Wipe Head – Chapter 16: The Hunter Awakens
William sat in his small, cold cabin, the dim light of dawn barely filtering through the cracked, frost-lined window. The air inside smelled faintly of smoke and iron, a mixture he had come to know intimately over the years—a scent that spoke of old fires, past kills, polished metal, and the subtle tang of blood. It was a smell that brought him comfort, a familiar and grounding presence in a world he could not trust outside these walls. Each item in the cabin—knives, axes, chainsaw, sharpened hooks, and even the carefully stacked wood—was in perfect order, a testimony to his obsession with control. Here, he decided the rules. Here, everything obeyed him.
He methodically cleaned each weapon, cloth sliding over knife blades, scraping and polishing the teeth of his chainsaw until they glinted like a predator's grin. Each motion was rhythmic, meditative almost, a ritual that reminded him of what he could command—life, fear, pain. Every stroke of cloth, every careful motion along steel, reaffirmed his mastery over precision, over death. His mind drifted, inevitably, to Marty—the way he had been taken, how panic had broken through the faces of Marty's friends, the terror in their eyes before it faded into helplessness. A small, grim smile touched the edges of William's mask, stitched human skin stretched tight over scarred flesh. The memory of that final moment, of power and inevitability, warmed his chest in a way that nothing else could.
The cabin was otherwise silent. The faint creak of floorboards beneath him as he shifted was the only sound, a reminder that even here, in his sanctuary, the world existed outside his control. His eyes swept over the room, scanning every corner, every surface. Nothing was out of place. Everything obeyed his meticulous sense of order. This was his domain. His fortress. Outside, the forest and mountains were unpredictable, wild, and chaotic, but here, he controlled everything: the shadows, the light, the knives, the silence. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to linger in that control.
Today, he was not in the mood to kill. Not yet. Not now. Today, he wanted to bask in the aftermath of Marty's death, replaying every second, savoring the perfection, the inevitability. He recalled the precise movements, the subtle shifts in Marty's body as fear overwhelmed him, the rush of dominance, and the satisfying finality. Nothing outside mattered: not the cold mountain peaks, not the forest that sprawled endlessly beyond his door, not the humans moving blindly in the snow below. He didn't need another kill yet. He wanted to simply… exist.
And then the sound came.
A faint, almost imperceptible crack from the back door of the cabin. It was subtle, easy to miss, but William's senses were attuned. His head snapped up, mask tilting slightly, eyes scanning the room, every muscle tensing as he listened. Silence followed the sound, as if the cabin itself were holding its breath. The snow outside lay undisturbed, a pristine canvas of white, yet the crack betrayed something, someone, moving. Instinctively, his fingers brushed the handle of his knife. His breathing, calm moments ago, tightened, measured, precise. It was not the wind. Not the branches of trees settling under frost. Something—or someone—was there.
From his vantage point, he saw a car half-buried in frost and snow. Its engine whispered weakly as it tried to ignite, coughing in protest. A smile, subtle and grim beneath his mask, flickered across his face. "I'm not in the mood… not today," he murmured, low, almost to himself.
He leaned back slightly, hands still hovering near his weapons. His body was coiled, ready to spring, yet he restrained himself. His instincts screamed to hunt, to strike, to end whatever dared intrude on his space. But he resisted. Today, he wanted to linger in the calm. To savor the perfection of the chaos he had wrought. Today, he wanted to watch. To wait. To let fear build slowly, deliberately.
Inside the car, Luna struggled. The engine refused to turn over no matter how many times she tried. Key after key, turn after turn, the ignition sputtered, coughed, and failed. Her breaths came in sharp, nervous bursts, fogging the cold interior with every inhale. Panic began to creep, slow and insidious, tightening her chest and making her hands shake. Every failed attempt, every unnatural silence, was a reminder: she was trapped. Not by walls, not by snow, not by chance—but by the forest itself, by the mountains, by the shadow that had already begun to follow her, unseen but watching.
William observed silently from the cabin. Every fumble, every tremble, every shallow, panicked breath was noted. He did not move. Did not speak. Let the fear grow. Let the hope flicker, then die. Patience, he reminded himself. Patience was always key. Let them believe in survival. Let them taste hope. Then crush it with inevitability.
