Wipe Head – Chapter 11: Nightfall in Kruger Town
The sun finally slipped behind the jagged peaks of the mountains, its last dying light stretching across the sky like a wounded flame. Deep violet swallowed the horizon, streaked with bruised oranges and fading reds that bled slowly into the endless white of snow. The mountains loomed larger now, darker, their shadows crawling down toward the town as night claimed its territory.
The six friends stood outside their rented cabin, breath fogging the cold air with every laugh, every word. Snow crunched softly beneath their boots as they moved around the small clearing they had chosen for their first night in Kruger Town. The place had been set up carefully, almost lovingly—folding chairs dragged from the cabin, a barbecue grill sputtering and popping, a makeshift table stacked with snacks, paper plates, and drinks, and a small speaker humming quietly as music drifted into the forest.
Pine trees surrounded them on all sides, tall and silent, their branches heavy with snow. The scent of fresh wood mixed with smoke from the grill, warm and comforting, pushing back the cold that gnawed at exposed skin. A fire pit crackled nearby, orange flames licking upward, throwing flickering shadows across faces and tree trunks alike.
Sam moved around with the confidence of someone who needed to stay busy. He flipped burgers with precise movements, brushed sauce onto skewers, and occasionally stole a bite when he thought no one was watching. The firelight danced across his face as he worked, casting him in warm tones against the dark forest.
Marty sat nearby with his guitar resting against his knee, fingers lazily strumming a melody that had no real structure. It was soft, improvised, comforting. Luna and Michelle clapped along in rhythm, laughing whenever Marty messed up a chord on purpose. Laura swayed gently near the fire pit, careful not to slip on the thin layer of ice forming near the edges of the clearing. Hana sat bundled in her scarf, sipping from her thermos, her cheeks flushed pink from both the cold and the heat of the flames.
"This is perfect," Hana said, exhaling slowly, her breath clouding the air. She leaned back in her chair, eyes drifting toward the mountains. "We should've done this every year."
"Every year?" Marty replied, spinning a fork between his fingers. "You'd have to survive my singing first."
Groans mixed with laughter. Luna tossed a napkin at him. Michelle shook her head, smiling. The sound of their voices carried into the forest, bouncing faintly off the trees, swallowed quickly by the vastness of the mountains.
For a brief moment, the world felt distant. The town. The past. Everything else. None of it mattered here.
---
The grill hissed loudly, fat dripping onto hot metal, sending sparks and embers snapping into the night. Sam moved back and forth between the table and the fire, calling out orders half-jokingly. "Hey, don't forget the seasoning!" he said. "And someone grab more drinks before these freeze!"
Luna opened another pack of chips, the plastic crackling sharply in the quiet night. Michelle poured juice into paper cups, careful not to spill. Laura leaned closer to the fire pit, holding her hands out toward the flames, eyes half-closed as the warmth soaked into her fingers.
Hours slipped by unnoticed. Conversation drifted from one harmless topic to another—old school memories, embarrassing moments, future plans they hadn't quite figured out yet. They joked about horror movies, teased each other about who would survive longest in a real-life nightmare, completely unaware of how close that joke was to becoming reality.
Snow began to fall heavier, thicker flakes spiraling lazily down from the sky. It softened the world, muffling sound, swallowing distant echoes. The forest grew quieter with every passing minute. Too quiet.
A branch snapped somewhere deep in the trees.
No one reacted.
Another faint rustle followed, barely audible beneath the music. Still, no one noticed. Laughter drowned it out. Warmth dulled instinct. Safety was an illusion they wore comfortably.
---
Marty suddenly stood, slinging his guitar over his shoulder. "I'm gonna head up to the roof for a bit," he said casually. "Better acoustics. Plus, I need to tune this thing."
"You're insane," Laura laughed.
"Don't fall!" Luna called.
"Try not to die," Michelle added jokingly.
Marty waved them off and climbed carefully onto the roof, his boots crunching against snow-covered shingles. The cold wind slapped against his face as he settled himself, legs spread slightly for balance. From above, the clearing looked smaller. The fire, the people, the laughter—all of it felt contained, almost fragile.
