Caseys Nightmare

Riiinnnngg... riiinnng...

(Casey)

picked up the phone on the next ring.

"Hello?"

"Hello?"

"Yes?"

"Who is this?" the caller wanted to know.

"Mm, who are you trying to reach?"

"What number is this?"

"Well, what number are you trying to reach?" she asked.

"I don't know," was the reply.

"Well, I think you've got the wrong number."

"Do I?"

"It happens. Take it easy," she said, and hung up.

Riiinnnng...

Casey looked at the phone again, a slight frown crossing her

face for a second, but she picked it up.

"Hello?"

"I'm sorry, I must've dialed the wrong number," said the

The same caller

"So why'd you dial it again?" Casey asked

"To apologize."

"You're forgiven. Bye, now," she told him.

"Wait, wait! Don't hang up," the caller said.

"What?" Casey asked.

"I want to talk to you for a second."

This time she did laugh. "They've got 900-numbers for that.

See ya." With that, she hung up again.

Casey went into the kitchen, where she fired up the stove,

and, ripping the top off a package of Jiffy Pop popcorn,

placed it on the burner...

Riiinnnng...

She left the popcorn on the stove, and went for the cordless

phone with a sigh.

"Hello?" she said.

"Why don't you want to talk to me?"

Casey didn't bullshit around this time. "Who is this?"

"You tell me your name, I'll tell you mine."

"I don't think so," Casey said. She picked up the handle of her

Jiffy Pop and shook it, checking the aluminum bottom to

make sure it hadn't burnt.

The caller heard the popcorn rattling around. "What's that

noise?"

"Popcorn."

"You're making popcorn?"

"Uh-huh!" she said perkily.

"I only eat popcorn at the movies."

"Well, I'm getting ready to watch a video."

"Really?" the caller asked. "What?"

Casey turned from the stove and leaned against the island. It

wouldn't hurt to talk for a while. It seemed pretty harmless.

"Oh, just some scary movie," she replied.

"You like scary movies?"

"Uh-huh."

What's your favorite scary movie?"

"Ummm, I don't know."

"You've got to have a favorite, what comes to mind?"

Casey thought for a minute. "Hm... 'Halloween.'"

"You know, the one with the guy in the white mask who

walks around and stalks baby-sitters."

"Yeah."

"What's yours?"

"Guess."

"Uhmmm... 'Nightmare on Elm Street'!"

"Is that the one with the guy who had knives for fingers?"

"Yeah, Freddy Krueger," Casey said.

"Freddy, that's right. I liked that movie, it was scary."

"Well, the first one was, but

the rest sucked."

"So... do you have a boyfriend?" the caller wanted to know.

"Why, you wanna ask me out on date?" Casey asked impishly,

"Maybe. So, do you have a boyfriend?"

"Hmmm, no," Casey told him.

"You never told me your name," the caller said.

"Why do you wanna know my name?" Casey said.

"Because I want to know who I'm looking at."

Casey's smile faded, and she looked up from the TV.

What did you say?" she asked, a touch of fright creeping into

her voice.

The caller paused, as if he was thinking. "I want to know who

I'm talking to," he said.

"That's not what you said."

"What do you think I said?"

She looked out the patio doors, and flicked on the light. The

pool lit up also, from the underwater lights.

"What?"

The back patio was unoccupied.

"Hello?"

Casey turned off the lights.

"Uh... I gotta go," she said nervously.

"Wait... I thought we were gonna go out," the caller said.

.

"No, I-I don't think so," then she hung up.

"Don't hang up on me!" Casey heard him say.

Riinnnng...

"Shit" she mutterd and answered it."Yes?

"I told you not to hang up on me," the caller said, sounding

angry.

"What do you want?" Casey said into the phone.

"To talk."

"Well, dial someone else, okay?" Casey told him, and hung up.

Riiinnnng...

Pissed off, she answered it:

Listen, asshole--"

"No, you listen, you little bitch. You hang up on me again and

I'll gut you like a fish, understand?!" he said fiercely,

interuppting her.

Casey looked around, praying he really couldn't see her.

"Yeah..." the caller said.

