Thanks for the reviews. Here's an extry-long chapter to repay you. ;}

Ch. 3

Maggie awoke to a steady, jarring rumble. Her eyes creaked open, taking in a pickup's beat-up dashboard and bug-splattered windshield. A radio buzzed and crackled, occasionally picking up snatches of some pounding metal song. Her head lolled as the vehicle pulled sharply to the side, and the rumbling stopped.

"'Bout fuckin' time."

She dragged her gaze over and saw the killer in the driver's seat. He was staring straight ahead, his face expressionless save for the carved smile. Even his lidless eyes had a glazed look to them. Maggie tried to move and realized that a seatbelt was cinched around her. She looked down and saw that she was still wearing her shredded pajamas. Every inch of her, from her neck to her knees, was crusted in a dried coating of blood.

"You healed up fine," the killer said without looking at her.

Maggie grimaced at the feel of the blood flaking off her neck when she twisted her head toward the window. The sun had almost fully set, and they were on a highway she didn't recognize. A van blared its horn at them as the killer blew past it, doing well over the speed limit.

"What happened?" Maggie asked, though she could remember most of it. The killer had stabbed her to death, punched her full of holes and then slit her open. She had died… hadn't she?

"Had to punish you," was all the killer said. The jarring sound started up again as the truck veered slowly onto the rumble strip near the edge of the road. Maggie glanced over at the killer and saw, beside a knife handle wedged between the seats, a mostly empty bottle of something tucked against his thigh.

"Maybe you should pull over," she said, wary of the slight bobble of the killer's head whenever the truck moved right and left. He laughed humorlessly at her suggestion, the sound too loud in the confined space of the truck cab.

"What?" he demanded. "So you can jump out?" He turned to her and grabbed hold of her arm with one hand, pulling her roughly across the seat. "He made you mine," he growled, his wide eyes glittering dangerously. "You can't run from me. We got a bond,like him and the others. I'll always find you, so don't even try it."

Another car honked at them, and the killer let go of her to jerk the truck across both lanes of traffic. Maggie's stomach churned sickly, as much from the erratic driving as from her kidnapper's words.

"I'll show you soon," he muttered. "You won't even wanna run."

Maggie closed her eyes and curled her fingers around the seatbelt, trying to focus elsewhere. Her body ached all over, especially in the places that the killer had stabbed her, but when she felt around those areas there were no wounds. He hadn't lied; everything seemed to have healed, even her sore throat. But how? She reached up and touched the strange marking that the creature had cut into her skin, finding that it was nothing but a raised scar now.

"Hey, you wanna suck my dick?"

Maggie's head turned toward the killer so quickly that her neck popped. He was grinning darkly at the road. He reached down and fumbled to unzip his jeans, casting a mischievous glance in her direction, and Maggie pressed herself as close to the truck door as her seatbelt would allow.

"Oh, come on!" he laughed when he saw the look of horror on her face. "It'll be fun-"

A siren whooped, and blue and red lights flashed in the rearview mirror. Maggie whipped around and saw a police car following them.

"Even better!" the killer crowed, zipping his jeans back up. Then, to Maggie's surprise, he threw on the truck's turn signal and began to slow down. They bumped clumsily over the rumble strip and stopped half off the road, the old truck's brakes screeching as they jerked to a stop. The police car parked a distance behind, and then an officer was stepping out with a flashlight in hand.

"You ready, Maggie May?" the killer said, watching the officer in the mirror. He reached over quickly and unbuckled her seatbelt, making her jump. He was grinning like a maniac. Maggie recoiled as he yanked the knife out of the seat, but he wasn't intending to stab her this time. Instead, he lifted her thigh and slid the blade under it to hide.

"You're gonna kill this one," he said, his dark eyes boring into hers. "You're gonna slit his throat and taste his blood for me." Maggie gaped at him as he sat back in his seat, the knife pressing cold and sharp against her bare flesh. The window squealed as the killer hand-cranked it open for the approaching officer.

The man shined the flashlight into the cab and peered at the killer. His eyes bugged out of his head.

"Evenin', officer," the lunatic said gleefully. "Was I speeding?"