Meanwhile, Sam had left the cabin. Some instinct, deep and unspoken, drew him outward. He scanned the perimeter of the clearing, eyes darting between trees, snow, and shadows, seeking rationality, some logical explanation. There was nothing. Only snow, frozen and silent. Only wind, whispered faintly through pine needles. Only shadows. Convinced he had imagined the crack of wood or the faint scrape of movement, he exhaled sharply, attempting to calm the creeping dread in his chest. But William saw him too. Every step, every glance, every heartbeat recorded in the hunter's mind. Sam was unaware of the predator watching, unaware that the shadows were far from empty, that the forest had its own eyes, ears, and teeth.
Luna abandoned the car after repeated failures, realizing mechanical hope was a lie. She stepped cautiously into the snow, each footfall careful, weighted, measured. Cold bit at her ankles, wet seeping through her boots. Every step was met with crunching snow that echoed far too loudly, every rustle of branches twisting her stomach tighter. No plan, no weapon, no allies. Only the forest and the memory of death brushing at her heels.
William moved then. Silent, deliberate, predatory. His senses attuned to the faintest trace of her presence—the shallow footprints, the soft scrape of boots in snow, the lingering disturbance of the frost beneath her weight. The towering pines, the frozen underbrush, the distant mountains—they were irrelevant. Only the hunt mattered. The axe across his back pulsed with anticipation. The chainsaw hummed faintly, teeth glinting, eager for action. Knives gleamed under the first light of dawn. The predator within him had awakened fully. He was no longer a boy who had known fear or mockery. He was seven feet of pure predation: cold, merciless, unstoppable.
The pale light of dawn crept over the horizon, the sky bruised with muted shades of purple and grey. Luna moved deeper into the forest, unaware, eyes wide and darting, heart hammering. She paused periodically, glancing over her shoulder, imagining movement in shadows, hearing threats whispered by the pines. Her mind tried to rationalize: maybe it was the forest, maybe nothing. But instinct screamed louder than reason: something watched. Something waited.
William climbed a gnarled pine, branches groaning softly under his weight. From above, he surveyed the girl moving through the dense forest. Fallen trunks, jagged rocks, and snow-covered underbrush made the perfect camouflage, but he saw her every step. Each movement she made, deliberate or panicked, was a signal he read like an open book. Precision. Patience. Fear. He inhaled slowly, tasting the icy air, letting it fill him.
Luna's steps slowed as exhaustion settled in like a weight. Snow softened beneath her boots, sapping energy. Her breaths steamed into the frigid air, mingling with the scent of pine and frost. Her wide eyes searched for any sign of shelter, any hint of hope, any landmark she recognized. But there was none. Only William, hidden in shadow, watching, calculating, ready to strike at the perfect moment.
She reached a small clearing, and her foot caught a hidden root. She stumbled, hands hitting the frozen ground. Panic surged, choking her. She scrambled upright, glancing desperately around. And then—she felt it. The air shifted. Behind her, a shadow darker than the trees moved without sound, taller than anything she could imagine. She froze, chest heaving, legs locked in terrified defiance.
William dropped from the branch silently, feet landing lightly, axe in hand, chainsaw humming faintly like a predator announcing its presence. Knife glinted coldly beneath the pale light. Every inch of him radiated inevitability. Luna's mind flooded with every nightmare she had ever known, every story whispered in campfires, every cautionary tale from horror books. All real now. Breathing. Watching. Closing in.
She twisted, eyes wide, and there he was: seven feet of nightmare, stitched mask, axe and knife poised, chainsaw ready, looming impossibly large. Her knees buckled, hands pressed to her face. "Oh please… forgive me… forgive me…" she croaked, voice trembling. Tears streamed freely, snow catching the wet glow of her cheeks. Crawling backward, palms scraped against the frozen dirt, every instinct screaming to flee. Cold and terror froze her in place.
Step by step, William advanced. Deliberate. Methodical. Silent. Breathing measured beneath the mask. Snow crunched faintly under his boots, the only sound in a frozen forest holding its breath. He did not need words. Fear spoke loudly enough, radiating from her like heat from a burning fire. Knife glinting, chainsaw strap taut, axe poised, every detail perfected, calculated. The hunter claimed the moment.
And then… silence fell again. The forest held its breath. Dawn's light touched the distant peaks, indifferent, cold. Only the inevitability of William remained, watching, waiting, ready. Luna's fate hung like a knife suspended in the air. The next act had begun. The forest seemed to shiver in anticipation, every branch and snowflake trembling in the presence of pure, unstoppable predation.