"Is this some kind of joke?" Casey asked nervously.

"More of a game, really," he answered "Can you handle that... Blondie?"

With these words, Casey knew he could see her.

She didn't waste any time bolting through the house, locking

every single door in sight. She flew towards the front door,

bolting it securely...

...and looked out the window at the top.

"Can you see me?" the caller asked, sounding almost playful.

"Listen, I am two seconds away from calling the police!"

Casey said.

"They'd never make it in time. We're out in the middle of

nowhere."

Casey was in tears. "What do you want?" she pleaded.

"To see what your insides look like," he said, all playfulness

gone.

Casey held back a frightened sob as she hung up the phone and put it down on

an end table.

Then as the door bells rings.

"Who's there?" she asked, and when no answer came, she called out again in a louder, more frightened tone, "Who's there?! I'm calling the police!" Truly scared, she went for the phone.

Riiinnnng...

Casey screamed and jumped back as the phone rang once she had it in her hands.

"You should never ask 'Who's there,' don't you watch scary movies? It's a death wish. You

might as well just come out here to investigate a strange noise or somethin'," the caller said as Casey whimpered and huddled against herself.

"Look, you've had your fun now, so I think you'd better just leave, or else," Casey said in between.

"Or else what?" the caller asked.

"Or else my boyfriend'll be here any second, and he'll be pissed when he finds out," Casey

whimpered.

"I thought you didn't have a boyfriend."

"I lied! I do have a boyfriend, and he'll be here any second, so your ass better be gone!" she said, trying her best to stifle her crying.

"Sure!"

"I swear," Casey said weakly, then yelled: "He's big and he plays football, and he'll kick the shit out of you!"

"I'm geting scared! I'm shakin' in my boots," the caller taunted.

"So you better just leave."

"His name wouldn't be... Steve, would it?"

Casey grew quiet. "How do you know his name?" she asked.

"Turn on the patio light. Again," the caller told her.

Casey sobbed and turned to the patio doors. He had seen her when she turned on the lights the first time. She turned on the lights and looked out. Tied to a chair and gagged with duct tape, Steve looked back at her as the lights flicked on, struggling vainly against his bonds.

He had been beaten; his jeans and shoes were torn and bloodied.

"Oh, my God!" Casey yelled, and unlocked the patio door, pulling it open.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you!" the caller said, and she closed and re-locked it before it was more than an inch open.

Casey leaned her forehead against the window, looking out at Steve and holding a hand to the pane, crying. Steve looked around, and made a hand signal to Casey as he struggled against the silver duct tape, which she either didn't see or didn't understand. She cried and whimpered against the glass.

"Where are you?" Casey cried. "Where are you?"

"Guess."

"Please don't hurt him..."

"That all depends on you."

Casey looked tearfully at Steve. "Why are you doing this?"

"I wanna play a game." the caller said.

"No," Casey sobbed quietly.

"Then he dies right now!"

"No! No!" Casey yelped, looking out at Steve as the caller made his threat. He could call her every move.

Outside, Steve looked around again, gesturing as best he could. The caller continued.

"Which is it? Which is it?" he asked viciously.

Casey looked at Steve, her vision blurred by tears. "What kind of game?" she managed.

"Turn off the light. You'll see what kind of game."

Steve struggled against the ropes, shaking his head.

"Just do it!" the caller ordered Casey.

Steve shook his head again and frantically tried to free himself, gesturing to Casey and making urgent, muffled warnings as she turned and flicked off the light.

"Here's how we play: I ask a question. If you get it right, Steve lives," the caller said

"Please don't do this, I can't," she pleaded.

"Come on, it's an easy category; 'Movie Trivia'. As Casey continued to protest, he prodded further: "Come on, I'll even give you a warm-up question to get you started."

Casey's pleading was ignored. "Name the killer in 'Halloween'," the caller said.

"No, I can't... please don't do this," she said, but he wouldn't stop.

"Come on! It's your favorite scary movie, remember? Who was it?"

"I-I don't know."

"Yes, you do," he urged. "He had the white mask; he stalked the baby-sitters... what was his

name?"

Still, Casey protested and cried.

