Blonney
- That’s gasoline.
The distant sound of an engine grows louder, rapidly approaching. Blonney turns toward the noise, spotting a yellow Camaro veering wildly from the side and heading straight for her and Jack.
Blonney
- Watch out!
The car screeches past, almost hitting them, before careening into a tree with an ear-splitting crash.
Blonney
- The driver’s seat’s empty? No way.
The car door bursts open with a bang, unleashing an intense wave of heat. Several critters come tumbling out.
The smoke seems to be blinding them; they scurry around in confusion. One critter seems to be in charge, a familiar little guy in black and yellow.
Blonney
- Critters?
Blonney looks at the wrecked car, now a twisted metal sculpture.
A flag is fixed to the windshield, bearing the Stahl family crest and the motto “Live in Hope.”
Blonney
- That’s so ironic!
Jack
- I don’t think my dad’s in there.
- Blonney, do you think we’ll find him if we keep going?
Blonney
- I can’t say, kid, but if your dad’s car is here, we’ve got to be on the right track, right?
Jack
- Okay, I’ll just think about what I’m gonna say to Dad when we find him. How about “Found you” or “Look, Dad, I won”?
Blonney
- Hold up. There’s something over there! Shh.
Blonney stops, and Jack follows her lead.
Jack
- Is it Dad?
Blonney
- …
She’s not sure what she’s looking at, but the flashlight reveals a deep pit with a charred mass, mixed with the smell of wet rain and blood.
She picks up the familiar scent of burnt decay, and then …
Blackened beetles.
Two blackened shells lie on the ground in front of her, but far too big to be beetles.
Blonney
- Oh, my God!
Two charred bodies, one protectively covering the other in an embrace.
She notices an arm sticking out like a burnt branch from the larger figure. Her eyes track down its length until reaching a glint of metal and charred glass.
Blonney
- I recognize this watch from the pictures!
Her chest tightens, and her blood turns cold.
Blonney
- Then, this must be … Mr. Stahl.
Blonney scans over the two charred bodies, feeling as if their hollow eyes were gazing back at her.
Blonney
- But then, who is he holding? It looks like a kid. It can’t be …
- No, that’s impossible! Jack is right here with me!
- But then, who could this dead kid be?
???
- Help me.
Blonney
- It couldn’t be him, could it?
If this smaller body is Jack Stahl, then who was the “Jack” she found in the attic of the Night Owl Inn? Who did she bring here?
Blonney
- Jack?
No one responds. Blonney turns, realizing she is now alone.
Distant thunder rumbles, and heavy, wet raindrops begin to fall, drowning out the footfalls approaching from behind her.
*thud*
She is struck hard on the left side of her head, and her vision fades to black.
Blonney
- Ugh.
(TO BE CONTINUED…)
March 13, 14:28, rainy.
The phone rings, and heavy steps echo across the empty lobby of the Night Owl Inn. He finds no clerk, only a note on the front desk in neat, flowing handwriting.
He doesn’t pick up the phone but waits for it to go to the answering machine.
Officer
- “Miss Blonney, I’m a detective with the Violent Crimes Department. Regarding the property you were robbed of, we …”
Rain taps against the window, and the distant woods loom dark and foreboding. The inn’s door opens again, and he hunches his back, stepping out into the rain.
Blonney
- Ugh.
Her eyes squint open against a dull but throbbing pain. She moves to put her hand to her head but finds them tied.
???
- Don’t struggle. I wouldn’t want that rope to cut your soft, delicate skin.
The man examines the girl closely. What a perfect little blonde treasure she is!
He presses two fingers to her neck, checking her pulse.
???
- Glad you didn’t have a heart attack on me. It’s happened before.
- I mean it, Blonney. Don’t go having a heart attack on me.
A lively, athletic blonde, beautiful and innocent. She’d make for a fine cheerleader, just like those girls in Seventeen magazine.
Blonney
- It’s you.
