Reflections of a Final Girl

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. The locals old enough to remember the time when the cabin had an owner locked their doors, closed the curtains, and tried their best to pretend there was nothing there. Those old enough to remember the last time this happened did the same, pulling their children indoors and trying to convince older teens and young adults that it wasn't safe.

Of course, the candle had been lit by one such teen earlier that day, only noticeable once sunlight faded and the only light left in the forest was the glint of that single candle. The plan was to spend the night in the cabin, to live through that classic horror movie and prove there was nothing to be afraid of.

Marie let her friends draw ahead as they approached the small cabin. A strangely undamaged glass window protected that single flame from a wind that came in gusts that chilled her to the bone. A part of her was screaming to tell her friends to turn and run: to get as far away from this cabin as their burning, aching limbs could possibly take them.

But she couldn't bring herself to do it. She was riding the buzz of anticipation coming from a cocktail of curiosity and trepidation about what lay ahead. Dylan noticed she had fallen behind, and dropped back to walk with her as she pasted on a smile. 5 teenagers exploring a cabin in the woods. When has that ever led to disaster?

“C’mon babe, not scared are you?” he teased.

“Of being killed by the ghost of a serial killer from the 80s? Never.”

“But what about the stories that say he never died, and he still lives out here to this day?!”

“I wouldn’t worry about that. I’m pretty sure this wouldn’t be the first time in 2 decades the candle was lit if he still lived here. Besides, a frail old man sounds a bit easier to beat than a spirit.”

Tyrone called back from where he stood at the entrance to the clearing housing the dilapidated cabin.

“Hey, what happened to Brad and Stacey?”

The trio jumped as they heard a squeal from the direction of the cabin. Maria's heart jumped into her throat, a rising panic that her friends had found something.

Then the squeal was followed by excessive giggling. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and made an effort at speaking normally.

“Where do you think? Off behind a tree, somewhere. No bleachers to get caught under out here.”

Tyrone rolled his eyes. “Such a stereotype. Right down to the cheerleading and football.”

Dylan grinned. “If you’re worried about stereotypes, you do know the black guy goes first in every horror movie?”

That made me let out a genuine laugh. “Ah but you have to take into consideration that not every serial killer is as racist as Hollywood movie executives.”

Tyrone jumped up over a log across the path. “The ghost of a local from the 80s probably is. But I’ll take my chances – maybe I’ll get lucky and they’ll kill the couple tryna get it on first.”

As he said that Stacey emerged from behind a rock near the house, buttoning her shirt, followed by Brad slipping his back over his shoulders.

“As expected,” said Tryone, grinning.

“Shut Up!” she giggled again as Brad threw his arms around her from behind.

He threw a glance back over his shoulder at the house. “You ladies ready to seek out the serial killer in his lair?”

Dylan peered in past the still-bright candle. “Looks like it’s empty to me.”

As he said this, I saw a flash of movement across the window. I peered closer, and saw only a reflection, moving when I did. I exhaled in relief. It was empty.

“Maybe the serial killer just isn’t home yet.” I joked. That buzz of anticipation had escalated to a roar. The need to go in overwhelmed me, and I pulled Dylan eagerly up the steps to the door. Brad laughed.

“Empty and you’ve still gotta be dragged by your girlfriend? Chicken.”

Never able to leave a threat to his masculinity unchallenged, Dylan pushed in front of me and threw open the door, revealing a mostly empty room aside from a strangely clean kitchen and a table surrounded by 4 chairs. Tyrone was first through the open door.

“Maybe that’s why you’ll die first,” said Dylan, letting go of my hand and moving more cautiously in after him. “Charging into the unknown. Who knows what booby-traps you could encounter.”

“C’mon, the guy always killed with the same kitchen knife, he’s hardly gonna change his MO just because he’s a ghost.”

“There could be a kitchen knife booby trap,” Brad suggested, waggling his fingers in a mock-creepy ghost gesture. Stacey and I now stood at the threshold as the boys began to explore the room. She quickly moved forwards across to Brad, but I stood mesmerised, drinking in this sight of this haunted place that I’d been told about all my life. The moonlight glinted in the windows as the reflections simply waited.

“Are you coming in, or were you just pulling Dylan to the door as a sacrifice?” Tyrone laughed.

I smiled. “I’m coming in.” I walked into the kitchen, looking around for the killer’s signature tool I was sure would be there. And there it was: a knife block holding a single carving knife took pride of place in the corner counter like a warning…or an invitation. A dare to face the cabin’s danger.

I shook myself free of the sense of hypnosis the cabin had inspired and looked over at Stacey as she made a beeline from Brad to the doors on the other side of the room.

“What’s back here?”

She opened one and found a distinctly less-than-clean bathroom, the filth seeming amplified by the glint of moonlight through a clear window. She slammed the door on it.

“Ewww. I am NOT gonna be using that.”

She opened the other door to reveal an only slightly dusty double bed, centred beneath a triangle of cracked glass looking out to the forest beyond.

“Now this on the other hand…” she giggled yet again, fluttering her eyelashes at Brad.

