Bitter

Chapter 2

“God if I close my eyes, I pray my soul to keep” Nightmare on Elm Street By The Misfits

The sun is rising, it’s a new day and yet nothing about you feels ‘new’. Most likely because you have been driving all night.

You have just crossed state lines, a big ‘Welcome to Alabama’ greeting you.

The road is long, there is an open field you drive by. The sky is painted by hues of violet and orange mixing together, it’s pleasant to look at but you don’t do it for long.

You must stay focused.

You drive for another two hours until you enter Blue Ridge, a small town near the Appalachian Mountains.

Its population is a little over 3,000— you hope you can find some decent work.

This is what you do now— hop from place to place, work a couple of months and then take off like a bat out of hell to the next place.

You used to wait until something went wrong; them finding you, you murdering yet another poor soul.

You're smarter now, or at least that’s what you tell yourself.

Although you did just have a slip-up.

You groan.

You drive over an old wooden bridge, a vast river lay below. You hold your breath till you reach the other side. It takes a short drive to get to town.

You would dare describe the place to have some sort of rustic aesthetic. Each building looks aged but well loved and cared for.

As you drive through, the town begins to stir, everyone is getting up for work.

Although what really catches your eye is a help wanted sign posted on a wooden stand outside of what looked to be a local grocery store.

Perfect.

You find a cheap place to stay, a little rental cabin near the edge of town. There are two other cabins to your left, though they don’t look as well kept as the one you stay in.

Worst case scenario, if you couldn’t afford the one you were staying in you most likely would have camped out in one of the others. The thought of having to sleep in your car another night didn’t sound pleasing to your back.

It was a lady you spoke to when you were paying for the rental—Margret— who told you that the other two cabins were under construction as the electricity didn’t work in either.

Margret was a sweet old lady with a gray bob cut and almost cartoonish, round glasses that sat on the bridge of her button nose.

Her pale skin was dotted with beauty marks. She looked to be maybe 5’6, but was slightly hunched over.

She was inviting and warm— these traits made her feel familiar. Reminding you of a time when the world was kind to you.

She offered for you to join her for tea at her home as she only lived a half mile away from the cabins. You politely declined— claiming to be too tired from the drive. Best not to get too close.

Margret simply nodded and told you that the offer was always open.

Once you dragged your luggage into the cabin you did a brief look around at your new home for the next couple of months.

The wall paper was a cream color with royal blue flowers printed on it.

As you walk in deeper—your old beat-up sneakers making soft tap, tap, tap sound on the polished wooden floor.

The dining room, kitchen, and living room were all connected within the same open space. The sight makes things feel a tad cluttered.

There was an old red sofa across from a fireplace. On both sides of said fireplace were two full bookshelves, perhaps Margret was an avid reader.

Adorning the wall were painted pictures of what looked to be some of the places you passed within the town on your way to the cabins.

The dining table and its three chairs were painted white— a nice contrast from the dark oak floor. It was placed by one of the kitchen windows— natural light cascaded over said furniture.

It would be a nice place for a family to share a meal together.

You think back to when you were younger. Sharing dinner with your parents had been a staple in your childhood— a perfect way to end the day.

Mother would make dinner— something tasty but also nutritional. Often taking vegetables out of the garden she had grown as she hated going into town to get groceries.

Father would come home after a long day of work at the lumberyard. He looked worn but would always have something sweet to say to you and your mother.

Dinner would be a time to forget of the trials and tribulations earlier that day and to simply sit and enjoy family.

What a simpler time.

The kitchen within the cabin was nothing to write home about. It was simple and clean. No microwave— you would have to cook your meals.

Not ideal but you could work with it.

The cabin’s bedroom was small. A queen size bed sat in the middle of the room, a nightstand on either side, and a closet with five hangers for your clothes.

On either nightstand was a lamp— big enough to light up one half of the room if turned on.

Above the bed was another window. You decided to close this one’s blinds— the cabin was one floor only after all.

Connected to your bedroom was a bathroom— complete with a shower, a sink, and a toilet.

This place was a real step up from sleeping in your car all of last month. To rent the cabin for a month was six hundred dollars. For your situation it was a little pricey but ultimately do-able.