The officer gawked harder as his light trained on the distraught-looking Maggie in her coating of blood. He immediately drew his sidearm and pointed it at the killer.

"Get out of the vehicle," he ordered, and the killer cackled and nodded. Maggie watched in disbelief as he amiably opened the truck door and hopped out, sending the officer scurrying back a couple of steps in surprise. Despite his lean figure the killer was a big guy, broad-shouldered and tall. The officer was shorter than him by a good six inches, and built more like a barrel.

"Is this good, officer?" the killer teased the man as he leaned over the truck hood and put his hands behind his back. The man cuffed him without a word and then shined his flashlight into the cab again. Maggie held a hand up to shield her eyes.

"That's my girl," the killer said proudly, having twisted his head to look through the windshield at Maggie. "I kidnapped her and stabbed her slut friend to death." The officer listened with a hard expression as the killer began cackling again, and then he spoke quickly into his radio. He moved over to the driver's side window.

"You stay where you are," the officer told Maggie firmly, and then he was hauling the killer off the hood and marching him toward his cruiser. The killer swayed drunkenly as he walked, and the smaller officer seemed to struggle to keep him moving in a straight line.

Maggie watched as the officer stuffed him into the cramped backseat of the cruiser. Just before the killer's white face disappeared, he shouted to her:

"Slice him! Rip him up and drink him!"

The officer barked something, and the killer howled with laughter. The officer slammed the cruiser door and came back to the truck, holding his radio to his mouth as he asked for an ambulance. His other hand rested on his gun.

Maggie turned back around and stared blankly out the dirty windshield, still not entirely believing what had just happened. The crazy idiot had just handed himself over to the police, and why? Because he thought that he could make her stab the police officer?

"All right, ma'am," the officer said, coming up at a safe distance on her side of the truck. "Go ahead and open your door for me, then step out slow."

Maggie reached for the door handle, then faltered. A lot of freaky shit had happened since she'd met the killer. She'd fucking died, for Christ's sakes, and come back to life. Or… whatever her existence was now. She moved on the seat, and the knife shifted smoothly under her leg. What if he could make her hurt someone?

An unpleasant sensation, like a burning itch, started in the back of her skull at the thought of stabbing the officer.

"Ma'am? I need you to open the door now," the man called again.

Maggie reached up and scratched at her head, trying to drive the feeling away. It only made it worse. She rubbed at the spot, cringing when the police officer shined his flashlight at her again; it sent stabbing pains into her eyes, and it all made the itch redouble.

"Open the door!" the officer shouted, weapon drawn now.

"I can't!" Maggie croaked, scratching and rubbing at the itch she couldn't reach. God, it hurt so bad. She just wanted it to stop, anything, anything to make it stop.

Kill him.

The officer moved closer to the door and pulled it open himself; he almost gagged when he saw that the floorboard beneath Maggie's feet was stained dark with gore. "Are you all right?" he finally managed to ask, eyeing the panicking girl and looking for wounds. "How much of that is yours?"

"All of it!" Maggie screamed hoarsely, tearing at her hair now. It wasn't just an itch. There were things in there, like fingernails scraping against her skull. Like bugs crawling over it. She had to get them out. The flashlight was too bright, and the man was standing too close. She didn't want him to touch her; she just knew it would make the pain worse. Him just standing there was making it unbearable.

Slice him.

"Hey, hey. Take it easy, you're safe now," the officer said as Maggie began to sob hysterically. "Can you walk? Here, let me-"

Maggie snatched the knife up and slashed at the man as he reached for her. The blade caught him across the face, and he yelped. Maggie leapt out at him like an animal, falling on top of him as he landed on his back in the dirt. She screamed and slashed wildly at his face and neck, fighting to keep him from pulling his gun in close enough to shoot her.

Far away it seemed, she could hear the killer hooting and rocking the police cruiser in a frenzy.

The officer grabbed blindly, blood coursing into his one good eye, until he took hold of her face. He clawed for Maggie's eyes, desperately trying to deter any more knife swings, but she was wild now; she could feel the awful vibrations of the scratching against her bones, and only one thing would stop it.

Slit his throat and taste his blood.