Hotel Owner
- You found your way here. Now, things are right on track, just as I thought they’d be.
With his gloves now on, he takes out a leather flask from his coat, unscrews the cap, and nods at her.
Then, he pours liquor down her throat.
Blonney
- *cough*
Hotel Owner
- I hope you die a bit slower than the others, because … Well, you made a mean tuna salad.
Blonney
- Baptiste?
The man applauds.
Baptiste
- What a clever girl you are!
Baptiste toys with a gleaming, pointed hammer, and Blonney sees her own blood glistening on it.
Blonney
- Too bad you chose the wrong career. I told you! You’d make for a great actor!
- So, then you’re behind all of this? Then, it was you that gave that rot-gut to Judie?
- You were putting something in the wine. She knew something, and you wanted to keep her lost in those “happy water” clouds. But then, Stahl found out. Of course he would. Tom said he was a wine snob, so he noticed something was off.
- So, you lured him into the woods, and then …
She recalls the charred remains.
Blonney
- You burned him, and Jack too. Then started that forest fire to cover it up.
Baptiste
- What, you want a gold star or something? There’s no prize for figuring out this mystery.
Blonney focuses her gaze, trying to see Baptiste clearly, but his face keeps shifting. Her mind is clouded from the alcohol.
The rope is tight, but she twists hard against it, hoping to get free and cutting at it with her fingernails.
Blonney
- But that scrub mark on the kitchen floor, it wasn’t recent.
- You brought one of your victims back there, didn’t you? The wife! Thought you’d use the kitchen-grade industrial bleach to wipe away the evidence?
Baptiste scrapes his chin lightly with the hammer, a mocking smile on his face.
That day, he cleaned the kitchen more meticulously than ever before, but one spot proved too stubborn for him, like a still frame from a horror movie.
He poured all the bleach he could on it. It left a massive stain. Seeing that was the first time Stahl became suspicious of him.
Blonney
- What about Jack?
Baptiste
- Hah, yeah. That stupid kid wouldn’t stop whining about his daddy. Told me he had to find him, so I helped him out. They had a touching little reunion, until I lit the matches anyway.
Blonney
- You’re insane!
Baptiste smiles.
Baptiste
- I’ve heard that one before, too.
- It was a woman, actually. I’m sure you’ll figure out who. She said that after I tried a bit of her favorite cream sherry. I joked that she drank so much of it, her blood probably tasted of it. And it did.
Blonney
- You think I’m just another victim that got too smart, but you messed with the wrong chick.
The nylon rope snaps, and Blonney hops to her feet, then reaches for a branch nearby. She swings it back, aiming straight for the killer’s eyes, but he catches her wrist with one hand.
Baptiste stops for a second, marveling at the blood oozing from Blonney’s fingers, watching as it slips down her slender wrist, and onto his own.
Baptiste
- You’ve seen enough movies to know better than that, haven’t you?
Blonney
- Let me go, a**hole!
Baptiste
- So expressive. I’m telling you, Blonney, you were wasted behind the camera.
- I’ll make sure you stay in one piece when I’m done with you. Not like your tuna salad, all torn up and shredded to fit on a plate. It’d be a shame to carve up that body.
- You know you’re not like the others.
- But I’ll tell you this: You do have one thing in common. Your reckoning has come, just as it does for us all. You’ll die here, Blonney. Just like the rest. But don’t worry, we all have to meet our maker sometime.
Blonney
- You’re the only one meeting his maker today!
She pulls out a sheet of drawing paper.
(Battle)
(TO BE CONTINUED…)
March 13, 20:30, rainy.
Just like in so many horror movies, the villain is never killed off right away, but he’s weakened for the moment—a crucial moment.
She snaps back to reality, reminding her of who she is and where she is, bringing on a wave of fear.
She is still alive. She has to get out of here. It’s not over yet.
She doesn’t get far. As she passes through a thicket, she’s grabbed from behind and lifted up. She flails her legs harmlessly, like a fish pulled from the water.
