“Psycho Killer” by the Talking Heads played on the jukebox of the diner. The Last Stop Diner looked like it was straight out of the 1950s, except dirtier and grimier. So, I suppose you could say it was like a diner straight out of the 1950s with several decades of use since then. The chair vinyl was frayed, the waitress looked surlier than a grizzly bear, and the patronage was a mixture of truckers as well as meth-heads. It was the sort of place that if you said there was a psycho killer present, most people would just nod and say, “Yep, sounds about right.” Really, I should be offended.
Honestly, the term was grossly inaccurate, and I much preferred the term slasher. It was decades since the heyday of my people since the Eighties when Fred, Mike, the Camp Killer, the Camp Killer’s Mother, and others stalked the streets. The media had popularized them and led to a slew of imitators, some actual slashers (more on that later) and others just the more mundane sort of killer looking for attention. Privately, I tended to believe if most of their victims hadn’t been lovely young women then society’s latent misogyny wouldn’t have turned them into celebrities.
My father, Billy Jones Patrick, had been one of the first slashers. Maybe not as early as the Motel Shower Murderer but certainly up there. Billy was one of those monster misogynists who targeted slumber parties and sororities for maximum affect. He even did it on Christmas, which was a terrible thing to do to your children I have to say. I mean, what child likes when their father must work on Christmas? Chooses to work on Christmas? A crappy one, I tell you. Eventually, the lifestyle caught up with Billy after a series of embarrassing ax-murders in Santa suits and other holiday killing sprees (who wants to see mass murder on Saint Patrick’s Day?).
Billy did, however, live long enough to explain that true slashers weren’t entirely human. I’d never understood what he meant by that until he’d finally taken on one too many strapping young ladies. She drove a car into him, chopped off his head, and then burned him with an entire can’s worth of gasoline. Now, normally, that would be enough to finish off even a true slasher, but Billy’s malevolence meant that his evil continued to linger to this day. Like right in this diner for instance.
“Junior, I think we need to talk,” the ghostly form of my father’s blond and bearded form said, wearing a striped Christmas shirt. He was looking significantly better than when I last saw him physically. He’d been a charred decapitated corpse then, killed by one of his victims who did everything she could to make sure he didn’t come back from the dead again. Mind you, Billy was translucent now, but the fact he was talking to me now was a major improvement over oblivion. For him, at least. None of the locals could see my father and didn’t seem to be interested in the conversation we were having.
“Please don’t call me Junior,” I muttered, sipping my horrid coffee. “I hate being called that.”
“You’re not worth calling Billy the Undying yet,” Billy said, puffing his chest up and saying his name like anyone remembered him. It had never quite sunk into my dad’s brain that being one of the first slashers was nothing compared to being the first and he was mostly remembered by diehard murder aficionados.
“No one ever called you that but us,” I replied, “and only because you made us do it.”
Billy frowned. “Well, what do you want to call yourself? You haven’t killed anyone yet so just giving yourself a name isn’t going to do it. People have tried that. It never works. I knew one guy who called himself the Hatchet—”
I interrupted. “I go by William, Dad. William England.”
“We’re Irish, son.”
I frowned, wondering if there was any point to speaking to my father’s spirit. “It’s called throwing people off the scent that I’m your family. This may surprise you, but being a CPA is hard when you’re the child of a notorious serial killer.”
I’d managed to escape the family business or at least I’d tried to. After Billy had finally met his final death, supposedly, both my sister and I had ended up institutionalized despite our relative sanity. Apparently, people in the government believed we might possess the so-called slasher gene and go on a rampage ourselves. I’d managed to break out of the asylum we were incarcerated at, which did wonders for my claims of innocence, and eventually got my sister out. From there, it had been a series of credit card frauds, student loans, and faked credentials to getting myself certified at the age of twenty-eight.
“You can’t escape your destiny,” Billy said.
“I can certainly try,” I said.
“All that effort training you,” Billy muttered. “I should have slashed your face up when you were sixteen like I planned. You wouldn’t have such a stuck-up opinion of yourself. You look like the guy who would play you in the movie about yourself.”
“It’s all about the fame with you, isn’t it?” I asked.
“No, that’s just a side benefit,” Billy said, grinning with teeth that would have looked entirely appropriate on a shark. “But seriously, you’re wasting that body. Put it to use!”
My father was referring to all the cardio, martial arts, and weapons training he’d put me through that had left me in far better physical shape than the average CPA. Most slashers were in pretty good physical condition but tended to be on the, uh, creepy and gross side. We could heal almost all injuries but that didn’t mean that we healed well. Unfortunately, being above average in looks meant people remembered my face when they saw me. I didn’t help matters by sticking out like a sore thumb among present company. Maybe a $500 leather jacket and designer jeans weren’t the best choice for this location, but fake it until you make it, especially when all your clothing was stolen.
