The Final Girl

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. I let my friends draw ahead of me as we slowly approached, almost everything in me screaming to tell them all to run, to get us out of this horror movie before it began.

And yet I didn’t. If I had been honest with myself, in my internal war between scared, guilty, and excited, excited was definitely winning.

My boyfriend Dylan turned and grinned at me from up ahead, dropping back to walk with me as I pasted on a fake smile, pretending everything was normal. We were just 5 teenagers exploring a cabin in the woods. When has that ever led to disaster?

“C’mon babe, not scared are you?” Dylan teased.

“Of being killed by the ghost of a serial killer from the 80s? Never.”

“But what about the stories that say he never died, and he still lives out here TO THIS DAY?!”

“I wouldn’t worry about him. I’m pretty sure this wouldn’t be the first time the candle was lit if he still lived here.” I smiled for real this time. “Besides, I think you guys could take on an old man and come out alive.” I called ahead.

“WHAT D’YOU SAY TYRONE? COULD WE WIN AGAINST THE OLD MAN IF HE WAS STILL AROUND?”

“HELL YEAH!” He looked around. “Hey, what happened to Brad and Stacey?”

We heard a squeal from ahead, and my heart jumped into my throat for a second, worried they’d seen something they shouldn’t. Then the squeal was followed by excessive giggling, and I felt a wave of relief. They didn’t know. Obviously they couldn’t know.

I made an effort at speaking normally. “Where do you think? Off behind a tree, somewhere. No bleachers to get caught under out here.”

Tyrone rolled his eyes. “They’re such a stereotype. The nympho Head Cheerleader and Star Quarterback.”

Dylan grinned. “If you’re worried about stereotypes, you know the black guy goes first in every horror movie.”

That made me let out a genuine laugh. “Ah but you have to take into consideration that not every serial killer is as racist as Hollywood movie executives.”

Tyrone jumped up over a log across the path. “The ghost of a local from the 80s probably is. But I’ll take my chances – maybe I’ll get lucky and they’ll kill the couple trying to… get it on first.”

As he said that Stacey emerged from behind a rock near the house, buttoning her shirt, followed by Brad, slipping his back over his shoulders.

“As expected,” said Tryone, grinning.

“Shut Up!” she giggled again as Brad put his arms around her waist from behind.

He threw a glance back over his shoulder at the house. “You ladies ready to seek out the serial killer in his lair?”

Dylan peered past the now-dim candle in the window. “Looks like it’s empty to me.”

“Maybe the serial killer just isn’t home yet,” I said, pulling him by the hand up the steps to the cabin. Now we were near it, in the dark, with only the light of a single candle to see by, I could feel what my father meant. Maybe my grandfather’s spirit still lingered after all, or maybe it was just the thought of everything I knew had happened here, but I couldn’t wait to see what was inside.

“It’s empty and you’ve still gotta be dragged by your girlfriend? Chicken.”

Never able to leave a threat to his masculinity unchallenged, Dylan pushed in front of me and threw open the door, revealing a mostly empty room aside from a strangely clean kitchen and a table surrounded by 4 chairs. Tyrone was first through the open door.

“Maybe that’s why you’ll die first,” said Dylan, letting go of my hand and moving more cautiously in after him. “Charging into the unknown. Who knows what booby-traps you could encounter.”

“C’mon, the guy always killed with the same kitchen knife, he’s hardly gonna change his M.O. just because he’s a ghost.”

“There could be a kitchen knife booby trap,” Brad suggested, waggling his fingers in a mock-creepy ghost gesture. Stacey and I now stood at the threshold as the boys began to explore the room. She quickly moved forwards across to Brad, but I stood mesmerised, drinking in the sight that I’d been told about all my life. This room, in the dim light of one candle and just the right amount of moonlight, filled with a group of teenagers too curious for their own good.

“Are you coming in, or were you just pulling Dylan to the door as a sacrifice?” Tyrone laughed.

I smiled. “I’m coming in.” I walked across to that now-familiar kitchen.

Stacey made a beeline from Brad to the doors on the other side of the room. “What’s back here?”

She opened one and found a distinctly less-than-clean bathroom, the filth amplified by the shadowy light. She slammed the door on it. “Ewww, I am NOT gonna be using that.”

She opened the other door to reveal an only slightly dusty double bed, perfectly lit with a shaft of moonlight through the un-boarded window. “Now this on the other hand…” she giggled yet again, fluttering her eyelashes at Brad.

“Wonder if the electricity to this place still works?” Tyrone flicked a light-switch back and forth. “Maybe there’s a fuse box?”

