Screams do not carry twenty miles to the next farm house…
Ten years ago, a little girl was supposedly murdered. Ten years ago, that little girl got away.
Now, after eight years of living on her own, feeding from garbage cans and doing what she must to survive and still remain anonymous, the lies told to her have led her—her sense of vengeance and retribution—back to the door-step of whom she considers to blame.
Those who stand in her way receive nothing of mercy as her relentless pursuit to extract revenge on those who robbed her of her life comes to a chilling close as nothing will stop her…and no one is to be spared.
“I see you!” he called softly; a giggle in return.
He made his way gently over to her where she peeked out, her face flushed and happy and her big, dark brown eyes wide with excitement. She ducked back behind the tree again.
Moment of truth, Mark, he told himself. Remember the payout.
He snuck up behind the tree and knocked on it. She giggled madly.
“Who’s there?” she whispered then laughed in her lyrical child voice.
“The boogie man.” Mark answered back, his voice flat now.
“Oh, Daddy,” she said, sighing and coming around the tree, she had a pout on her lips and her brow was creased. “You know the boogie man scares me.”
“I know, sweetie. Sometimes, shit happens.”
She looked up at him with uncertainty. Mark then raised his hand up, bunched it into a fist and brought it down on his eight-year-old daughters head.
She made an “Uggh…” sound and fell to the ground in front of him.
He looked down at her a moment, then gathered her up, noticing her ribbon had fallen out…so he leaned down and picked it up. No reason to leave traces, he thought, completely disconnected now. This was his plan, his vision. He was tired of scraping a living, by God.
Somebody was just going to have to Bite The Bullet…Take One For The Team, as his Father used to say—or more appropriately, sacrifice themselves like he had all these years. Working shit jobs for shit pay, while that bitch of a wife gets to go to college, leaving him to deal with old ladies who couldn’t take care of their own cars if they fumed out fucking gold instead of exhaust for a lousy eleven dollars and hour.
The way Mark’s warped and black mind looked at it, he had two daughters; and after all…Jules was prettier. She had blonde hair and blue eyes, like his mother.