Status: One shot.
Death's Fourth
can you count to four, my darling?
One, two, three, four.
Four footsteps behind me, then nothing. The footsteps are soft, bare feet against concrete but I know he’s making them loud enough for me to hear on purpose. My heart is beating in my chest, thumping rhythms against my skin. My own footsteps are louder, panicky, frantic – I’m almost but not quite running, keeping a pace to let him know he doesn’t scare me and I’m not going to run. The only thing is, he does scare me. And I’m pretty sure he knows.
He walks behind me in a pattern and I don’t turn my head to find out what he looks like. Four footsteps. Maybe I wouldn’t have been so paranoid to even count the number of steps someone makes, if I hadn’t have been haunted by the number four for the last few weeks. A tear runs down my cheek.
Another four footsteps behind me and I speed up my pace a little more. Memories of things I’d rather forget flood into my mind, blocking my vision for just a moment. I remember the four dead birds laid out on my bed. The four leaves sticky-taped to the window of my car. The four notes with spindly handwriting on them, declaring in blue ink that death was following me. The package sent from no one, containing a necklace with four blood red beads on it.
Each thing disturbed me, sent a shiver up my back. Even now as I'm walking and walking and walking, I still feel that familiar shiver, a fear deep inside my heart beating with an urgency. My breath catches in my throat and a stitch forms in my side but I can't stop, not for a second. I know if I breathe properly, my stitch will slowly fade away.
One, two, three, four.
He's taking four steps at a time, with a four second pause, I've just noticed. I suddenly wonder if he's really a he – I’ve always thought of him as a he, but what if he's a she? Now, I'm confused so I settle myself with just calling him a he. My mind seems to focus on trivial things when I'm scared and panicked.
I pass houses with lights peeking through curtain-covered windows. I guess that the flickering lights could possibly be from televisions and the solid lights from light bulbs. I choke down a sob, thinking of how normal these things are while I’m out on a dark street, trying not to panic and run from the creepy person behind me. All I want to do is go home, but there’s no one and nothing waiting for me there and I wouldn’t feel any safer.
Maybe he’s falling behind because my pace is so much faster than his four-steps-four-seconds-pause. But he always seems to keep up with me, despite the differences in our steps. Maybe I’m walking slower than I realised, yet when I look to my feet, the footpath is rushing beneath them. Like I’m running. Like the world is disappearing behind me.
It’s scary and the breath I take in is so sharp, there’s a pain in my chest. I have to stop. I do, my footsteps becoming nothing and my breath beginning to grow sharper, despite having only been walking. It’s fear. There’s so much fear, my body keeps freezing up and my mind is too slow and my heart is beating too fast and my breathing is too sharp.
One, two, three, four.
A sob erupts from my throat and I silently give up, no more nearly-running, no more trying to control my fear. I sink to my knees on the slightly damp footpath, remnants of rain soaking into the fabric around my knees. He must have seen me stop and fall because his rhythmic steps stop too. And then he speaks: “Death is following you.” My eyes close in despair; four words. He speaks in four as well, or maybe it’s just a coincidence.
“Yeah, I figured,” I say through gritted teeth, trying to keep a scream stuffed down my throat. Another four steps behind me and I think I can feel his breath on my exposed neck, my hair falling to the sides of my face. Horrified thoughts flutter through my mind at a pace that makes me feel dizzy and light-headed. Maybe if I faint, my death won’t be painful.
“It is not me.” His voice is soft, almost kind, not the voice I’d put on a potential killer. But who really knows what a killer’s voice sounds like? Many people don’t survive to tell you. I probably won’t survive to tell anyone anything. This will be my last night; I don’t know how I know he’d kill me tonight but I did. Or maybe I’d die another way, but how unlikely is that?
I almost laugh when he said it isn't him. A lie like that is pathetic; does he think it'll make me trust him or something? I don't know and to be honest, I'm not sure I really want to know what goes on inside his head. Maybe just a bunch of random fours fluttering around, but that would almost make him not human. Then again, how human can a murderer be?
One, two, three, four.
Now he’s right behind me and I can see his shadow cast by a streetlight. “You’re lying, aren’t you?” I spit out, painfully aware that I just spoke in four as well. He snickers behind me, cruelty laced into it as delicately as a spider web. That’s what I would put on a killer, that snicker that held more than words could say.
“Yes, yes, I am,” he says, his voice cheerful, giving me an unnecessary answer. I already knew, already accepted my death. I would rather die a different way, not murdered by some psychopath who loves the number four too much. I guess it’s better than being hit over the head with something stupid. Or the other strange deaths I can think of.
“At least let me know who you are,” I whisper. Somewhere in my mind, I remember most murderers know their victims and I wonder if I’ll feel the stings of betrayal. Or am I one of those few unlucky people who are randomly murdered by being in the wrong place at the wrong time?
He turns me around and my mouth falls open in surprise. It’s him. He, who held my hand and stole my first kiss. He, who had promised me he’d do anything for me and that he’d never hurt me on purpose and that he’d love me forever. He, who had recently asked me to marry him on the fourth of April next year, in 2004. He grins at me, noticing my hurt – agonised – expression. “I might regret this.”
One, two, three, four.
The neighbourhood lights up as the four shots ring out but they are too late to save the girl, too late to catch the killer who’s run off to find his next victim. His last words to his fiancée, though her ears can’t hear them, are, “Goodnight, my darling, goodnight.”