Maggie screamed as the officer's nails gouged her cheek. She drove the knife down in a stabbing motion and felt a solid resistance. The officer's hand tightened on her face, and then was quickly snatched away. She looked down and saw the man clawing at the knife embedded in the cartilage of his throat. He gurgled, blood welling up around the wound and running from the corners of his lips. His teeth were washed red.

Maggie sat on top of him and stared, feeling his chest hitch under her as his lungs filled up. She could remember what that felt like, and she would have cried for the man and for what she had done to him if the itch hadn't miraculously gone away. She touched the back of her head gingerly, and her fingers came away red. She had scratched herself bloody.

There was a sharp crashing sound, like glass shattering, and then the thud of something hitting pavement. Maggie got off of the man, staggering backward to lean against the truck. She stared at the corpse, an arm wrapped around her middle, until the killer's shape cut through the police cruiser's headlights. There were bits of glass in his hoodie as he came over and stood near the body. He smiled at it, his eyes burning with a wicked light, and licked his lips. Then, he turned to Maggie.

She dropped her eyes to the ground as he walked over and stood too close. When she chanced to look upward, she saw that the light in the killer's eyes had changed somewhat. He was staring at her with the same smoldering intensity, but there was a hungry glint there that did a fine job reminding her that she was wearing nothing but a half-shredded set of pajamas. Finally, when she thought she could take no more of the heavy silence, the killer gave a raspy chuckle.

"Not bad, babe," he said. "Not bad at all. Now, get the keys for me."

Maggie looked at him, his hands still cuffed behind his back, then pushed away from the truck and went obediently over to the officer. She moved quickly, reality beginning to set in as she unclipped the keys from the dead officer's belt and brought them to the killer; she was a murderer now. It wouldn't surprise her if the police cruiser's camera had caught everything.

The killer smirked and turned around, holding his hands out for her as she approached with the keys. She fumbled the lock several times, her hands beginning to shake as she wondered what exactly the justice system did to cop-murderers, and the killer fidgeted impatiently. When he was free, he shook the cuffs off and went over to retrieve the officer's gun, taser, and the knife stuck in his throat. He handed the last thing to Maggie and then eyed her up and down again.

"Felt good, didn't it?" he said, smirking now.

"It made it go away," was all Maggie could manage. The killer nodded understandingly.

"Yeah," he said. "The itch. I got it too, now. Come on."

Maggie let him take her arm and pull her over to the truck. He opened the door for her and she climbed in, the bloodied knife slick in her hands.

They exited the highway and took to the backroads that snaked out into the country. It would be difficult for the police to find them out here, but the killer was still intent on stopping somewhere. Maggie could almost hear him grinding his teeth, and he'd snatched the knife away from her so that he could stab it repeatedly into the seat beside him. She didn't pay much attention; her mind had long since fallen into shock, and only the vaguest of thoughts came to her. When they were almost an hour out into the country, though, the radio cleared a little and the killer turned the volume up to blast some song about sex and violence. The noise had been enough to shake her awake and sharpen her thoughts, and she started to cry softly.

She was a murderer on the run with her kidnapper. She was dead, or some form of it. She couldn't run away because the killer would find her, and she couldn't go home because he could follow her and hurt her family.

She let out a particularly despairing sob and the killer glanced over at her, finally noticing her tears. He squeezed the knife in his hand.

"The fuck's wrong with you?" he demanded. "You itchin' again?"

Maggie hid her face in her hands, trying to quiet her crying. The killer made an amused tch sound and cranked the radio up louder, drumming the knife handle against the steering wheel. He was driving too fast, and the music was too loud.

"It hurts," Maggie moaned, covering her ears. She didn't see the way the killer was scoping out a clearing in the trees alongside the road. There was a driveway there, a nice paved one. The truck began to slow down.

"It only hurts at first," the killer said absently, eying the driveway. "It's a lot like fucking. You ever fucked anyone, Maggie May?"

Maggie was slung into the door as the killer turned into the paved drive too quickly, and the liquor bottle rolled into the floorboard, emptying its contents everywhere. The killer flicked the headlights off and tapped the brakes so as not to set them to screeching, and then they were rolling down the long drive. The trees were thick and uncleared on this property, shielding them and the big house up ahead from the road.