He strummed a few chords, adjusting the strings, humming softly as the sound floated downward. The music blended with the speaker below, creating a strange harmony that drifted through the trees.
Marty closed his eyes briefly, breathing in the cold mountain air. It stung his lungs, but he welcomed it. Up here, everything felt peaceful.
He had no idea he was being watched.
---
From the darkness beyond the clearing, hidden between the thick trunks of towering pines, William stood motionless.
Years of waiting had taught him how to disappear.
The mask concealed his ruined face, absorbing the faint glow of firelight and reflecting nothing but darkness. Snow settled on his shoulders and boots, but he didn't move to brush it away. His breathing was slow, controlled, barely visible in the cold air.
He watched them all.
Six people. Laughing. Relaxed. Alive.
Their voices scraped against something deep inside him. That sound—carefree, unaware—was something he had once known. Something stolen from him long ago. The memories surged uninvited: laughter in a house long burned, warmth that turned to screaming fire, faces that vanished forever.
His hands tightened unconsciously.
The axe rested across his back, its weight familiar, comforting. The chainsaw was strapped across his chest, cold metal pressing against his body like a promise. He had no need to rush. He had waited years for moments like this.
He stepped closer to the edge of the trees, snow crunching softly beneath his boots. The sound was swallowed by distance and wind. The firelight illuminated the clearing just enough for him to see their faces clearly.
He studied them. Counted them. Measured them.
Patience had always been his greatest weapon.
Then his gaze found Marty.
Alone. Elevated. Exposed.
Something inside William cracked.
---
The sight of Marty—laughing, playing music, leaning carelessly on the roof—ignited a violent surge of emotion. The sound of the guitar felt wrong. Too happy. Too free. William's jaw clenched beneath the mask, teeth grinding together as a silent snarl formed.
Ignorance was a luxury William had never been allowed.
His fingers curled around the handle of the axe. He imagined the sound it would make. The sudden shock. The fear. Control. Power.
But he stopped himself.
Six of them were together. One wrong move, one loud sound, and everything could fall apart. He had learned long ago that rushing led to mistakes. Mistakes led to survival.
He exhaled slowly.
Below, laughter continued. Sam flipped another burger. Laura tossed a piece of bread into the air and caught it with her mouth. Luna clapped along to the music. Hana leaned closer to the fire, warming her hands. Michelle adjusted the grill.
All of them together. All of them unaware.
William stepped forward once. Then again. Each movement slow, deliberate, silent. Snow compressed beneath his boots, leaving shallow impressions quickly erased by falling flakes.
The axe shifted slightly on his back, catching the firelight for just a moment before disappearing again into shadow.
He could smell the food now. Smoke. Meat. Warmth. It made his stomach twist—not with hunger, but with memory.
---
The fire crackled louder, embers snapping as shadows stretched long across the clearing. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the faint sound of breathing that did not belong to the forest.
William stopped again.
Six of them.
Too many. Not yet.
But Marty…
Marty adjusted his guitar strap, swaying slightly, completely oblivious. The sound of the strings vibrated through the night, drifting outward like a beacon.
William's eyes locked onto him.
Anger surged again, hotter this time. The axe felt heavier, more alive, as if it recognized its purpose. William's grip tightened until his knuckles burned beneath his gloves.
He took another step forward.
Then another.
The snow softened his movements. The mask hid his expression, but his eyes burned with cold intent. Every instinct screamed to strike, to end the music, to silence the laughter.
But discipline held him back.
Not yet.
---
Below, the friends continued their night, unaware of how close death stood. Sam laughed at something Marty shouted from above. Laura brushed snow from her jacket. Luna leaned against Michelle, both smiling.
The shadow near the treeline grew longer.
William stood perfectly still now, watching, calculating. His breathing matched the rhythm of the forest. Slow. Patient. Inevitable.
The mountains loomed overhead, ancient and silent, as if bearing witness. Snow continued to fall, covering tracks, hiding signs, preparing the ground.
William's gaze never left Marty.
The music floated on.
And somewhere between the crackle of fire and the whisper of wind, the night itself seemed to hold its breath.