Four footsteps behind me, then nothing. The footsteps are soft, bare feet against concrete but I know he’s making them loud enough for me to hear on purpose. My heart is beating in my chest, thumping rhythms against my skin. My own footsteps are louder, panicky, frantic – I’m almost but not quite running, keeping a pace to let him know he doesn’t scare me and I’m not going to run. The only thing is, he does scare me. And I’m pretty sure he knows.
He walks behind me in a pattern and I don’t turn my head to find out what he looks like. Four footsteps. Maybe I wouldn’t have been so paranoid to even count the number of steps someone makes, if I hadn’t have been haunted by the number four for the last few weeks. A tear runs down my cheek.
Another four footsteps behind me and I speed up my pace a little more. Memories of things I’d rather forget flood into my mind, blocking my vision for just a moment. I remember the four dead birds laid out on my bed. The four leaves sticky-taped to the window of my car. The four notes with spindly handwriting on them, declaring in blue ink that death was following me. The package sent from no one, containing a necklace with four blood red beads on it.
Each thing disturbed me, sent a shiver up my back. Even now as I'm walking and walking and walking, I still feel that familiar shiver, a fear deep inside my heart beating with an urgency. My breath catches in my throat and a stitch forms in my side but I can't stop, not for a second. I know if I breathe properly, my stitch will slowly fade away.
One, two, three, four.
He's taking four steps at a time, with a four second pause, I've just noticed. I suddenly wonder if he's really a he – I’ve always thought of him as a he, but what if he's a she? Now, I'm confused so I settle myself with just calling him a he. My mind seems to focus on trivial things when I'm scared and panicked.
I pass houses with lights peeking through curtain-covered windows. I guess that the flickering lights could possibly be from televisions and the solid lights from light bulbs. I choke down a sob, thinking of how normal these things are while I’m out on a dark street, trying not to panic and run from the creepy person behind me. All I want to do is go home, but there’s no one and nothing waiting for me there and I wouldn’t feel any safer.
Maybe he’s falling behind because my pace is so much faster than his four-steps-four-seconds-pause. But he always seems to keep up with me, despite the differences in our steps. Maybe I’m walking slower than I realised, yet when I look to my feet, the footpath is rushing beneath them. Like I’m running. Like the world is disappearing behind me.
It’s scary and the breath I take in is so sharp, there’s a pain in my chest. I have to stop. I do, my footsteps becoming nothing and my breath beginning to grow sharper, despite having only been walking. It’s fear. There’s so much fear, my body keeps freezing up and my mind is too slow and my heart is beating too fast and my breathing is too sharp.
One, two, three, four.
A sob erupts from my throat and I silently give up, no more nearly-running, no more trying to control my fear. I sink to my knees on the slightly damp footpath, remnants of rain soaking into the fabric around my knees. He must have seen me stop and fall because his rhythmic steps stop too. And then he speaks: “Death is following you.” My eyes close in despair; four words. He speaks in four as well, or maybe it’s just a coincidence.
“Yeah, I figured,” I say through gritted teeth, trying to keep a scream stuffed down my throat. Another four steps behind me and I think I can feel his breath on my exposed neck, my hair falling to the sides of my face. Horrified thoughts flutter through my mind at a pace that makes me feel dizzy and light-headed. Maybe if I faint, my death won’t be painful.
“It is not me.” His voice is soft, almost kind, not the voice I’d put on a potential killer. But who really knows what a killer’s voice sounds like? Many people don’t survive to tell you. I probably won’t survive to tell anyone anything. This will be my last night; I don’t know how I know he’d kill me tonight but I did. Or maybe I’d die another way, but how unlikely is that?
I almost laugh when he said it isn't him. A lie like that is pathetic; does he think it'll make me trust him or something? I don't know and to be honest, I'm not sure I really want to know what goes on inside his head. Maybe just a bunch of random fours fluttering around, but that would almost make him not human. Then again, how human can a murderer be?
One, two, three, four.
Now he’s right behind me and I can see his shadow cast by a streetlight. “You’re lying, aren’t you?” I spit out, painfully aware that I just spoke in four as well. He snickers behind me, cruelty laced into it as delicately as a spider web. That’s what I would put on a killer, that snicker that held more than words could say.
“Yes, yes, I am,” he says, his voice cheerful, giving me an unnecessary answer. I already knew, already accepted my death. I would rather die a different way, not murdered by some psychopath who loves the number four too much. I guess it’s better than being hit over the head with something stupid. Or the other strange deaths I can think of.
“At least let me know who you are,” I whisper. Somewhere in my mind, I remember most murderers know their victims and I wonder if I’ll feel the stings of betrayal. Or am I one of those few unlucky people who are randomly murdered by being in the wrong place at the wrong time?
He turns me around and my mouth falls open in surprise. It’s him. He, who held my hand and stole my first kiss. He, who had promised me he’d do anything for me and that he’d never hurt me on purpose and that he’d love me forever. He, who had recently asked me to marry him on the fourth of April next year, in 2004. He grins at me, noticing my hurt – agonised – expression. “I might regret this.”
One, two, three, four.
The neighbourhood lights up as the four shots ring out but they are too late to save the girl, too late to catch the killer who’s run off to find his next victim. His last words to his fiancée, though her ears can’t hear them, are, “Goodnight, my darling, goodnight.”