Blonney
- Ah!
Baptiste’s voice resonates in her ear. He is back, just as any script would have told her he would be. Down but not out. Not yet.
Baptiste
- You’re a fighter, Blonney. I can tell you really value your life. But I promise, I’ll make you pay for all it’s worth.
Blonney
- Let go of me, creep!
Blonney drives her elbow into the man’s nose. She hears a crunch, and his grip loosens as he falls. She then kicks back hard against his thigh.
Baptiste
- Damn it!
Blonney
- My car! I need to get back to my car.
She feels a river of blood dripping down from her arm, unsure of where or what has caused it.
Her headache is still ringing in her ears, and her thoughts race too fast to catch up. So she ceases to think, to fear, to hope. She runs out of the forest and onto the road.
Blonney
- Huff … huff …
Her heart pounds in her chest, a sickly mix of adrenaline, fear, and exhaustion.
She feels a strange numbness in her legs. She wants to stop, but the blood on her arm reminds her that he won’t be far behind.
She keeps running. She has to keep running.
Blonney
- My car!
Sweat drips down her face. Her fingers fumble with the keys. Her heart sounds like a drum in her ear. Saliva or blood is filling up her mouth.
Metal strikes against metal. Friction, static, sparks flying.
Blonney
- God, please let it start!
- Calm down, Blonney. Just put the key in the hole, and, ah!
The glass shatters loudly behind her as her rear window is bashed out.
Blonney
- What the …?!
She catches a glimpse of Baptiste through the rearview mirror, swinging his hammer—the same one he must have used to bash Stahl’s brains in—while trying to open the driver’s side door.
Blonney
- Damn it! How did he catch up so quickly?!
- Hands off my car, you creep!
She crawls out through the passenger door, tripping over the threshold, cursing under her breath as she makes for the hotel, before spotting a white figure running toward her.
Jack
- Blonney!
Blonney
- You little brat, get over here!
She sprints to the door, dragging Jack back with her to the hotel lobby.
She grabs the doorknob. For a second, she thinks about locking the door, but there’d be no point. He’d find a way inside.
Baptiste
- Give it up, Blonney! Time to get what’s coming to you.
Blonney
- Time for you to get a new bruise, you psycho!
Blonney shoves the door open, knocking Baptiste back down the steps.
Baptiste
- S**t!
Blonney
- Stay close, Jack!
Blonney runs past the front desk, heading for the restaurant.
She grabs the revolver from the fireplace, tucking it into her waistband.
Blonney
- The wine cellar, it’s this way!
(Basement, Night Owl Inn)
Blonney
- Huff … huff …
Why did she come here? She realizes only too late. It is secure, yes, but too secure. Only one way in or out.
When he gets in, that will be it, one way or another. This cellar is going to be his tomb, or hers.
Blonney
- Listen, Jack. When he comes, I need you to run past him. You get up the stairs and go get help, got it?
The door buckles as if struck hard from the outside.
Blonney
- He’s here!
It buckles again with a loud and heavy thud, the latches nearly giving way. On the third strike, they break off entirely.
“Bang!”
Blonney draws the revolver and fires, but Baptiste’s speed is astounding. The bullet goes wide as he crashes through the door and charges toward her.
Blonney
- Christ almighty!
Baptiste
- Give up, Blonney.
Blonney
- You said that before, boss.
Blonney takes a deep breath, her fingers on the cold steel of the gun, rotating the cylinder.
Jack
- Blonney, are we gonna die?
Blonney
- I’m not dying today, kid!
Baptiste
- Kid?
Blonney
- They call you the “Highway Killer,” a natural-born demon. But you’re just a creepy loser, and you’ve got terrible taste in wine.
Seizing the moment, Blonney raises her right hand and shoots at the liquid on the floor near Baptiste’s feet.
“Bang!”
Sparks fly, tracing the surface of the high-proof sherry she had spilled out at the doorway. The alcohol burns and bursts into flame.
Baptiste
- What the …?!