You want to just go straight to bed after hanging up some of your clothes and doing a little unpacking— but you can’t.

The job at the local grocery store, Community Goods, is calling your name.

You shower first— wash away all the grime thoroughly.

You feel more awake after.

You dry off and dress yourself in tan khakis and a navy blue polo shirt. It's an ugly combination but it’s all you got in terms of “nice” clothes. You throw on a jacket and grab your keys.

The grocery story was a typical grocery store, although lucky for you the manager had to fire someone, leaving a position wide open for you.

The manager, Katie, had practically hired you on the spot.

She was nice enough.

Katie seemed to be in her mid thirties, she had an athletic build and was on the taller side. She was well put-together, her auburn hair was placed in a low ponytail, her uniform held no wrinkles, and she looked awake and bushy tailed—a characteristic you were jealous of.

She reminded you of someone who as long as you got your work done and didn’t get up to any trouble she would be pleasant to be around. No nonsense—you could respect that.

Katie informed you that you were not her only hire that day, as she wanted more people on the night shift. She gave you clear instructions to be back at the grocery store at 4pm sharp to be trained alongside the other new employee.

Easy enough.

You had about six hours to kill until then.

You exchanged information with Katie, you gave her your burner phone’s number and a fake name. Dawn— this would be the last “D” name you chose.

Typically you choose five names from each letter in the alpha bet. You have been going in alphabetical order, after ‘D’ you would move onto ‘E’ names.

When it came to last names you had a rotation of five: Smith, Johnson, Williams, Brown, and Jones. Basic American last names. Today you would be known as Dawn Smith.

A part of you misses hearing your own name—for people to know the real you. It has been what feels like forever since you’ve had a real companion. This new lifestyle is lonely, but to drag someone else into your mess wouldn’t be fair. You were selfish, but not that selfish.

You headed back to the cabin after the exchange.

You set out your new uniform neatly on your nightstand before you get into bed.

Changing out of your clothes into something more comfortable would be ideal but it slips your mind as you begin to doze off.

Dreams could be hellish nightmares or simply nothingness until you awoke.

Although as you found yourself coming to the pavement on the sidewalk you guessed which option you got.

A headache greeted you from within your temples. You are warm—a little too warm. It smells like a campfire. A groan escapes past your dry lips as you try to peel your eyes open.

It takes a minute—your vision is blurry.

You blink away your blearyness and take in the nightmare you’ve been thrusted into.

Houses are burning—a neighborhood on fire under the night sky.

The sight sobers you up and you pick yourself up off the pavement.

You should have gotten up slower—the world around you spins. You stumble.

Leather gloves are pressed into the sides of your shoulders. Your back now pressed against something firm.

You have played this game too many times to wait around and see what has its claws sunken into you.

You jolt forwards—but the gloved hands keep you in place with a vice like grip.

“I-It’s buh-beautiful isin’t?”

The voice—male— is muffled.

The body behind you shutters before it locks up, then easing once more—a twitch.

You are becoming painfully more aware of who is behind you at the moment.

Fighting is useless against him—he never feels the blows you deal out.

Running is your best option. You just have to time it right.

“Did you do this?” You start slowly, choosing your words carefully.

“I th-think so.” he replied as you could feel his gloved fingers dig into the flesh of your shoulders.

“Tha-That’s nu-not what we are huh-here to t-t-talk about Champ.” he continues, he twitches again—a cracking sound emanated from behind you. His tone is taunting. “Yuh-you’ve been ruh-running for a wuh-while now—leaving a MUH-MESS for us t-t-to clean up. Buh-Boss isn’t huh-happy about it.”

There was venom in his tone as he spoke. His chin then found purchase atop your head—the edge of his muzzle digging into your scalp.

His body went rigid once more, he jerked his right side forward— knocking you forward in the process as his grip loosened a smidge. You had a sliver of an opening. You took it.

You dropped low and then sprung into action. You pushed yourself to move as fast as you could— you charged towards the tree line—away from the burning houses, away from him.

You don’t dare look behind you—that is a waste of time.

As you run farther and farther away from the fire you no longer feel the heat that had been keeping you warm. The air holds a chill to it.

You make it past the tree line—your shoes connect with dry leaves and you wince with how loud you are.