"Steve's counting on you."

Casey managed to get control of herself. "Micheal. Micheal Myers," she said.

"Yes! Very good. Now for the real question."

"No!" Casey pleaded into the phone.

"But you're doing so well."

"Please stop, no.."

"We can't stop now."

"No! Please stop, leave us alone!"

"Then answer the question," the caller told her, and Casey flinched at his words.

"No, I can't..."

"Same category. Name the killer in 'Friday the 13th'," the caller said, ignoring her plea.

"Jason! Jason, Jason!" Casey said, jumping up from her hiding place, coming into view from the window.

"I'm sorry, that's the wrong answer!" the caller told her, matter-of-factly.

"No, it's not! No, it's not, it was Jason!" Casey argued.

"Afraid not! No way."

"Listen, it was Jason! I saw that movie 20 Goddamn times!"

"Then you should know that Jason's mother, Mrs. Voorhees, was the original killer. Jason

didn't show up until the sequel. I'm afraid that was a wrong answer," the caller told her as she surveyed the pool area again.

"You tricked me," Casey whispered angrily.

"Lucky for you, there's a bonus round. But poor Steve, I'm afraid he's out!"

Even as the caller said these words, Casey saw Steve look down in the darkness as something darted out towards him. Casey yelped and went for the light as Steve let out a muffled yell, and an unidentifiable sound reached her ears. When Casey looked back out, Steve, his head tilted back, sat in the chair to which he was still bound, his stomach sliced open and his intestines pouring out onto the concrete. Casey knew he was dead.

"Hey. We're not finished yet."

Casey put the phone to her ear. "Final question. Are you ready?"

"Please-- leave me alone!" she whimpered.

"Answer the question and I will," the caller told her. "What door am I at?"

Casey looked up. "What?"

She looked on top of the TV, where there was a small, gold letter-opener. Not much of a weapon, but it would have to do. Casey picked it up and huddled in the darkness as the caller continued.

"There are two main doors to your house, the front door and the patio doors. You answer

correctly, you live. Very simple."

"Don't do this, I can't; I won't," Casey said, fingers nervously wrapped around the sleeve of her ribbed beige sweater.

"Your call."

Casey jerked her head up and looked over the top of the TV set, in the direction of the front door. Suddenly, one of the wooden patio chairs came flying through the uncurtained window at her right, spraying glass everywhere. Casey ducked against the shower of broken glass, and, letter-opener forgotten, was up in a flash, running into the kitchen. The Jiffy-Pop on the stove was in flames, and the immediate area was filled with dark, faintly butter-smelling smoke. She looked on the island counter, where she had had the friendly movie chat with the killer only minutes ago.

She reached over the counter to grab the big butcher knife she'd picked up earlier, and backed away from the island, watching the living room.

A dark figure darted through a hallway. It looked like the Grim Reaper or something, and Casey realized he was wearing a costume. She remained as quiet as possible, though the sight of it had scared her stiff, and backed out the back door she'd passed earlier. Once outside, she pulled the door closed behind her, trying to be silent, and hid once the click! of the latch sounded.

With one hand holding the knife and the other still holding the white portable phone, Casey tried to control her frightened breathing as she hid in the darkness. She peeked in the window to see him run by, in the living room.

Movement; Casey turned her head and saw headlights approaching near the cornfields across her yard. Her parents. If she could make it to the car... any sudden movements would alert the killer to her whereabouts, so she couldn't just run out to the highway.

Casey looked around the corner in the window, catching a glimpse of the costumed freak as he ran by the flaming popcorn on the stove. She crawled under the windowpane, shot a glance at the car, and, deciding to check and make sure of the killer's whereabouts, raised her head and looked in the window.

What she saw scared the hell out of her. The window was, at first appearance, black, but Casey realized this was the back of the killer's costume as soon as he whirled around and came face-to-face with her.

Casey screamed...

...and the killer reached a hand through, breaking the windowpane. He grabbed her hand and broke through the glass with his masked face before she could pull away. Casey, still screaming, brought up the hand holding the phone, and beat him in the face with it. He let go of her and fell backwards when she hit him, and Casey ran around to the other side of the house.