“Wonder if the electricity to this place still works?” Tyrone flicked the light-switch back and forth. “Maybe there’s a fuse box?”

“Let’s look ‘round the back,” Dylan suggested, wrenching open the swollen back door. They went out, slamming it behind them, and Stacey arched suggestively against the doorway to the bedroom.

“Coming Brad?” she purred.

He glanced across at me, clearly desperate to take her up on the offer. “You be good on your own in here Kristy?”

“I can cope. I wanna look around some more.”

He nodded, following her into the bedroom and slamming the door, and I heard a squeal and the squeak of old bedsprings. I shook my head and slowly walked across to look through the kitchen window. I gasped, stepping back. I could see the boys examining the wall for a fuse-box, but I could also see an old man walking near enough to where they stood that I knew they couldn’t be seeing him too. He was watching their search, smiling as though the idea of them turning the lights on amused him. He stood still as they rounded the corner of the house and slowly turned around – and locked eyes with me. I couldn’t move my gaze, his eyes boring in through the windows to my soul, seeing every part of me…including the parts I had never found myself.

Suddenly I heard a shriek from the bedroom, and forcibly pulled myself away. I rushed to the door, throwing it open and bursting inside. I was faced with exactly the scene I expected: Brad on the bed with Stacey seated atop him. The reflection in that triangular window moved fast, and I felt as much as saw the knife drive into her flesh. She cried out for a moment then slumped forwards. Brad screamed, but it was cut short as Stacey’s body was pushed aside and his throat was sliced more open than I would’ve thought possible.

The lights snapped on, starkly exposing the messy scene. The reflection was gone and mine quickly took its place, screaming for Dylan and Tyrone. They appeared at the door and swore as they witnessed the destruction that had taken only a few seconds to wreak. I ran to Dylan and collapsed against him, sobbing. He stood frozen until Tyrone slowly pulled us both back and closed the door.

He was in full panic mode, pacing, repeating “Oh god, what do we do, what do we do?”

I finished sobbing and pulled away from Dylan. He seemed to unfreeze and said to the pacing Tyrone “What do you mean what do we do, we gotta call the police!”

“The police?! Against that?” I yelled, desperate to stop him.

“Against what?” he stared at me. “What do you mean?”

I told them my tale, the reflection that was gone once lights came on.

“You’re sure someone didn’t just… go out the window?” he asked.

“Dude, we were outside that window!” Tyrone had stopped pacing.

“We still need the police! I’m sorry Kristy but I don’t buy for a second that some ghost did this!”

“I don’t think it was a ghost either!” I snapped. “But I don’t think the police would help me.”

Tyrone clutched at my shoulder. “I think we all need to leave.”

“Fine, we’ll leave, then call the police.”

I collapsed into one of the chairs, suddenly exhausted, not sure how to stop him. “I was the only one there. Maybe if I hadn’t-”

Dylan cut me off. “No. You couldn’t stop some…thing in a window from killing, ghost or no ghost.”

I looked up at him and slowly smiled. Over his shoulder, the old man in the window smiled back. “I’m glad you know that.”

The lights went out, but the candlelight stayed strong, and full. The knife sunk into Tyrone’s chest. Dylan screamed, trying to tug open the back door. I pulled out the knife and turned to him. He cowered against the door, still trying desperately to get it to open.

He stammered out a plea to live. “Stop! Please!” I took a step towards him, the reflection behind the candle moving with me. He saw me look back at it and tried another tactic.

“W- Wait, I was wrong! You can stop it! You can stop the reflection!” He gave a final desperate tug on the back door and it opened. He went to sprint out and fell down the steps. I calmly walked past him and turned to face the house, pressing my foot down on his back.

He sobbed out “No! Stop! Why are you doing this?”

I smiled at the old man in the window, a reflection next to my own.

“I guess you could say… it runs in the family.” My reflection plunged the knife downward and his sobbing stopped. I turned away and walked with it back up the steps of the house, replacing my grandfather’s knife in that otherwise spotless kitchen. I set my perfectly chosen group in each of the four chairs. The cheerleader and the football star: the sex-obsessed couple killed when they split off from the group. The one black guy to prove the group can’t be racist: he was probably right, my grandfather would’ve killed him first. The best friend of the football star: the last one to die, as the boyfriend to the last piece of the puzzle.

Me.

The final girl.

The next morning, the police found me sitting in the dirty bathtub, blood still staining my skin, staring into the clear window above. I wouldn’t move until my father came in and told me to come. We stopped to look at the burnt-down candle before I walked on to the car in silence, getting sympathetic looks from everyone on the scene. My father told the police they could interview me later, once I was cleaned up. They agreed and gave him the card for a trauma shrink.

We drove slowly back up the dirt path I knew so well.

“Did you enjoy your stay in my father’s cabin?”

I nodded.

“Did you meet him?”

“I think so. There was an old man, in the windows.”

He gave an approving nod. “Sounds like he’s proud of you.”

The only other words I said on our long drive away came from the thick coat of mould and mildew still coating my shoes and parts of my clothes.

“When I set it up for my kid… I’m cleaning the bathtub.”