“YUH-YOU CAN’T RUN FOREVER!” His voice carries through the woods— raw and hungry. He’s too close for comfort.

A wolf closing in on its prey. You don’t want to feel his jaws clamped down on your throat.

It’s becoming too dark to see now—the moonlight does not shine through the canopy provided by the trees.

Something whizzes past your head— so close to your face you could feel the wind be cut to make room for the object. For a moment you shift your gaze away from the path ahead in time to see what made its way past you embed itself into the base of a tree— a hatchet, specifically one with the neon orange handle.

Any thought of slowing down to hide has been put to rest by that simple action.

Panic crawls up your spine. You couldn’t keep this up forever. At your realization of impending doom, static seems to bloom within your head.

Oh how IT relishes in your suffering.

Although you turn your focus back to the dark path a little too late as you collide with a tree.

Your ass hits the forest floor—hard. Your hands had done nothing to cushion your fall as they were cradling your now battered nose.

Something is definitely broken.

No time to dwell on the pain that throbs from the area or the warm, viscous liquid that pools into the palms of your hands.

You’re loosing precious time, you have to pick yourself up.

The tree that had been in your path moves—its branches twisting unnaturally.

That’s not a tree.

Slowly—you tilt your head up until you have to crane your head as far as your body will allow.

A pale, blank, face greets you.

Adoring it’s long, slender figure was a suit and tie—most of it’s attire blended into the darkness. Yet it’s stark white face stood out among the shadows of the night—peering down at you.

Suddenly you are no longer afraid of your original pursuer. Your heart has dropped to your stomach.

Time freezes, and so do you. You don’t move, you don’t even dare to breathe.

Hell, you can’t even form a proper thought.

Leaves crunching under shifting weight alerts you to another guest joining this little powwow.

It shifts it’s pale gaze from you to the twitchy individual behind you— his ramblings muffled by his mask.

You do the same—and there he stands in the dark.

A figure standing among the trees— you can barely make out his signature beige sweatshirt— the sleeves have brown stripes going up to his shoulders. His brunette locks of hair splay every which way—free from the blue hood he usually has up.

Covering the lower half of his face is a ribbed muzzle. The accessory is gray and black in color. His eyes are hidden behind these chunky, amber goggles—the same ones that had greeted you all that time ago on the back road.

His jeans are dirty and torn. He has a thick belt, attached are two holsters—empty as he holds a hatchet with a wooden handle in his gloved hand.

He can’t seem to stay still. His head snaps to the side before his shoulders bob up and down. A sharp sound pierces the air—he is cackling.

“No muh-more running Chuh-Champ!” he taunts you once more as he approaches you—slow and steady.

He is the wolf, and you, the lamb ripe for the slaughter.

He rears up—hatchet held tight in his grip as he holds it above his head.

You don’t even get the chance to scream as he swings down—aiming for your head.

He never makes contact.

You awake with a start—sweat beading on your skin in cool drops.

You're trembling— but you at least are able to breathe again. Shaky, shallow breaths pass through your dry lips.

It doesn’t take long for your breath to hitch once more— a sob tears its way up your throat. Tears—hot and fresh— stream down your cheeks. You curl in on yourself.

You want to feel safe—to reassure yourself that it was just a dream. But you know better.

You must stay on your gaurd—you will never know another day of being at ease, to live without worry.

Chapter 1

“How can one little street swallow so many lives?” The Kids Aren’t Alright by The Offspring

Chapter 2 here

Trees blur in your peripheral vision. Golden sunlight flickered through the limbs of the shrubs and their sparse amount of amber and crimson leaves clinging on to the branches.

The windows are rolled up, the heater in your beat up Honda Civic is working over-time.

The smell of gas station coffee drifts in the air—the taste of said coffee still on your tongue. Still your puffy eyelids felt heavy, you wanted nothing more than to simply sleep off this headache that was pounding behind your eyes.

Breathing in your nose was met with difficulty— it hadn’t been very long since your last breakdown.

Your hands gripping the steering wheel— nails dug into the rubber.

This back road seemed endless, you could only pray that the map that laid across your lap wasn’t leading you astray.

This wouldn’t be the first time you were leaving like a thief in the night. Nevertheless time you couldn’t blame them, this was your fault.

