ten. the milkman

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MAYBE KNIVES WEREN'T THE BEST IDEA

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MAYBE KNIVES WEREN'T THE BEST IDEA. Phoenix took the small ones and placed them in her pockets (despite knowing that this was a terrible idea and that she might accidentally stab her thighs, she didn't have any other choice) and held a long, butcher knife in her right hand.

She put another piece of chocolate in her mouth in an attempt to stop her hands from shaking. The glass windows in front of her were so wide that she could see every single thing coming from the front of the store, but the fact that someone might come any moment freaked her out.

You'll be okay, she reminded herself, taking in a few deep breaths. Sam is dying. Sam is dying. You'll be okay.

As she went to grab another piece of chocolate, a loud shuffling suddenly echoed throughout the room.

Peeking over one of the counters, her eyes widened when she sees nothing. That was definitely not a good sign.

Instead of freezing, Nixie walked further, now in front of one of the stock rooms. She knows the place like the back of her hand, at it was only now when she realized that there was an extra door that they always kept open in the back.

Phoenix just prayed to God that someone had shut it closed before they entered.

Her foot kicked something round, hollow, something which rolled away into the shadows. But she didn't care.

The door was open.

The sound of an ear-piercing scream echoed throughout the small area. It was the kind of scream that the ears just ignores but instead hits you right in the heart.

Kate.

As she was about to sprint to her friend, there was a sound. Someone was humming. Not singing, humming.

None of the killers they've encountered hummed.

The girl immediately went to her feet, running towards the exit of the storage room. Nixie couldn't tell where the steps were coming from. She quickened her pace, but the ground was uneven and she stumbled, crashing to the ground.

"Fuck." she mumbled to herself, letting a soft curse at the fact that the knives she stored in her pocket, in fact, wounded her thigh like she thought it would.

As she stood up, she started to run as limp as she could, ignoring the footsteps that were growing louder. Another creak, another shuffle, just down the corridor. Now only seconds away.

The moment she found the exit to the doors and just when she thought she was finally free, a man, his face disfigured, grabbed her by her shoulders and slammed her against a wall with so much brute force that she was sure her head was left bleeding.

The butcher knife fell down on the floor below her.

For fatal seconds, she stared, unable to think or move. And as she faltered, the jaws of the trap closed around her.

SCARLETT. fear street (1994, 1978, 1666 )Where stories live. Discover now