Most of the windows in the house were lit, and Maggie could just barely make out the shapes of people moving around inside one of the rooms on the first floor. The truck swayed and groaned as the killer turned off the drive and rolled slowly over the grass to park between a small barn and the edge of the woods. He killed the engine, and the thumping metal music died with it. A high-pitched tone rang in her ears.

Maggie watched as the killer pulled a second knife out from under his seat, the creaking of the leather loud in the sudden heavy quiet. This knife was smaller than the one he held in his other hand.

"Here," he said, holding the blade end out to her. Maggie hesitated and the killer made an impatient sound. She took it carefully.

The killer was already out of the truck when she was unbuckling her seatbelt, and he more or less wrenched her door open to drag her out. He was grinding his teeth hard now, breathing heavily. Maggie wondered just how much his "itch" was like hers.

They crept across the yard, keeping out of the spray of light around the front door and garage. The killer was still pretty drunk, and he zigzagged a little as he moved. Maggie kept a few paces behind him, not at all eager or intending to take any part in what was about to happen. It was cold, but her palms were sweating.

Maggie followed as the killer stepped up onto the wooden porch, moving as silently in his sneakers as she did in her bare feet. The killer didn't so much as glance back at her as he went, ducking beneath windows until he'd reached a back door that led through a screened-in bit of porch. He slipped inside, finding another door that led into the house; it was unlocked.

Maggie stayed crouched by the porch door as the killer eased the other open, peering around carefully. She heard laughter, multiple voices. There was the sound of silverware scraping, a fire crackling.

"Come on," the killer whispered impatiently when he saw her hanging back. Maggie didn't move, and his mutilated mouth twisted into something of a frown.

Maggie expected him to grab her and haul her with him, so she was surprised when he crept inside and shut the door behind him. She swallowed thickly and sat further back in the shadows, listening. Her heart throbbed in her ears.

The dreaded sound came quicker than expected. Maggie clenched the knife in her hands, trembling as the screaming and crashing of furniture began. She heard the killer shouting and laughing, another man swearing. There was a higher-pitched scream that made her blood curdle, a dull thud, and then everything fell quiet.

Maggie shuffled backward, preparing to bolt as she heard footsteps coming toward the door. It swung open, revealing the killer. Bright, fresh blood splattered his clothes and face. The inside of Maggie's skull began to itch at the sight of it.

"C'mere," the killer said, his voice surprisingly low and calm. He held a hand out to her, and Maggie shook her head. The itch spread, and she couldn't stop herself from scratching. The killer snickered.

"You can't wait too long," he said. "Not yet. C'mere."

Maggie was still scratching as he came over and grabbed her by the arm. She smelled the blood on him, and her mouth gushed even as she cringed away. The killer didn't get angry with her when her legs gave out and she fell to her knees, retching at the heady, coppery stench of the gore, but chuckled darkly. He hauled her half-upright and dragged her into the house, across the parquet floor, and all the way to the dining room.

Maggie moaned as the invisible fingernails in her skull scored deep.

There were three people, two of them women and one a man, lying in dark pools of cooling blood. Maggie retched again as some dark, new part of her mind began to fantasize about running her tongue through one of those blood pools. The killer's arm vised tighter around her waist to keep her from falling to the floor as her knees buckled again.

"I saved one just for you," he said with a giggle, pointing out another previously unnoticed form in the corner. He dragged Maggie across the stained carpet to bring her close and kicked the person over onto their back.

It was a girl, a couple years younger than Maggie. Her hair was dyed a pale violet and there was a ring through the middle of her nose. Blood trickled from a swelling split over her temple.

Maggie stared at the girl as the killer knelt down with her. The itch was still burning, but it seemed somewhat mollified by the presence of all of the blood and… something else that she couldn't put her finger on. A thread of spit dripped in front of her, and she realized that her mouth was lolling open. The girl's skin looked so soft, so vulnerable.

The killer brought her hand up, and Maggie half-realized that he was showing her how to position her grip on her knife's handle so it wouldn't slip. She hadn't noticed that she was still squeezing the thing, and her fingers ached as the killer pried them loose to move them. He murmured as he instructed her, and his breath was hot on her neck. The fingers of his free hand, still wrapped around her waist, casually explored under her pajama top. Maggie shivered as his thumb brushed across the lower swell of her breast.