You know you shouldn’t think about it, especially while driving. This wasn’t new, you should be desensitized to it by now.

Slowly you took your foot off the gas, and your car began to slow down. You didn’t bother using your blinker as you turned onto a dirt road— you hadn’t seen another car for miles.

One last pit stop before leaving the state of Tennessee.

Your car shook as the tires met with uneven ground. Low branches took swipes at your car, it was obvious no one had come this way in a long time.

The sun had set by the time you reached the end of the path.

As soon as the car was parked you got to work. Pushing open your car door, you step out of your car. It’s freezing— cold air whips through the trees, hitting you in the face.

You circle around to your trunk, you move with purpose. Your head is down— too scared to look at the trees.

Static begins to drone on in the back of your head, you can’t let it deter you.

Popping open your trunk reveals a multitude of lumpy trash bags—your doing. A grimace tugs at your lips, bile threatens to climb up your throat. You know very well what’s contents of these bags are.

One by one you grab the trash bags with practiced ease. This isn’t your first time doing such activities. Out of everything you’ve only gotten stronger, gaining muscle in places you didn’t have it before.

You check your trunk one last time, there lay a shovel. You don’t want to stay here any longer than you have too.

Swiftly you grab the shovel and begin to trudge toward a seemingly clear spot. You had an iron grip on the wooden handle. The ground was hard—this was going to be difficult.

Placing the nose of the shovel into the surface of the dirt, you prepare yourself to begin.

With each pile of dirt you dig up the static begins to blare in your ears.

You wince, but you can’t stop. With gritted teeth, you continue with your work.

You don’t feel it at first, rather you taste it. As you open your mouth to suck in a breath of air a metallic taste seeps onto your tongue. Your nose is bleeding.

The rage you feel helps you push on.

Things used to be normal, you were normal.

You were a college student in your junior year. You had your own apartment, it was small but it was yours. You were a commuter as you lived in a little town in the pine barrens. Working at a pizza shop as a delivery driver was always a chore, but your coworkers always made you laugh.

One night you were driving back to the shop from your last delivery of the night. You were about thirty minutes out, the last place you had delivered to was to a couple who lived in this old house within the woods. The husband was a ranger, as he paid for the pizza he rambled on and on, claiming there had been people going missing in the woods.

“Something ain’t right. People don’t just go missing and leave nothing behind. Can’t even find a body. We will be up to four now if we can’t find Susan Walks— her folks just put in a report last night.”

On first impression the warning he had given freaked you out, but as you began your drive putting on radio drowned out your fear. You think an Offspring song was playing, the guitar roared throughout the car. The stench of greasy pizza filled your nose long after the pizza was gone.

When we were young, the future was so bright

Woah-oh

What had you been so worried about?

The old neighborhood was so alive

Woah-oh

You were almost off this road anyway, you would be getting into town soon.

And every kid on the whole damn street

Woah-oh

Was gonna make it big and not be beat

Your high beams were on. There were no street lights in sight. Trees looked long and ghastly as you drove past. Branches intertwined with one another, creating shapes that would make you take a second glance.

You passed by a speed limit sign reading a bulky thirty-five. You were going fourty-fiveish. There was always a ton of deer that roamed around these woods. You had wanted to be mindful but tonight you just wanted your shift to end after listening to the ranger.

Now the neighborhood's cracked and torn

Woah-oh

A shrill noise cut through the music. Your eyes scanned the road ahead— nothing.

The kids are grown up, but their lives are worn

Woah-oh

A hesitant hand reached up to turn the music down.

The noise— a scream, echoed through the woods.

A chill ran up your spine, once again your eyes scan the road, then the tree line.

Looking to your left— nothing.

You were about to look to the right.

How can one little street swallow so many lives?

You only caught a glimpse of them before your car made contact. A blur of white and red.

You dig up another pile of dirt, you're halfway done. The muscles in your jaw are pulled taunt as your teeth grit together. Despite how cold it was, sweat beaded on your brow.

Labored breaths escaped your chapped lips. All the layers you had worn to keep warm now not only felt heavy, but were making you sweat.

Every time you repeat your newfound routine the memories of how everything started always come flooding back.