“Let’s look ‘round the back,” Dylan suggested, wrenching open the swollen back door. They went out, slamming it behind them, and Stacey arched suggestively against the doorway to the bedroom.

“Coming Brad?” she purred.

He glanced across at me, clearly desperate to take her up on the offer. “You be good on your own in here Kristy?”

“I can cope,” I grinned, spotting what I’d been looking for in the kitchen.

He followed her into the bedroom, slamming the door, and I heard a squeal and the squeak of old bedsprings. I shook my head and slowly walked across to what I’d seen. A standard kitchen knife, the same as the one my grandfather had. It was time.

Suddenly I heard a shriek from the bedroom and rushed to the door, throwing it open and bursting inside. I was faced with exactly the scene I expected: Brad on the bed with Stacey seated atop him. The shadow beside their bed moved fast, and I felt as much as saw the knife drive into her back. She cried out for a moment then slumped forwards. Brad screamed, but it was cut short as Stacey’s body was pushed aside and his throat was sliced more open than I would’ve thought possible.

The lights snapped on, starkly exposing the messy scene. The shadow was gone and I quickly replaced it, screaming for Dylan and Tyrone. They appeared at the door and swore as they witnessed the destruction that had taken only a few seconds to wreak. I ran to Dylan and collapsed against him, sobbing as loudly as I dared. He stood frozen until Tyrone slowly pulled us both back and closed the door.

He was in full panic mode, pacing, repeating “Oh god, what do we do, what do we do?”

I finished sobbing and pulled away from Dylan. He seemed to unfreeze and said to the pacing Tyrone “What do you mean what do we do, we gotta call the police!”

“The police?! Against that?” I yelled, desperate to stop him.

“Against what?” he stared at me. “What do you mean?”

I told them my tale, the shadow that disappeared when the lights came back on.

“You’re sure they didn’t just… go out the window?” he asked.

“Dude, we were outside that window!” Tyrone had stopped pacing.

“We still need the police! I’m sorry Kristy but I don’t buy for a second that some ghost did this!”

“I don’t think it was a ghost either!” I snapped. “But I don’t think the police would help me.”

Tyrone clutched at my shoulder. “I think we all need to leave.”

Dylan nodded. “Fine, we’ll leave, then call the police.”

I collapsed into one of the chairs, suddenly exhausted, not sure how to stop them. “I was the only one there. Maybe if I hadn’t-”

Dylan cut me off. “No. You couldn’t stop some shadow from killing, ghost or no ghost.”

I looked up at him and slowly smiled. “I’m glad you know that.”

The lights went out, but the candlelight stayed strong, and full. The knife still in my hand sunk into Tyrone’s chest. Dylan screamed, trying to tug open the back door. I pulled out the knife and turned to him. He cowered against the door, still trying desperately to get it to open.

He stammered out a plea to live. “Stop! Please!” I took a step towards him, the shadow on the wall moving with me. He saw me watch it and tried another tactic.

“W- Wait, I was wrong! You can stop it! You can stop the shadow!” He gave a final desperate tug on the back door and it opened. He went to sprint out and fell down the steps. I calmly followed and pressed my foot down on his back.

He sobbed out “No! Stop! Why are you doing this?”

I smiled at the shadow where it stood, outlined sharply against the flat ground in the moonlight.

“I guess you could say… it runs in the family.” The shadow plunged the knife downward and his sobbing stopped. I turned away and walked with the shadow back up the steps of the house, replacing my grandfather’s knife in that otherwise spotless kitchen. I set my perfectly chosen group in each of the four chairs. The head cheerleader and the football star: the sex-obsessed couple killed when they split off from the group. The one black guy to prove the group can’t be racist: he was probably right, my grandfather would’ve killed him first. The best friend of the football star: the last one to die, as the boyfriend to the last piece of the puzzle.

Me.

The final girl.

*** *** ***

The next morning, the police found me sitting in the dirty bathtub, blood still staining my skin. I wouldn’t move until my father came in and told me to come. We stopped to look at the burnt-down candle before I walked on to the car in silence, getting sympathetic looks from everyone on the scene. My father told the police they could interview me later, once I was cleaned up. They agreed and gave him the card for a trauma shrink.

We drove slowly back up the dirt path I knew so well.

“Did you enjoy your stay in my father’s cabin?”

I nodded.

“Did you meet him?”

“I think so. There was a shadow.”

He gave an approving nod. “Sounds like he’s proud of you.”

The only other words I said on our long drive away came from the thick coat of mould and mildew still coating my shoes and parts of my clothes.

“I’m telling my kid to clean the bathtub.”