The itch kicked up again as the killer began laying her blade against the girl's skin, showing her 'the fun places to stick.' His fingers remained firmly curled around Maggie's when she tried to break his grip, and she made a desperate sound. She didn't want to hurt the unconscious girl, but that new, horrible part of her mind very much did. She needed to break free, get away from the girl before she couldn't stop herself.

But the killer wouldn't allow it. He wrestled her easily into a painful hold when she tried to stand up, and held her there. He grinned sadistically as she whimpered and tried to twist away from the girl, and then pushed her head down until her nose was hovering over the little puddle of blood that had gathered from the girl's head wound. The scent made her shudder, and she was only half-revolted to realize that her mouth was watering again.

"Go on, baby," the killer's rough voice purred. "Get a little taste."

And to Maggie's horror, her mouth opened right up. Before she could stop herself, she had dipped the tip of her tongue into the gleaming puddle and lapped the stuff up. She instinctively twisted her face into an expression of disgust when the sharp tang hit her taste buds. She wanted to spit and gag, but her body refused; her tongue curled in her mouth and she swallowed the blood right down. The dark place in her mind sang with a pleasure that she had never fathomed existed.

The killer let go of her then, slowly as though he didn't fully trust her, but Maggie didn't run. She hunched over, shivering and lapping her tongue over her teeth to taste every last hint of the girl's blood. The little puddle by her head wouldn't be enough. Maggie unconsciously squeezed the knife in her hand as the dark place in her demanded something hot, something fresh. Her skull began to itch again.

She was only vaguely aware when the killer got up and moved around to crouch on the other side of the girl. He giggled and made a violent stabbing gesture. Maggie saw the girl's eyelids flicker, and then they were open. The girl blinked almost dreamily up at her before she spotted the knife hovering over her heart. Her chest swelled.

The piercing shriek that tore out of the girl made Maggie scream herself. It was as though the sound was fueling the scraping, the burning, the sheer torture in the back of her skull. Maggie brought the knife down hard, and the blade sunk deep. The girl's shriek cranked up to an impossible octave, and Maggie yanked the knife back. She stabbed again, then again when the girl's screams didn't stop. Shiick. Shiick. Shiick. Shiick. Maggie felt blood on her face, stinging her eyes. She smelled it, too, and when it got in her mouth she didn't spit it out; it burned a coursing path down her throat as she swallowed.

At some point she realized that the itching had stopped, and that the only person making any noise anymore was the killer. He was laughing hysterically and rocking back and forth on his heels. His voice echoed in Maggie's skull as she felt the dark place in her mind go hazy, and then a strange and numbing pleasure was spreading through the rest of her consciousness. She realized she had stopped stabbing the girl's corpse, and she dropped her face in her hands. She cried and laughed all at once, sobbing as she inhaled and then laughing the breath out.

Maggie was wondering if she was losing her mind or if it was already gone when strong hands took hold of her shoulders and pulled her off of the girl. She was more laughing than crying now, and she took no note as the killer pushed her onto her back beside the girl's corpse. She only cackled as he tore the remaining shreds of her pajama shorts and underwear away.

The killer fumbled with his jeans until he'd pushed them down around his hips, and then he was hovering over her. Maggie stared up at him, her amusement fading as she read the feral lust in his expression. A part of her felt as though she should be scared, but she wasn't; the dark place was doing something to her, messing with her mind because she'd killed that girl. Maggie rolled her head to the left and looked at the corpse, expecting to be disgusted and brought to her senses. A shrill giggle escaped her lips instead, and there was no part of her that was able to feel anything that she should have.

The killer fucked her roughly on the bloody carpet, and Maggie didn't protest; the haze over her mind was mirroring his desires, making her want it as badly as he did. He was selfish, focusing purely on himself, but she didn't mind; she shamelessly ground her hips up against him, moaning and panting more, yes, harder. Her enthusiasm seemed to catch the killer by surprise at first, but then he acquiesced zealously, grunting and gripping her thighs hard enough to bruise. Maggie peaked once before the killer growled a curse, thrusting erratically, and went rigid. He leaned forward on his hands, resting on either side of her, and then bowed his head; his long hair brushed her skin as he panted softly.

