Read the Prologue for My Thriller 'The Final Boy'
The pitch for my thriller novel, The Final Boy, recently won Third Place in a contest hosted by the London Writers' Salon (you can read it here). And now, you can read the opening pages below. If you like what you read, feel free to reach out as I am seeking beta readers.
FIRST...
There was the screaming.
He could hear it from the courtyard, a young woman crying for help inside one of the apartments, followed by the sound of harsh strings of a violin, loud enough to reverberate off the walls of the enclosure. No neighbors seemed to have been stirred by the noise.
He made his way over to the apartment in the northwest corner, unit 103, and caught a flickering of light in the windows. The piercing orchestration intensified as he opened the screen door, its hinges shrieking in unison with the cries of the woman who appeared to be in peril.
Once he stepped inside, he saw the large glowing display of an ultra-high-definition television that was mounted to the wall, illuminating the dark room with a climactic scene in which a young Linda Blair was screaming and running from the hideously disfigured killer who butchered her friends in the creepy mansion where they were staying for the night. He knew this movie all too well.
Aside from the booming film score, the room was silent, all eyes focused on the screen. The inviting scent of baked goods and pizza still lingered in the air, but there was a palpable stillness that, he noticed, didn’t exist before.
He scanned the living room, his eyes adjusting to the dark. He tried to find what he came back for without disturbing the feature presentation. He stepped on a lump of something – a foot, a hand? – whispering apologies as he quietly circled the couch.
He caught a whiff of something else, a foreign odor that infiltrated the familiar mix of smells from the kitchen. He winced.
Something sour. Rotten.
Did no one else catch it? Everyone sat in their various spots, their bodies silhouetted against the large TV screen. In the movie, Linda Blair managed to jumpstart her getaway car, trying to escape the clutches of the madman who was still pursuing her.
He then noticed the three figures on the couch. The one on the right had his head tilted to the side. The one on the left was slumped forward. And the figure in the middle was leaning against his tilted-head companion. Had they fallen asleep? He was about to make a joke about them being up past their bedtime when he felt his foot land with a crunch. Looking down, he made out white specks on the hardwood floor. Popcorn. Lots of it. Apparently spilled from a bowl that landed a few feet from a dark heap of clothes on the floor.
A body. Facedown.
He stumbled backwards, bumping into the club chair that was occupied by another figure, one arm listlessly draped over the side, another head tilted back. On the hi-def screen, Linda Blair was frantically driving now, swerving down a road with the killer on the roof of the car, then crashing into the mansion gate, impaling the killer on a protruding metal spike.
That’s when he saw their pale faces in the glow of the TV. Mouths open in a silent scream, bits of food on their lips, each one with a dried dribble of something dark and thick.
Blood.
The scent of the stale popcorn was instantly replaced by the sour odor that was creeping its way throughout the rest of the room.
Breathe, he told himself. He tried to, coughing and gagging while doubled over. When he looked up, he spotted the sixth body slumped against the wall near the kitchen doorway.
He couldn’t tell if his eyes were fully adjusted to the dimly lit space, but now he saw everything clearly. What was once an inviting living room, full of cozy comforts and friendly company, had turned into a home theater for the dead.
He spun around.
Could this be a trick of some kind, a prank that was going to reveal itself at any moment? Did he walk into the wrong apartment?
No.
This was the same place, the same walls, the same familiar faces, yet all hideously different. He stopped turning and tried to steady himself in a wave of nausea.
Breathe. Just breathe.
But he couldn’t. He felt the darkness of the truth closing in on him.
So suffocating.
So relentless.
Meanwhile, on the large TV screen, the final scene came to an end, and the closing credits of Hell Night began to scroll.
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