The flames grow wilder and begin climbing up Baptiste’s pant leg.
Blonney
- Now! Get out of here! Run!
Tom
- What happened?! *cough* Blonney? Why are you all …
He surveys the scene, his face illuminated by the firelight growing behind her. Upon seeing the gun in Blonney’s hand, his bleary eyes widen.
Tom
- Good golly! I’m sorry about the flirting. Don’t shoot!
Blonney
- Hotel’s on fire! Check the other rooms for people! We need to get everyone out!
Tom
- What about you? Where are you going?
Blonney
- I promised someone I’d help her, and I hate breaking promises!
Jack
- I’ll go with you, Blonney!
The flames roar, dancing around the staircase. Blonney halts in front of Room 24, inserts the key into the lock, and kicks the door open.
Judie
- Well, I never …
Blonney
- Judie! Come with me!
Judie
- No! I ain’t going nowhere!
- What’s that smell? Smoke? Stahl! You setting fires now? People live here, you know? You think I’m paying for this kind of treatment?!
Blonney looks into Judie’s eyes but is met with only a blank, unfocused gaze.
A massive wave of heat hits her back, roaring with blazing fury. There’s no time. She grabs Judie’s arm.
Blonney
- Come on, Judie, I’ve got something for you!
- Something better than sherry! How does that sound? Exciting, right?
She pulls Judie down the stairs.
Before leaving, she takes one last glance back at the hotel, now consumed by flames.
Blonney bolts out of the hotel, leaps into the driver’s seat, and turns the ignition key, revving the car’s engine three times.
Blonney
- Yes! Finally. Thank f**k for that!
- Get in the car, everyone! Hurry up!
Jack stands motionless in front of the hotel.
Blonney
- Jack?!
Jack
- Sorry. I can’t go with you, Blonney.
- I have to wait for Dad to come back.
Blonney
- You can’t, Jack, you’ve got to go. Besides, you made a promise, right? We found him. Now it’s time to go!
Jack
- But I …
Blonney
- I know who you are, Jack.
- But no matter who you are, I did what you asked. Now it’s your turn!
She pulls Jack into the car.
Jack
- Blonney, you’re bleeding.
Blonney
- Yeah. That game got a bit too intense back there. Jack, can you call 911 for me?
- I need to wrap up this story fast.
The car hums gently and rhythmically. Elizabeth Fraser’s voice drifts through a crack in the driver’s window.
“Fearless on my breath, teardrop on the fire.”
“Nine night of matter, black flowers blossom, fearless on my breath.”
As the car speeds away, fire bursts out from the windows of the Night Owl Inn, as if the building were sighing in long-awaited relief.
(TO BE CONTINUED…)
The pulsating sounds of Massive Attack blare out from the radio, making the world around them vibrate. Despite the noise, Blonney finds her own rhythm.
She races down the interstate. Her wheels grind on asphalt as primal screams snarl out from the back seat.
Judie
- Whenever I hit the scene, everyone’s eyes are on me! Whenever Judie passes by, people can’t help but look! Wow!
Finney
- Woof! Woof, woof, woof!
Tom
- What do you reckon tonight’s headlines are gonna say about all this, ma cherie?
Blonney
- Hmm. I reckon it’ll be something along the lines of “Night of Terror at the Night Owl Inn.”
Tom
- Now that’s a good headline! You’re more than just a cook then, ain’t you? Just who are ya, really?
Blonney
- Well, that’s a secret.
Tom
- A secret, huh? So, is that why ya won’t let me sit in the passenger seat?
Blonney lets loose a spirited laugh.
Blonney
- Do you ever dream, Jack?
- Just a few nights ago, I dreamed I was running down a hallway, flames crashing down around me, burying me alive.
Jack
- Oh. That sounds scary.
Blonney
- It wasn’t that frightening, really. Dreams like that give me inspiration. I can create something from nothing and make people want a part of it.