Maggie gave a pained groan when he pulled out of her raw insides a moment later and zipped himself up. His eyes were deeply glazed now, as though every dark desire of his had been sated in short succession. He pushed himself up, rolling his shoulders lazily, and stepped carelessly over the corpses to wander into the kitchen.

Maggie lay on her back still, having followed the killer with her eyes as he disappeared. She felt sated, too, and for several long moments nothing in the world could have persuaded her to move. She was looking up at the ceiling, her mind blissfully empty, when a throbbing pain started up between her legs. She winced and shifted around, seeking relief from the steady ache, but it only grew worse. As the pain increased, the haze in her mind began to dissipate; it was quickly replaced by the natural anxiety and fear that she should have felt all along, and her body went rigid with shock.

Jesus Christ.

She sat up as quickly as her abused body would allow, suddenly and painfully aware of everything she had just done. The urge to vomit rose in her, but she could only retch and spit clear fluid; her stomach was empty.

It took her several moments to get a better hold of herself, and when she did she realized that she was half-naked. Deciding that she'd rather not tempt the killer into round two, she looked around frantically for her pajama bottoms. She found them easily enough; they were lying in the dead girl's blood, completely soaked and completely destroyed.

Footsteps made her look up, and she saw the killer standing in the kitchen doorway. He had a beer in each hand and was smiling at her.

"You prob'ly can't wear those anymore," he said, his gaze resting on the torn and bloodied pajamas. "Go upstairs and find something else. Like what she's wearin'." Maggie looked at the dead girl as he nodded in her direction, indicating her skirt and fashionable thigh-highs.

The killer watched with wicked amusement as she stood up on shaky legs, pulling her pajama top down as far as it would go to cover herself. As she was stepping gingerly from the room, the killer told her to put on some makeup, too. He liked the dead girl's makeup, and he instructed her to mimic it. Maggie left the room without a word.

The girl's bedroom door was open when Maggie climbed upstairs. A glittery lava lamp bathed the room in a pink glow, giving off enough light to barely see by, and Maggie decided against flipping the overhead light on; she didn't want to know anything about the person she'd killed, what sort of band posters she had on her walls, or what kind of pictures she took of herself and her friends. It would just make everything that much more difficult.

She went through the girl's dresser and closet until she found something that matched the killer's demands; a short skirt, a long-sleeved shirt, and a pair of tall socks. As she stripped out of her destroyed and bloodied clothing, she realized just how caked in gore she was herself. Bile rose in her throat, and she covered her mouth. She needed to bathe.

The girl had a private bathroom, complete with a shower, but Maggie didn't necessarily want to put herself in such a vulnerable position while the killer was around. She briefly entertained the idea of staying dirty and just putting on the clean clothes, but when she lifted her foot to step into the skirt, the blood crunching in the bend of her knee made her cringe.

She shut the bedroom door, thanking whatever god there might be that the thing had a lock, and went to the bathroom. She locked that door too, then climbed into the shower and cranked the heat up as high as she could stand. Blood ran off of her in rust-colored streaks.

Even though she'd never felt filthier in her life, the shower was one of the quickest ones Maggie had ever taken. Fearing that the killer would make his way upstairs if he heard the water running, she scrubbed herself so quickly and vigorously that she couldn't tell if the pink on her skin was bloodstains or her own irritated flesh. She listened constantly for the sound of the bedroom door being kicked in, freezing in place more than once when she thought she'd heard something.

The killer never kicked in the door, though, and Maggie daringly allowed herself time to towel her clean and scrubbed-raw flesh dry. The bedroom door was still closed and locked when she stepped out of the bathroom, and she could hear the TV on downstairs. Her heart lifted a little, and she went over to clothes lying on the bed.

The room upstairs was cold, and Maggie began to realize as she dressed just how miserable she was going to be in the outfit she'd picked; it was much colder outside, and she was already shivering. Granted, her hair was wet, but that didn't change how little insulation these clothe would offer. She was holding the skirt out and eyeing it distastefully when she heard the killer laugh downstairs, long and loud. He seemed to be in a good mood, and that emboldened her.

