J.H.F. Ch 0-7

Juanita Horror Files

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Prologue

One day, a girl was heading home.

On her usual path through alley streets, she did not expect that someone was waiting, watching. When she first felt the hands curl around her shoulders, yanking her into the darkness of a garage, she screamed. Her scream was muffled as she was tossed through open doors into the back of a van.

The girl breathed heavily, trying to gather her bearings, but it was too late. Trembling, her wrists were forced together by rope. The tightly tied rope would, in time, cause welts upon her skin. Leashed to a metal bar built into the van’s floor, soon everything went pitch black as the doors closed.

Her predator was unknown, but she knew it was a he. How could it not be? He was tall, big with a wide chest, but small hands. Desperate, she curled against the rod, pulling at the rope, biting at the threads. As the vehicle turned on, a faint green glow rose from the driver’s dash. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

The engine rumbled as the van began to drive. She didn’t need to ask where they were going or where she was being taken. She, also, didn’t need to ask what he was going to do with her. The answers to these questions seemed more than obvious. It was useless to ask. Struggling with the thick rope, her sobbing was drowned out by the lively tune of Country Radio. A local station, one she hated. Crying louder, it did not matter. Nothing could drown out the music of Carrie Underwood.

About an hour passed before she had grown tired, her wrists dripping blood and her mouth sore from biting the restraints. She had gotten exactly nowhere except for frayed bits and threads between her teeth. The drive had become smooth when they took to the highway. Wherever they were going, it was far away from where she lived.

Lying in the pitch-black darkness, except for the green glow and the occasional flash of golden light from randomly placed streetlamps, she thought about her life. She did not want to think of the doom that awaited her. Thinking about all of the things she had done, and all of the things she still wished to do, it was amazing she still had tears to cry.

But she did.

The tears soaked into the thin hoodie sweater she wore. As she recapitulated, she realized her backpack had been taken from her, left at the garage. With it was her cellphone and wallet. She had nothing, no identification and no communication. If she were spiritual, perhaps she would pray. Pray that the driver would need to take a piss at a gas station, or get hungry enough to go to a drive-through.

And though she did not believe in an entity called God, she began to plead with the unknown. Please, the word ran through her head. Begging and pleading, internally on her knees, calling for something her parents had taught her was never there. The country music got louder, the twang of the guitar rattling the girl’s thoughts.

She made promises, she made bets, and she even made threats, begging for anything, anyone to help her.

For if there was ever a moment in her life to prove the existence of the otherworldly, of God, it would be now.

But no answer came.

No light shone from heaven and halted the car. No lightening struck the driver.

There wasn’t even a warm embrace from some divine vision. The girl was left in the darkness with her tears, banjos as her death march. Lying on the matted carpet of the van, she did feel warm though. Her stomach felt especially warm, a churning deep in her pelvis, as if heat was growing from inside.

She briefly recognized the feeling, having experienced it during morning yoga at school. The recognition faded as she returned to pleading in her mind though the words began to bubble up in tight whispers. It was getting hot, too hot. Only minutes passed before the girl felt as if she were on fire. Her skin burned with hidden heat, her stomach twisting from the sudden spike in temperature. Scrambling to her knees, she tugged on the bindings.

They did not give.

Frustration washed over her. Crying out loudly, she bounced against her knees, still trying to tug the bindings away from the metal bar. They strained, but still did not give. Her cries became louder, drowning out the twanging country music. There was a movement in the front of the van as the driver began to notice.

Placing her feet against the bar, she kicked away from it. This only succeeded in causing sharp pain to run through her shoulders. Louder and louder her cries became, the driver beginning to shout back in response. Shut up, he told her, shut up, shut up or else. She tried to ignore him, but she was too hot not to.

Her hoodie stuck to her skin as sweat dripped from her. It felt as if an explosion was occurring in the base of her spine. She briefly worried if she was going to piss herself or worse. The worry was quickly responded with a sharp ‘So What?’ for it was not a bad thing if she forced her captor to deal with such uncivilized behavior.

Rolling her head back as her joints burned, a dark shadow went in front of her face. The driver was shouting over her hoarse cries, his body twisted as he drove and pointed a gun at the screaming girl.

The girl stared at the gun, her shoulders sore as she struggled against the rope. Clanging her foot against the bar, a sudden realization hit her. If she were to die, at least it would be by her terms.

Turning her body towards the gun, she crouched low. Opening her mouth, she screamed. It begun quiet, but then grew as the heat within her channeled through the sound. The cry was deafening, hoarse, and the girl felt something change within her as she made it.

The gun shook in her general direction before lowering and disappearing out of sight. There was a screeching of tires and the country music halted as the engine was shut off. Slamming the door behind him, the driver disappeared. Panting rapidly, the girl looked to the doors then to her bindings. She yanked again, animalistic growls rising from her as she did.

As the back doors opened, the driver was ready with gun in hand. He was swearing, cursing and clearly not enjoying the company of his prey. Crawling into the van, he shut the doors behind him. It was dark and his eyes had to strain to see. When they finally adjusted, what he saw broke even his sick mind.

Reaching backwards with his free hand, he attempted to open the doors as he fired his gun once, twice, three times. The bullets disappeared into the front seats and through the bottom of the van. They hit nothing else.

Growling and screaming, twisted heat ran through the girl as she was freed from her bindings at last. The ropes laid in a mess of threads and blood. With a strong rush, she tackled the man to the floor of the van.

Yelling at him with alien ferocity, she taunted his attempt to kill her, to shoot her. Her hands gripped his head as she slammed it against the interior metal of the van. Driven into frenzy, her hands, her mouth, her legs, everything went into a flurry of bloodlust. Time ceased to exist as she tore the man apart. Whatever she was, it was not human. Inflamed by the darkest of inner fires, no longer was she the girl she was before.

It wasn’t until the familiar whoop-whoop of a police car that time returned to the van. The girl looked around wildly. A police car parked in front of the van, blocking its way back onto the highway. She was covered in blood. It sickened her, but at the same time, invigorated her.

Peeling off her sweater, she casted it aside finally, watching as the police officer approached from the front. He tapped his flashlight against the darkened windows, shining it into the empty, bullet-hole seats.

The officer seemed hesitant as he headed to check the back. Scrambling over the driver seat, the girl opened the door. As she silently tumbled out and began to run, the officer did not notice. She didn’t think to take the officer’s car, such human ideas a distant thought for her now. Instead, she ran off the jagged edge of the highway and into the nearby farmlands.

The officer was unaware of the escapee, focusing on the back doors and any sort of ambush that might be awaiting him. Opening the doors swiftly, he readied for a surprise attack, but none came. Instead, the limp body of a lifeless man fell out onto the pavement. Blood poured from the soaked carpet, dripping on top of the driver.

The officer balked at the ripped throat, the victim’s head barely hinged. Deep three-pronged claws marked the man’s chest like hatch work. Before the officer could think of radioing for back up, he was retching onto the corpse, the sickened nausea forcing its way up without care to the officer’s throat. Heaving, he squinted at a pink hoodie that lay, bloodied, in the center of the van’s floor. The paperwork that he would be doing seemed minimal to the nightmares that would plague his life from this day onwards.

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