I stared at him. “Yes, how awful it is I can walk among normal people without them screaming.”
Billy snorted. “Like that’s a good thing.”
I rolled my eyes. “We’re not beholden to your legacy. Neither me nor my sister. She’s rejected you too.”
“Ooo, William, I have a good target for us!” my sister said, sliding into the seat across from me by my father.
Carrie England was a perky five-foot-two redheaded girl with long curls. She wore a ski cap and winter jacket even though it wasn’t that cold.
My sister was cute as a button and an actual murderer with four kills to her name: one abusive orderly and three boyfriends that were various kinds of scumbags. It seemed she had an actual radar for these things and deliberately sought them out for killing.
“We’re not killing anyone,” I said, dryly and finishing my awful coffee.
Carrie was insane, and it was my job to look after her and keep her from going on killing sprees. Unfortunately, my father wasn’t helping matters. Sort of.
“Women can’t be slashers,” Billy said, as if he was speaking the word of God himself.
Carrie glared death at Billy. It was strangely adorable. “Why the hell not?”
“It’s a guy thing,” Billy said. “The slasher gene is passed down from father to son. Women can be black widows, mercy killers, cannibal chefs, and co-killers but—”
“That is a vicious stereotype!” Carrie said, appalled. “I’ve done the research and the slasher gene is on the X chromosome. The Camp Killer’s mom was actually a slasher before him.”
Billy looked unimpressed. “Yeah, there’s like two in the entire history of murder. You should find yourself a nice husband to help dispose of the bodies. You need to quit trying to do this yourself.”
“You’re the one who named me after the slasher who slaughtered all her high school bullies!” Carrie said.
“Movie Carrie isn’t real, sis,” I said.
“She could be,” Carrie said.
Horror writers had a long history of incorporating real life monsters, folklore, and urban legends into their stories. There had been real life inspirations as far back as The Murders at Rue Morgue and they’d made movies of most of my father’s “friends” from the Eighties. Stephen King, though, as far as I knew, was completely original in his inspirations.
“Your mother named you, Carrie,” Billy said. “Personally, I would have named you after Mary Jane Kelly.”
“After Jack the Ripper’s final victim?” Carrie said, shaking her head in disgust. “It’s like you don’t even want me to succeed.”
“I don’t want you to succeed,” Billy said, crossing his arms.
A large woman with scars on her face and dressed in a pink dress with an apron walked over to us. “Whatcha all talking about?”
“Nothing,” I said, sighing.
“We’re arguing with our dead father’s ghost about who to kill next,” Carrie said, cheerfully.
I facepalmed.
The woman smiled. “Ah, that’s adorable. Your father used to come here all the time. Are you sure I can’t interest you in trying our ribs? They’ve got a special ingredient. Hehehe.”
I stared at her. “Special ingredient?”
She gave me a knowing wink.
Great, we were in a cannibal diner.
“I’m vegan,” Carrie said, lying. She ate more meat than a wolf. “Sorry.”
“Suit yourself,” the woman said, turning around.
I turned to Billy. “Is this a psycho killer diner, Dad?”
I knew the answer, I just wanted to confirm it. I’d chosen the town of Wounded Buffalo, Kansas, population 134, in hopes of finding a place I could stay off the grid with my sister. Something about the place had leapt out at me and I wondered if my dad’s somewhat meager supernatural powers had influenced me from beyond the grave.
“A psycho killer town, son.” Billy smirked. “Remember, you’re always more vulnerable to mind-control when you go to sleep. Wounded Buffalo, Kansas is a slasher hot spot. I used to use this place to lie low between jobs. Wonderful people. Every one of them is as crazy as me.”
“Great,” I muttered. “We even bought a house here. I knew it was too cheap, even in this economy.”
“Is it haunted?” Carrie asked, clasping her hands together. “Please tell me it’s haunted!”
I looked up. “Sis, we have a ghost living with us. It’ll be haunted if it’s not already.”
Carrie frowned. “Yeah, but I meant one who isn’t a pain in the ass.”
Billy attempted to backhand her, only to have his hand pass through her head.
Carrie laughed and moved her gloved hands through his body. “Oooo.”
“Not funny, Carrie,” Billy said, frowning.
“Dad, the only reason I haven’t told the voices in my head to drag you off to hell is this is way more entertaining,” Carrie said, picking up the plastic menu on the front. “Do you think the ribs would be good?”
“The voices aren’t real sis,” I said, sighing. “Just figments of your imagination.”
Carrie and Billy looked at me like I was an idiot.
“So, what was the target you mentioned, Carrie?” Billy said. “Junior just needs to find out what sort of target his power reacts to.”