Tossing the clothes on the bed, Maggie went back to the closet and selected her own outfit for the cold weather. She knew that she would have to meet the killer in the middle, however, and so she kept the insulated thigh-highs.

The killer was splayed out on the couch, watching some badly animated show with gratuitous amounts of gore. He glanced up when Maggie came downstairs, and then his attention was all on her. He put his beer down on the coffee table.

"That's not what I told you to wear," he said with a frown. He turned fully around on the couch and eyed her outfit darkly.

She was wearing the thigh-highs, as instructed, and she'd done her makeup in the showy fashion of the dead girl's lavender lipstick and winged eyeliner, but she was wearing a sweater-dress instead of a skirt. The black, baggy sweater was thick and warm, and it was the only thing Maggie could find that met the killer's requirements halfway. Her legs would still be uncomfortably cool, but she was much better off than she would be in a flimsy skirt.

"I tried some skirts on," Maggie lied, "but none of them fit." The killer tilted his chin up at her, his sharp eyes reading her face carefully. Maggie shifted nervously in leather boots that truly were a half-size too small, fearful that he would see through her and react badly.

"I guess that's all right, then," the killer mumbled, and she almost fainted with relief. He gestured at her to come closer, and she hesitantly obeyed until she was standing no more than a foot from him. Still seated, the killer reached out and stroked the gap of skin showing between her insulated socks and the sweater's hem. Maggie clenched her teeth.

"Yeah," he said, more to himself than her. He put his hands on her hips and turned her around, scrutinizing every inch of her. Maggie tensed when he pulled the sweater's hem up and ogled her underwear. She hadn't been able to find anything as modest as she would have liked in that girl's dresser, and so she was wearing lacy red boy-shorts. The killer slipped a finger under the panties and ran it along the curve of her asscheek, inciting an unwelcome shiver in her.

"Yeah, I'll let you wear it," he said, drawing back at last. Maggie pulled the sweater down and made to move away, but the killer's hand flashed out and snagged her wrist. He pulled her in front of him again and read the white letters printed across her chest:

" 'SATAN IS A'WAITIN,' " he said aloud. He burst out laughing and let go of her, reclining back on the couch and cracking open another beer. "Go eat something," he told her, still chuckling in his gritty voice. "We're leavin' soon."

Maggie stared at the back of the killer's head as he stretched a long arm across the couch back and crossed his feet on the coffee table. She went into the kitchen then, taking the long way around to avoid dining room, and stood in the dark for several minutes. She wasn't hungry, but she couldn't remember the last time she had eaten. She wasn't even sure if she needed to eat, being dead or some form of it, but the killer had told her to do so. Slowly, grudgingly, Maggie dug out some bread and cold cuts to make a sandwich.

"Pack some stuff, too!" the killer's muffled voice reached her.

Maggie mechanically ate half of her sandwich, then set about collecting canned food and bottled water. There was a backpack on the little table in the breakfast nook, its Hello Kitty pattern suggesting that it belonged to the dead pastel goth girl; Maggie dumped all of the foodstuffs it, then stopped to think. She took the backpack and went upstairs, creeping quietly so as to not attract the killer's attention, and collected a hairbrush and some other toiletries. In all of the insanity going on around her, it was grounding to think about using a hairbrush.

"Maggie May," the killer called ominously from downstairs, and she hurriedly gathered everything up. The killer was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, his arms crossed. He was tapping a knife against his bloody sleeve.

"I was just getting some things," Maggie said quickly, apprehensive of the way he was looking at her. His dangerous expression softened somewhat when he saw the cartoon-themed backpack slung over her shoulder.

"Well, aren't you fuckin' precious?" he purred, the grit in his voice making it sound more like a growl. Maggie decidedly quickly that she preferred the murderous look he had been giving her moments earlier. His eyes trailed hungrily over her figure, and she felt dread welling up in her chest.

