And Then There Was One

The remaining NHL players survived the rest of the night, though none of them could sleep. They made it through the next day, still unsure of how to escape. They were nowhere close to solving the riddle-poem and figuring out who the killer was.

On top of that, everyone, including Val were super scared and the poor winger couldn’t shake the image of his teammate and linemate, horribly suffocated to death. Tyler didn’t deserve to die like that. He was a good man and a talented player. He shouldn’t have had to go through the horrible experience of having his life sucked away, with a bag.

And who would gag him with tape and then tie a plastic bag over his head like that? It was so cruel. Who would be doing this to them? Who? He wanted to know so badly.

The day had flashed by in a blur, with nothing happening. Maybe the killer couldn’t kill during the day? But as the sun set once more on the house and the evening came, the shadows eerily creeped onto the walls and the stormy weather once again raged outside. The torches were lit up once again. And the spookiness and uneasiness returned.

Outside of his bedroom window, lightning zapped the dry air of Evon. Wherever that was. It was their hell. Their death. A place to die. Val didn’t want to die. He wanted to play hockey with the Dallas Stars and live his life.

Val hugged the satin sheets to him, gazing around with worry, fear, and sadness. He missed the comfort of his teammate Tyler. And he was lonely. He was the last Dallas Star still alive. And he was ostracized by everyone else.

Come to think of it, only Ryan Kesler and Ryan Getzlaf spoke to one another kindly and Jonathan Toews and Patrick Kane. All the players were afraid and blaming the other enemies. They judged and because Val seemed like the outcast and, according to Sidney Crosby, like he was “faking not understanding what was going on and putting on a facade, so he could get away with killing.”

The frightened forward tried to close his eyes and drift off to sleep, but it wouldn’t come. He finally concluded that sleeping was pointless anyway. So, he ventured into the hallway and looked from one side to the other, attempting to be cautious. As turned his head down the hall, toward the library way at the right, he glimpsed a shadowy figure sneaking out of Drew Doughty’s room.

Drew is the killer! The last Dallas Star whispered to himself. Конечно! (Of course!)

Curiosity overtook the Russian-born player and he crept out and walked a few doors down and peered into Drew’s room. The person, whoever they were vanished into the shadows. Val didn’t even think to follow them, he wanted to confirm his suspicions first. He wasn’t to find Tyler’s killer. The King was still in his room, in his bed. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, gripping a bottle of pills. He was shaking, but he unscrewed the lid, carefully and extremely slowly.

“Hey, Doughts, what are you doing?” the Dallas Star questioned, walking in.

Drew turned to him, with tear-stained eyes. He clutched the bottle tightly and as Val got farther in, he could see about seven pills inside. The King began to sob and lifted the bottle to his lips and he tipped it backward.

The Russian winger stared in horror, as Drew Doughty fell backward on the bed, dropping the bottle to the floor. It hit the ground with a tap-tap noise. The defenseman’s eyes closed shut, instantly.

Val rushed to his side and felt his pulse. It was faint at first. And then there was no pulse at all. The Dallas Star leapt backward. He needed to get the others and tell them what had happened! Drew Doughty was dead! He was apparently given a lethal dose of chloral hydrate, a sleeping medication and he had been forced by the killer to digest the pills. All of them.

The blue eyed player whipped around, coming face-to-face with a completely black figure. He was dressed like a ninja and only his eyes shone. Familiar eyes at that, Val thought.

He froze in place at once, staring at the man. He was way too petrified at the moment to scream, and instead he just gulped, nervously. The man smirked and shook his head.

“You shouldn’t be so nosy, Nichy. Now you are going to have to pay!”

The man lifted his arm up and in his black, gloved fingers, dangled a gold chain. On the end, was a gold metal the size of a bottle cap. He began to swing it in front of Val’s face. Unknowingly, the Dallas player gazed at it, his vision locked on the circle that danced about the air.

He slowly became entranced, as the man whispered, “Val Nichushkin, you have meddled into my business. I do not appreciate that. When I stop swinging the chain, you will go into the kitchen, chop up some food from the guests and then take the knife and kill yourself.”

“Я понимаю! (I understand!)” Val spoke in Russian, dipping his head, as the man dropped the chain finally.

Immediately, Val walked past the man and out the door to the room. The man chuckled to himself, and followed the poor Dallas forward. Val appeared to be in a sleep walk, as he descended the stairs and walked into the kitchen.

Ryan Kesler woke up with a start. He was startled from his sleep by loud, booming chopping noises coming from somewhere in the house. He thought it had been in his nightmare. He had been dreaming that he was the latest victim of the murderer in the house and that he had his throat slashed across.

His hands immediately flew to his neck, but he found it was still there in one piece and nothing was out of the ordinary. The chopping noises continued, as he slowed his heart rate down and slid out of bed.

He ventured out into the hallway. He saw the others slowly emerging from their rooms too. Patrice Bergeron pointed, silently toward the stairs and they all clustered together and headed down the grand staircase.

At the bottom, the sounds were louder.

“It’s coming from the kitchen!” Patrick squeaked, rubbing his blue eyes.

Jonathan patted him on the shoulder. The blonde haired forward nestled his head on his captain’s shoulder. “Uh, you guys go ahead and check it out, I’m going to stay here with Kaner. Poor guy’s tired!”

“Suit yourself. But don’t move! I swear if either of you Chicago Blackhawks are the killer, so help me...I will beat you within an inch of your life!” Ryan Getzlaf growled.

Sidney folded his arms, glaring at the Blackhawks. He rolled his eyes and followed the others into the kitchen.

They found Val Nichushkin, with his back to them. He was chopping up a big Thanksgiving turkey with a large butcher’s knife. It was a fancy weapon with a black handle and sharp blade. He didn’t turn to them, he continued in his chopping, getting near the end.

“Nichy, man, of all times, you are hungry at two o’clock in the morning?” Sidney scoffed, before getting a hard slap across the back of the head from the Anaheim Duck captain.

Ryan Kesler stepped forward. “Val, you need to come back to bed. We can’t leave you alone out here, in here, with a killer-murderer loose.”

The Dallas Star didn’t move an inch.

“Val, we’re sorry about Tyler, but please, stop. You could hurt yourself!” Patrice spoke, calmly. He took a step forward, surpassing Ryan Kesler. He reached out and touched Val on the shoulder.

Instantly the Dallas forward halted in his chopping, he gradually turned around. Patrice dropped his hand, as they all saw the tears flowing from the man’s eyes. Even Sidney felt sympathy for him. His blue eyes were clouded over and he seemed to have been crying for a while.

“Мне очень жаль. Простите меня. Я не делал это нарочно. Пожалуйста, прости меня! (I'm very sorry. Excuse me. I did not do it on purpose. Please forgive me!)” The Dallas Star spoke, before lifting the knife upward.

Patrice stepped back. “Val, Val, what are you doing?”

The Russian player brought the big weapon down and quickly slashed himself in half, from head to foot, in a swift motion. A single tear rolled down his cheek, as the knife clanged to the ground, echoing around the tense room.

Patrice yelped in horror, as some of the Dallas player’s blood spurted onto his shirt. Everyone else freaked out as well, as they too got a few drops.

Blood instantly flooded the floor around him, as the two halves of Valeri Nichushkin slumped to the ground and his eyes closed. No one needed to question if he was dead. The crimson all around answered that.

“Val!?” Patrice mouthed, his breath catching in his throat.

The whole room was bathed in silence and uncomfortable horror, as they stared down at the newest victim. They weren’t sure why, but Val Nichushkin, the usually bright Russian kid for the Dallas Stars had just committed suicide. And no one thought it was an accident.