Your foot slammed on the break— tires screeched— but the damage had already been done.

Not even a moment passed of the car being still did you put it in park.

You whipped open the drivers side door and took a couple tentative steps towards the two figures who were mangled on the road.

The air had been warm then, it was August. Yet even as the humid air kissed your cheeks you felt cold.

The pavement shimmered in the light from your head lights, a crimson sheen coated the road.

Your gaze drifted forward.

The one closest to you was wearing a white— or at least that’s what you think it used to be, zip-up hoodie. The hood is up, spilling down is their mid-length ebony hair. It’s disheveled, locs of hair falls every which way. Their face is completely hidden behind a dirty white mask. Two inky black pits are in place of the eyes. Where the mouth should be there is a black spot— maybe a hole. You can’t bring yourself to look at them for too long to tell. They lay on their side, facing you.

Their left arm is bent the wrong way— you grimace.

The lower half of the stranger is covered by what looks to be a dark pair of baggy jeans— ruined now by road rash.

You look down at their knee, the skin—more like raw flesh and bone— now exposed.

You gagged before looking past the first individual.

The other lay sprawled on her back. Her dirty blonde hair looked matted— some pieces stuck together with what looked to be dirt and her own blood. Her eyes were open but you didn’t look at them long enough as her jaw stole your attention. The corners of her mouth were torn as her jaw lay uncomfortably agape.

But it only got worse.

You weren’t sure what the original color of her shirt was supposed to be, what was displayed to you now was a damp red shirt. The crimson darkest where a wound was displayed. Along her side looked to be a semi-wide incision, cracked ribs crept through skin.

Much like the other individual she too had a road rash— yet she had been wearing shorts.

The scene was gory.

You felt sick to your stomach.

Had this been the girl that the ranger had spoken of?

You should do something; call 911, check for a pulse, do something, anything.

Yet you stood frozen, hands clenched and arms pinned to your sides. A sob was itching its way up your throat—your eyes burned with impending tears.

That was something, you could stand here and cry like a child.

Static.

It was soft at first, barely above a whisper in your ears.

Then it boomed. Your eardrums felt as if they could burst, the pain nauseating. Your hands clamped over your ears, though the attempt to quiet it down was futile. Your eyes pinned shut as the world around you spun.

As soon as it started it stopped. You sucked in a sharp breath, your eyes finally peeking open— stray tears now rolling down your cheeks. Hands hesitantly fell away from your ears.

Wearily, you peered around to the tree line— searching for the source.

An amber glint caught your eye. You focus on the tree line. Every muscle in your body itches, you are tip-toeing the line of fight or flight.

Your eyes widened once you realized what you were looking at. There a couple yards away stood a silhouette just barely visible. Whatever laid one his face— goggles perhaps— caught in the moonlight.

Your breath hitched once more.

It was all so disorienting, had there been something going on before you showed up?

Pop!

Your head had snapped back to the two individuals who laid across the road— so fast your neck hurt.

The one with the mask— their left arm was slowly moving back into place. The initial pop you assumed was the bone getting placed back into the socket.

The last you checked that was not a sign of rigor mortis.

Their chest heaved, a ragged breath escaping their lips. Quickly you lifted your gaze to their mask. Hiding within the black pits were now two illuminated irises staring back at you.

This was enough to push you over the edge.

This isn’t right. Something was deeply wrong here at this scene and you hadn’t wanted to stay and find out.

You had backed up before swiveling on your heel and properly ran back to the car.

You slammed the door shut— locking it shortly after. You had smashed your foot on the gas peddle before the vehicle was even out of park. You cursed a slew of words before shifting gears finally.

You had driven into the shoulder of the road to get around the individuals you had hit with the car.

You knew it was a bad idea but you did it anyway— your eyes shifted to the rear view mirror.

The figure who had been hiding in the tree line was now in the middle of the road— knelt down by the masked individual.

Yet those goggles remained on the back of your car.

You put your focus back on the road— not wanting to make the same mistake twice.

You had to fight the urge to vomit about three times before making it back to town. You replayed the events over and over in your head.

You wanted to feel guilty for participating in a hit and run. Yet a part of you knew something wasn’t right with that situation. Nevertheless you should have called 911, but you didn’t.

