Angel Face
“Mommy?” I called.
No response.
“Mommy!”
Again, nothing. I trudged to the sidewalk to get out of the street and I kept calling for her with tears streaming down my face. It was cold and dark out in New York, about eight at night. A man in a dark trench coat approached me.
“You lost your mom, kid?” he asked me.
“Yes,” I said anxiously.
“I can help you find her,” he said. “I passed you guys by the seven eleven down the street earlier and I recognized her walking past me a minute or two ago. I’ll drive you to her, how does that sound?”
“Good,” I mumbled through my stuffy nose. I followed him down two blocks to his car parked on the side of the road. It was a toned-down car; a black supra with tinted windows and rear window louvers. He unlocked the car and instructed me to get in the backseat directly behind him. He locked the doors once we both got in.
“Give me a second,” he said in a raspy voice. He picked up his phone and made a call. After a few rings, someone picked up. “Yeah man,” he said. “I got one.” He ended the call shortly and reached into his duffle bag in the passenger seat next to him. He moved a silver machete to the side and pulled out a mask. It was white with a black outline around the eye holes, the eyes themselves were colored black, and there was red splattered across it all. I recognized the mask from what I had glanced at on the news.
“Angel Face,” I said in shock. He looked back at me.
“Shut up.” He started the car and drove off. A few minutes passed and another glance at the machete told me to stay put.
An hour passed and we arrived at a dark shack. He stepped out of the car first and ripped me from the backseat, machete against my back. I didn’t know where I was. He walked me around the back and I heard noises of a chainsaw. There were other people here. He walked me into an open room, sort of like a garage without the door. He sat me down on a wooden stool and told me not to move; he walked out. I looked around the room; there was dried blood around my feet on the dusty concrete and blood on the stool he sat me on. I knew what was going to happen if I listened to him. I ran.
I darted from the shack, chainsaws ringing behind me. I ran for the trees when a dark figure came from behind one. He too held a chainsaw. I tried to turn but I tripped up into the tree and the figure towered over me.
“It’s not my job but I guess it's my lucky day,” he said. I screamed in terror as the chainsaw neared my neck.
No response.
“Mommy!”
Again, nothing. I trudged to the sidewalk to get out of the street and I kept calling for her with tears streaming down my face. It was cold and dark out in New York, about eight at night. A man in a dark trench coat approached me.
“You lost your mom, kid?” he asked me.
“Yes,” I said anxiously.
“I can help you find her,” he said. “I passed you guys by the seven eleven down the street earlier and I recognized her walking past me a minute or two ago. I’ll drive you to her, how does that sound?”
“Good,” I mumbled through my stuffy nose. I followed him down two blocks to his car parked on the side of the road. It was a toned-down car; a black supra with tinted windows and rear window louvers. He unlocked the car and instructed me to get in the backseat directly behind him. He locked the doors once we both got in.
“Give me a second,” he said in a raspy voice. He picked up his phone and made a call. After a few rings, someone picked up. “Yeah man,” he said. “I got one.” He ended the call shortly and reached into his duffle bag in the passenger seat next to him. He moved a silver machete to the side and pulled out a mask. It was white with a black outline around the eye holes, the eyes themselves were colored black, and there was red splattered across it all. I recognized the mask from what I had glanced at on the news.
“Angel Face,” I said in shock. He looked back at me.
“Shut up.” He started the car and drove off. A few minutes passed and another glance at the machete told me to stay put.
An hour passed and we arrived at a dark shack. He stepped out of the car first and ripped me from the backseat, machete against my back. I didn’t know where I was. He walked me around the back and I heard noises of a chainsaw. There were other people here. He walked me into an open room, sort of like a garage without the door. He sat me down on a wooden stool and told me not to move; he walked out. I looked around the room; there was dried blood around my feet on the dusty concrete and blood on the stool he sat me on. I knew what was going to happen if I listened to him. I ran.
I darted from the shack, chainsaws ringing behind me. I ran for the trees when a dark figure came from behind one. He too held a chainsaw. I tried to turn but I tripped up into the tree and the figure towered over me.
“It’s not my job but I guess it's my lucky day,” he said. I screamed in terror as the chainsaw neared my neck.