Chapter 15 (Madhouse Funhouse)

    10:17 P.M.

    Lynette Silas

    I amble down the hallway, humming an easy tune. I am in no rush to catch Charlie. In fact, I want to make this night last as long as possible. Afterwards, I will attempt to get my hands on some alcohol and a promiscuous partner so as to finish the perfect evening. So far, this is turning out to be a spectacular day. I have not felt adrenaline rush through my veins in such a way for a long, long time. I have missed it greatly.

    The problem with Charlie begins to dawn on me. I cannot simply allow her to escape, of course. Obviously. I will have to deal with her accordingly, in whatever method is most fit… I have yet to determine it, though.

    I can hear a scream from far away—one filled with horror, pain and misery. Music to my ears.

    I pause. I listen. I hear footsteps coming down the hall, around the corner. Soft, gentle, and slow. Not Charlie, who seems to walk hurriedly even when she has nowhere to be; it must be one of the victims. Charlie must have freed them, for I ensured that all of my knots were tight enough to make escape on their impossible.

    I pull on blue rubber gloves from the cafeteria as the sound of limping footsteps draw near, around the corner. The comforting weight of the knife in my hand keeps my excitement grounded. I can feel the adrenaline and thrill rising in my chest.

    My hand lashes out automatically when James rounds the corner. The knife plunges deep into his stomach, right to the handle. He is too startled to make more noise than a small gasp of pain. The warmth spills over my hands. I pull my hand back.

    “You should have stayed with Charlie,” I say mildly.

    His knees buckle. He falls.

    The blood drips to the floor. I do like the colour red.

    Forty two.

    A rush of pleasure fills my veins when I see his wide, unseeing eyes. Five kills in one day. A record. It is nice to make up for lost time.

    I step carefully over the blood. I discard the reddened gloves. I have many pairs. I do not care about leaving behind my fingerprints. I want the authorities to know that it was me who did these things, not that idiotic Maxwell Correggio.

    I look to the funhouse mirror. It’s one of the ones that reflect me as I am and does not distort my reflection. I grin. The image in the mirror grins back.