She still held the telephone. Casey ran past the pool, pausing for a second when she passed Steve's gutted body before continuing around to the front of the house. She didn't have the knife anymore, either the killer had it now, or she had dropped it, but that didn't matter. Her parent's car was idling down the long dirt driveway.

Out of nowhere, the killer came flying through a window behind and to the left of her, shattering glass everywhere. He pounced on top of Casey, dragging her to the ground. She picked herself up in a hurry, and ran for all she was worth. Behind her, the killer got to his feet and overtook her. He covered her mouth with his left hand, and, producing a hunting knife in his right, slammed it into her chest before releasing her.

Casey fell to the ground. Her breathing was uneven and came in frightened gasps as she looked at the bloody wound near her left shoulder.

Above her, the killer kneeled and brought the blood-stained knife near. Casey whacked it away with the phone, but the killer, lightning quick, grabbed her throat with both hands. She gagged and choked painfully for a second, but grew quiet as he held his vise-like grip.

He had crushed her vocal cords.

Casey kicked as hard as she could, planting her knee directly in the killer's personals. He flew backwards, releasing her, and landed on his back about a foot away, hard.

As both Casey and her attacker rolled on the ground injured, Casey saw, upside-down and

sideways, her parents get out of the car and walk up the front steps.

Why can't they see me? Casey rolled to her side, standing up with some difficulty, and took a few staggering steps forward, holding a hand to her throat.

Her parents conversed about how nice the flowers growing at the bottom of the front steps looked. "Mom!" Casey said, but her voice was weak, and her plea went unheard by anyone but herself.

Her father went to the front door, looking like something was amiss, and entered, Casey's mother following.

"Jesus!" Casey's father exclaimed as soon as he entered.

"What is it?" her mother asked as he stood in the doorway.

The killer had managed to get to his feet, and he came up behind Casey. She fell on the porch as the killer loomed above her.

Lying on her back, on the front porch, Casey was too weak to fight back. She reached up with a blood-covered right hand and grasped the killer's mask. She saw, through blurry vision, who the killer was, but he had the knife raised. In a quick motion, he brought it down.

"Casey?" her dad looked at the disaster that was the living room.

The smoke alarm had gone off, and Casey's mother went into the kitchen, where she picked up the burning Jiffy-Pop with a wet towel. She flung it into the sink and turned the running water on it.

Casey's father came out of the living room, where the TV was still on, the blue screen display reading CH 3, looking peaceful in contrast with the rest of the house. Casey's mother was in a panic.

"Casey? Casey! Where is she?!" she asked her husband.

"Call the police," he said, and his wife rushed to the phone. She picked it up and dialed.

Outside, the killer raised the knife and stabbed Casey once more, as she drew in a pained, regged breath.

"Casey?" Casey's father ran upstairs. "Casey, are you upstairs?"

Casey's mother, the phone to her ear, heard Casey on the other end, breathing raggedly. Oh, my God... Casey, baby?" she said uncertainly.

The killer, having stabbed Casey repeatedly, had taken her by the feet and was dragging her limp, but still alive form across her front yard. She still held the white cordless phone, and she heard her parent's voices, as they searched for her. "Mom? Mom..." she said, barely audible.

"Oh, my God, I can hear her!" Casey's mother gave the phone to her husband, who pressed the phone to his ear. But a few gasps from Casey were barely loud enough for him to hear, and instead he heard a faint, "Hey!" before the other line hung up and all that sounded was a busy tone.

Her father put down the phone and turned to Casey's mother, who was mumbling incoherently about her daughter. "Get in the car. Drive down to the Mackenzies'," he said. "Just go. Call the police," he told her, and gently pushed her towards the door.

Casey's mother reluctantly went out the front door, closing it behind her. She turned around, looked in the front yard, and screamed. Casey's father whipped open the door, shot a glance at his wife, and saw what she was screaming at. Casey's mother sank to her knees and screamed again.

Her sweater and jeans torn and bloody, the rope from the swing holding her up, Casey Becker hangs from the tree in the yard, her stomach sliced open and her intestines spilling out onto the grass.