"I need to pack the beer for you," she said suddenly, and the killer raised his eyes to her face again. "You want me to pack that, right?" The killer watched her for a moment, his gaze suddenly hard, and she held her breath. Had she said the wrong thing? He drank like a fucking fish, from what she saw. It would be her luck, though, that now would be the time that he took offense to someone noticing…

She exhaled shakily as the killer stepped away from the stairs and nodded for her to go into the kitchen. She slipped past him, but her chest tightened when she heard footsteps behind her. She had been hoping that he would go back to the couch, but she wasn't so lucky; she'd aroused his suspicion by sneaking upstairs, and now he was following her.

"It's awfully thoughtful of you," he said over her shoulder as they stepped into the kitchen. Maggie didn't turn on the light, and neither did the killer. She went over to the fridge and grabbed the remaining two cans of beer with shaking hands; her skin was so chilled that they hardly felt cold.

"I figured you would want me to pack it," she muttered, not trusting her voice if she raised it any louder. The killer stood directly behind her as she knelt down and put the beer into the backpack.

"I want you to stand up," he said flatly. Maggie froze fearfully in place, hesitating just long enough to incite the killer's temper. He grabbed her by her hair and pulled her upright.

"Walk over to that table," he ordered, pushing her toward the breakfast nook. Maggie nervously did as she was told, then turned around to face him. Even in the dark, the expression on his face easily suggested that he was about to do something terrible to her.

"Bend over it."

Maggie's lip quivered. She hesitated only until he began stalking toward her, and then she sobbed and whirled around to drop her elbows onto the table. The killer came quickly up behind her and forced her down hard, pushing her until she was lying on her front. He clasped the back of her neck with one hand and leaned his weight against her; he was hard through his jeans, and he pushed himself forcefully enough against her for her to know it.

"D'you want it, Maggie May?" he asked as she gripped the table, her eyes wide with terror. "I'd like to give it to you again. Or, maybe you want this instead?..."

Maggie cried out as she felt something cold and sharp press against the inside of her thigh, but it didn't cut. The killer stroked the flat of the knife up and down slowly, pressuring just hard enough to threaten a slice before moving along. Maggie held breathlessly still, her body rigid with fear.

"Please," she began, but the killer cut her off.

"I can do whatever I want to you," he said darkly. The statement wasn't edged with mockery, but said in all seriousness. It terrified her utterly. "I can cut you up and send you to sleep real slow, but you'll always come back to me. I can do it as many times as I like. You understand that, right?"

"Yes," Maggie said quickly, unable to keep from trembling now. She didn't actually understand at all, but she was willing to say anything to appease the killer in this moment. He seemed to sense this, because he slid the cold blade up to rest against her through her panties. Maggie bit back a scream.

"Repeat after me, Maggie May," the killer said softly. "'I am your proxy.'"

"I'm your proxy," Maggie gasped.

"'I will never run away.'"

"I'll never run away-

"'And I will do everything you tell me, right when you tell me.'"

"I'll do everything you tell me, right when you tell me!"

The blade slid slowly upward, dangerously caressing the curve of her ass, and then it was gone.

"Good girl," the killer said. He released her and moved away. Maggie pushed herself slowly upright and turned around, her entire body slicked with a film of cold sweat. The killer was picking the backpack up. He brought it over to her and told her to put it on, his tone and body language daring her to do otherwise. She put the backpack on without hesitation.

They left the house immediately after, the killer still carrying the knife in his hand. He slashed idly at the air as Maggie walked beside him, where he had directed her to. The tightly-packed bag over her shoulder was already threatening to start an ache.

The killer led her around the back of the house and started purposefully toward the woods. Maggie didn't understand why they weren't going back to the truck, but she didn't say a word. It wasn't like she had any sort of choice. Hiking the backpack higher, she crunched through the dead leaves alongside her kidnapper. A cold wind blew her damp hair around, setting her to shivering.

"Y'know," the psychopath said suddenly, "you didn't say thank you earlier. In the kitchen."

"Thank you," Maggie said as sincerely as she could.

"Thank you, what?"

"Thank you, sir." The killer startled her by throwing his head back and laughing harshly.

"Fuck, babygirl," he said with a chuckle. "Call me Jeff."

Leave a review and then look up some trailers for the Jeff the Killer movie. Fingers crossed they get the funding and have the talent to make something good of it all.