“It’s a good one,” Carrie said, cheerfully. “I can feel the evil.”
Billy did a double take. “Okay, now I have objections. You’re not going fundamentalist on me, are you? You shouldn’t be killing people for moral reasons like drugs or sex. Way too many slashers get caught up on the punishment aspect of murder. It should just be for fun.”
He was serious too.
Carrie snorted. “I’m just thinking maybe it’ll be easier for William. Have him start small by going after the really bad ones until he figures out what sort of prey he likes to hunt.”
I really didn’t like it when my family teamed up on me. “I would not, could not have a prey. I would not, could not, today or yesterday. I do not like being a slasher, please stop making my life trashier.”
“Keep your day job, Doctor Seuss,” Carrie said. “Unless that’s the theme you’re going for, we need to dress you up as a menacing Cat in the Hat. I have a pen pal who does a murderous Alice in Wonderland thing.”
“This is why I stole your cellphone,” I said. “That and the government can track you through it.”
Carrie snorted. “That’s a myth, like the honesty of politicians and global warming.”
Yeah, my dad had done a real number on us. “I think one of those is real.”
Billy, however, paused. “She might be onto something, Junior. Every true slasher has a preferred prey: blondes, brunettes, redheads, whores, businesswomen, cheerleaders, camp counselors—”
“Drug users, jocks, and nerds,” Carrie said. “You realize slashers can kill men too. You’ve killed men!”
“Only as a last resort,” Billy said, apologetic. “I should also clarify I don’t hate women. Really, I think murder is the most intimate thing two people can—”
“Yeah, that’s it, I’m gone,” I said, getting up. “Check please!”
“You haven’t even tried the ribs,” Billy said, frowning.
I rolled my eyes. “We’re leaving. All of us. I’ll sell the house online or, hell, burn it to the ground and collect the insurance. We’ll find an apartment somewhere or head south of the border.”
That was when I saw a man enter the room. He was tall, Caucasian, and with a shaved head, but dressed in a suit much finer than anything I could steal. $5,000 at the very least. He was packing a pistol, hidden inside his jacket.
Immediately, the entirety of the room went dark except for him. I could feel his heartbeat and there was a sickness inside him. It was a black inky fluid that pulsed through his veins instead of blood. It tasted of violence, apathy, and faces of the young. I wanted to kill him and didn’t understand why but it was a need to be satisfied.
Murderer, a voice spoke in my head like a whisper from beyond. It was feminine and familiar, though I couldn’t quite place it.
No, I’m not, I said. I’m not my father.
Not you, jackass, the voice said, changing. This guy.
Oh. I blinked. That’s different then.
The man paid for his gas at the register since the Last Stop Diner doubled as a gas station and proceeded to head out the front door. He paid in cash and left a trail of miasma that I could follow with my eyes.
I’d privately hoped I’d avoided inheriting the slasher gene, sometimes even denied it existed, but there was no denying I had it now. I also understood what compelled my father all these years, even as I knew this was a purpose I was meant for. Could it have driven him mad and turned him into the murderer of women? If so, was it better to kill myself before I harmed anyone innocent?
No, your father was always just a dick, the voice spoke in my head. Had some serious issues with women. Your mother was the only one to ever corral him.
Oh, I said, blinking. Wait, who are you?
Everyone and no one, the voice said. I am the Spirit of the Hunt. Now are you going to kill this guy or not?
“Sorry!” I said aloud, blinking.
“He’s got the feel now,” Billy said, looking up at me. “Don’t screw this up, son.”
“See, I told you the voices were real,” Carrie said.
I like your sister, the Spirit of the Hunt said. She’s sunny. One of my favorite female slashers.
So female slashers do exist? I asked, confirming what was blindingly obvious anyway. Blame the way I was raised for having any doubts.
The Spirit of the Hunt laughed, and it echoed in my mind. Oh, you have no idea.
I walked up to the register and looked up to the waitress behind it. I bothered to look at her nametag for the first time and saw MARGE written out. Of course, she was named Marge. “Uhm, this is going to be awkward sounding but—”
“You want permission to murder someone on my premises? Sure! Just leave the body in the back,” Marge said.
I blinked. “Err, not what I was going to ask. I was going to ask where the bathroom was but just to hide the body until morning.”
“That just spoils the taste!” Marge said, disgusted.
“My apologies,” I said, hating this town more every minute. “Could I borrow a knife?”
Marge pulled out an exceptionally sharp butcher’s knife from under the counter and handed it over. It smelled of blood. “Damn Townies. You’d be doing me a favor. Ever since they built that big compound in the area, the whole place has gone to hell.”
I took the knife, not concerned about who these townies were or what their compound was. “Right.”
Well, this night was off to a spectacular start wasn’t it?