- There was a time I gave up on those dreams so I could make friends. But that doesn’t mean they weren’t important to me.
- They enhanced my sense of touch, sight, smell—they allowed me to perceive the smallest changes in things, even in things that can’t speak, the ones that need my help the most.
- I need them too. I don’t want to lose it all again.
- I don’t want to repeat the mistakes of the past, even though you can’t change what’s already been done.
- I mean, what can we really get back? We can’t undo the past. No matter how we try.
- All we can do is stand by the stories we create, take responsibility, and keep on living.
Jack
- Huh.
She senses a change in Jack’s voice. She goes to grasp his hand, but her fingers pass straight through it.
Blonney
- Jack? You …
Jack
- Blonney, I think you’d better let me out here, before the sun goes down.
Blonney shifts to a lower gear, heads up a slope, and stops the car.
Jack
- Mr. Tom, Mrs. Judie, and Finney—they’re all sleeping.
Blonney
- They’re drunk. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. The sherry I took from the cellar really has a kick.
The sky clears up with perfect timing, almost bizarrely so, allowing the distant sunset to spread out its bright orange hue.
The long road stretches out ahead as cars drive past them, whizzing and creating little whirlwinds of air. Where are they going? Where will they fly next?
Jack
- “I rode God far—I rode God near, he sang, it was our last ride over the hurdled humans.”
- “They cowered when they heard us overhead, they wrote, they lied our neighing into one of their image-ridden languages.”
- Dad would let me sit by Jack’s bed and read us poems from Mr. Dark’s collection, like “The Rock Waterfall,” “A Crown of Flowers,” “Near Wine and Despair,” and so many more.
- He said people are like horses. They can keep on running for ages, but when they get tired, as soon as they stop, they’re gone, just like that.
Blonney
- You think about things like that a lot, Jack?
Jack
- Sometimes. After all, I’m not really “Jack” at all, am I?
- I think people need to find something they love to keep on living, like how they loved me, like how you love “them.”
- You made me realize that. You made me feel like nothing was impossible. Thank you, Blonney.
Blonney
- …
- I can tell you a family tradition of mine, if you wanna hear it.
- Memory bread—it’s something my mom used to make for me when I was a kid. She said one bite would make you remember something really important.
- It could be anything, any moment, and any place.
- So how about we raise a glass—drink a toast, break bread, and remember all our journeys. Remember who we were, because that’s what made who we are now.
Jack
- If we eat up all our memories, what’ll we have left?
Blonney
- Something more interesting, I’ll tell ya that.
Jack laughs, runs a few steps, then turns to face Blonney, his arms wide open as he shouts.
Jack
- I have a dream, Blonney! One day, I’m gonna start my own journey—a life as free as yours!
- I want one “last ride”—just like in the poem!
Blonney
- Hah.
- Take this, kid.
She tears a sketch from her notebook.
Jack
- What’s this?
Blonney
- This is … well, this is “Jack’s Inn.”
- I don’t know how long its magic will last, but as long as you have it, I think you’ll have a blast out there.
Jack
- Is this part of your “secret”?
Blonney
- Hah, that’s a secret, too.
She smiles, leaning against the car door.
Blonney
- Oh, and take this too.
She pulls a watch from her pocket and hands it to him.
Blonney
- No battery could ever get this thing ticking again, but the forest we found it in is a pretty depressing place. Find it a new home, huh? It’s only right that you have it.
Jack
- But Blonney, I’m not …
Blonney
- Yes, you are, Jack.
March 14, 18:00, clear.
Blonney
- After downing a bit of sherry, I like recalling those secret stories.
- I remember a kid once told me I had a good heart, but I know I’m an idiot and a real jerk.
- That kid claimed he wasn’t real, just a toy, but I know he was something else. He was real.
- He’s right there. Look to the horizon, and you’ll see him.
At the end of our film, the protagonist drives off into the sunset, alone, in a rented car.
She knows—its loyal groans and the wind rushing past her will always be intertwined with those memories.
(THE END)