What would you have said?

“Yeah I hit two people going ten miles over the speed limit. I didn’t think either of them were breathing but I didn’t check for a pulse. Five minutes later one of them started to put themselves back together. Not to mention someone was hiding in the woods watching the whole thing.”

You would sound crazy— the police would chalk it up to you just being another drunk driver, or worse, your mother.

Your reputation in your town wasn’t bad per say, it was really your late mother that caused people to take a second glance at you.

Bless her soul, you had loved your mother dearly, but you could understand why people were guarded around her.

She was strange— often having outbursts, claiming to see things that weren’t there.

Nevertheless if you had turned in a police report describing what had gone on that night you knew they would deem you insane just like your mother.

So you had chosen to stop at an old abandoned gas station once you were back into town.

You weren’t gonna take any chances. You had two water bottles and some leftover napkins from the pizza you delivered.

In the dark you couldn’t see as well so you had to use the light from your flip phone’s screen.

And you scrubbed and scrubbed.

It made you feel sick as you cleaned another human’s insides off your car— desperate to get rid of evidence. The gore wasn’t the only thing that made you feel ill that night— guilt made your stomach churn.

You should have turned yourself in.

But you wouldn’t.

Coward.

Once the napkins stopped coming up with red residue you used the rest of the water to rinse off whatever was left on your hands.

You took the car back to the shop.

Your boss scolded you for being so late—not too harshly though.

You had come up with the excuse that you had gotten lost— after all you had never had to deliver to the ranger and his wife before.

Old mister Jones was a man in his early sixties. Thinning gray hair, a big nose and an even bigger beer belly. He was harsh but fair.

He had run the shop when your mother had worked there. Probably hired you out of pity as your mother seemed to only get worse with age.

That night as he looked at your disheveled and sweaty appearance he must’ve understood something was up.

You most likely looked like you might’ve seen a ghost— maybe you did. After all, New Jersey always had its tall tales about the pine barrens.

The scolding did last long, he simply made you mop before letting you go home.

Now you stand in a hole a little past your waste. You groan, your joints ache. You catch your breath before climbing out.

You breathe in deep before hauling the first trash bag into the hole.

That night had been your first time ever killing someone. You hated to admit that it wasn’t the last time.

You tossed another bag into the hole.

As far as you know your body count was now around seven, though the individual you disposed of at the moment would be number eight. How delightful.

You hurl in yet another bag.

You never mean to kill your victims, honest. It’s when the static gets so loud you can feel it reverberate through your body that you tend to lose control.

You know you're still there when it happens— you don’t completely black out. You see what you're doing, though you can’t quite feel yourself move.

You always feel guilt afterwards— heavy and weighing on your conscience.

It knows you won’t kill out of your own volition, even despite the pain it inflicts on you. You think it knows it’s wearing you down though, slowly but surely. You're scared of scumming to it— to the unknown.

So you rebel as much as you can— try to drag out the process, warn those you're after, fight.

Even now as static rages on in your ears and the edges of your vision blurs— you don’t stop as you throw the last bag into the hole.

This isn’t what it wants.

It doesn’t speak to you directly but you’ve seen it before. Tall, pale and faceless— hiding within the trees.

It has visited you in your dreams before— shown you things.

A symbol in particular; a circle with an ‘x’ drawn over it. Sometimes you even find yourself drawing the image absentmindedly. You often dispose of it afterwards— ashamed.

You think it wants you to do something with the victim’s bodies, maybe a ritual of sorts? You refuse either way, opting to at least give them some sort of burial instead, it’s the least you can do.

You bury what you’ve hidden— the process much easier than digging the hole to begin with.

You wander back to your trunk, putting away your now dirty shovel. You're exhausted, your face feels frozen, and your limbs are burdensome. In spite of everything you got the job done. You want to feel content that it was over for now but the fact that you stole someone’s life prevents you from doing so.

You feel… empty.

You get in your car sticking the key in the ignition like it’s second nature. The heater begins to warm up the car once more.

You peer at your face in the rear view mirror, you would think someone broke your nose with how much you bled. You would have to clean it up later, just another thing on your everlong to-do list.

There is no rest for the wicked— it’s time for you to get back onto the road.