Cheryl gasped for air as she shoved into the abandoned house. She slid down the wall, quiet sobs escaping from her throat.
Tears sliding down her face, she crawled through the house looking for something to defend herself with. She dared to peek out of the dusty window.

He was there. Walking slowly, deliberately, towards the house. A cheap plastic zebra mask covered his face, his long, wild hair sprouting out behind it. The butcher’s knife hung limply from his right hand. The rest of his body was covered by a heavy trench coat.

Cheryl barely kept herself from screaming. She scrawled faster, towards what must have been the kitchen.

Everyone else was dead. She was the last one left. She pulled a cabinet open looking for something, anything she could use to help her situation.

There was nothing. She heard the front door creak open, and felt all of the hope seap out of her body. Her body went limp. She slumped. The knife plunged into her back. Warm, red blood poured onto the floor. He had won.