Lyra’s clothes were soaking. She was simply dressed in leggings and a shirt. She must have been freezing. Kane slipped off her trainers; he knew the only way to warm her would be to take off her soaking clothes. He had endured many nights of being soaked to the skin. He could see that she was still breathing, albeit faintly. A new emotion washed over him, guilt. She was in this state because of him, but it was so hard to fight off the urges that were so familiar to him. Kane wiped her face carefully with water and dried it with a rag. He then slid off her leggings. Her pale legs were covered in goosebumps. He took a sheet and wrapped it around her lower body, easing his hand up to remove her wet underwear. He could feel the rise of her sex; his stomach tightened, and he quickly pulled the garment from her.
Kane turned his attention to her shirt. There was no easy way to remove it. He leaned to the side and reached for his machete. Carefully, he used the blade to cut at the material until the shirt fell away in his hands. Her bra was equally wet; he clipped the join between the cups and the straps and pulled it from her. Kane had seen naked women before, several times; it normally enraged him. This time was different; this time he felt different. His hand hovered over her breasts and lingered for some time before he covered her with another sheet. It took some time to clear the dirt and blood from her body, and he worked around the blankets so that she did not get cold.
Once clean, Kane looked over her wounds. He had treated enough of his own wounds to have a firm understanding of healing. He washed each wound individually, each tear from the brambles and bruise from falling. She had not moved for some time. Kane lowered his head to her chest. Her heart was beating, but she was still cold. He remembered the thick blanket that he had used to cover her the previous night; he could retrieve that and some other supplies from her cabin. Kane looked down at Lyra; if she woke, she would run.
The basement door was still open. Kane marched over to it and climbed down the ladder. He had the perfect solution. There were several yards of strong rope in amongst his tools. He usually used them to tie bodies into sacks in preparation for easy removal and disposal. He found the most efficient rope and returned to the front room. The machete cut a line of rope and he bound Lyra’s hands together and ran the rope from her wrists to the wall pipes. In her weakened state, she would be unable to escape. Kane then returned to the basement and stalked along the tunnel to Lyra’s cabin.
He could smell her perfume the second he climbed into her hallway. Kane breathed in Lyra’s scent and then marched through the cabin, collecting blankets, towels and some clothes. He looked through her kitchen cupboards until he found disinfectant and some old refuse sacks. The items filled the sack; as he prepared to return to his cabin, the sound of a car rumbled down the trail and onto the beach.
Sean climbed reluctantly from his sheriff’s car. The shutters of Lyra’s cabin were closed, and her car was gone. Sean had spent the day in turmoil, worrying about the newest resident in Maple Lake. He should never have let her return to that cabin; he should have found her a place in town, talked to her, fought with her, whatever it took to keep her from Kane’s clutches. He had bumped into Harlon at the gas station that very evening and found him evasive, especially when he enquired about Lyra’s well-being. That was the final straw, and Sean knew then that he had to rescue her before it was too late.
‘Lyra!’ he shouted before rapping furiously at the door. ‘Lyra, open up, please.’ Kane stood at the other side of the door. Harlon had betrayed him, provided information to an outsider and tried to rescue one of his victims. Kane’s rage had been bubbling below the surface for some time, quelled only by the other strange emotion that only rose when he was close to Lyra. The knocking continued. ‘Lyra, please,’ the sheriff yelled. Kane, please, her words touched him again. Kane, save me.
‘This is the sheriff,’ Sean barked authoritatively. ‘Now open this door.’ Kane looked down at the deadbolt. His hand grasped the handle and, with one stealthy movement, he ripped the door open, tearing the locks off. Sean looked up at the hulking monster and backed away from the door. He thought of Lyra, her innocent eyes. She was surely dead.
‘What did you do?’ Sean asked nervously. ‘Where is she?’ Kane remained fixed in the doorway; his heavy breathing exemplified the rage within. The sheriff edged around his car without taking his eyes off his nemesis. He reached the driver’s door and climbed in. For a brief time, he cast his eyes to the windscreen; he looked back to the door. Kane had vanished.
Sean sighed a deep sigh of relief. The vehicle was still humming. Suddenly, the car rocked as if someone was exerting a great force on the rear. Sean put his foot down on the accelerator; the clutch lifted far too quickly in panic and the vehicle stalled. He reached for the ignition and turned the key. As he did, a gloved hand ripped the door off and gripped his hair, dragging him from the vehicle. Two giant hands pushed down on each of his shoulders and his legs buckled beneath his body. The pressure increased, forcing his shoulders backwards, folding his body in half and driving his head over feet. Sean yelled out in agony as his spine snapped in two.
Kane cracked the body back into shape and threw it furiously over his shoulder. He removed the keys from the vehicle and stalked up the trail to Harlon’s shack. Harlon always seemed to know when Kane was on his way and stood obediently outside, waiting for him. Kane pulled open the trapdoor and dropped the body down. He would deal with that after he had dealt with Lyra. Kane kicked the door shut and marched over to Harlon, throwing the keys at the old man.
‘Guess we’re getting a new sheriff,’ Harlon muttered. He knew that the disappearance of the sheriff would be treated like all of the disappearances by the townfolk. They would cover it up; no one dared venture into Kane’s territory. Harlon took a swig of his beloved bottle. ‘And the girl?’ he queried.
Kane snapped his head up and stared at the old man. He had never questioned Kane before; he warned people to stay away, they seldom heeded his warning, but he never questioned the creature. ‘Is she gone?’ the old man persisted. Kane tilted his head further; perhaps the old man had seen something special in this woman. Kane stared at him for some time. His fixation made Harlon nervous; he had overstepped the boundaries of their acquaintance. Harlon had been quite bemused by Kane’s choices the previous night; he had never let anyone live. Yet, he had been in Maple Cabin alone with Lyra and she had survived. At length, Kane shook his head slowly. Harlon nearly choked on his whiskey. ‘She’s alive?’ he queried curiously. Kane stared. Harlon raised the bottle up again, and when he lowered it, Kane had gone, vanished. Just like Harlon would make the sheriff’s car vanish.
The sack still lay where Kane had dropped it before the sheriff had interrupted his movements. He collected it quickly and made his way back along the shafts to his own cabin. The woman was still unconscious. Kane loosened the ropes and released her wrists so that he could tend to her further. Her skin was icy cold, and she shivered in her stupor. Kane removed the light blankets and towel-dried her body. He poured a few caps of disinfectant into the bowl of water by the sofa and cleaned her wounds. If she was awake, she might have winced as the liquid stung her cuts, but alas, she was not. Kane pulled a long shift that he had found in her bed over her cold body. The sofa did not look comfortable.
The monster lifted her again and carried her to his bed. He laid her down and covered her body with his own duvet. She looked so helpless. Watching her struggle and suffer had aroused him; he had done this to her, inflicted pain on her. He had watched her run from him and beg for her life, but his name on her lips had awoken something inside of him. Kane had not forgotten how she had hurt him, though; he could not forget, as his life had been one of pain and rejection. If she woke, she would try to escape again. He rose and marched back into the front room to retrieve the rope. This time, he bound her hands and tied them to the headboard. She did not move; her mind was still floating in a sea of darkness.
Kane had not thought about what he would do when she woke. His mind raced. He sat down on the bed next to her. He had never let a victim live; it was unfathomable. He gazed down at her. He pulled his right glove off and allowed it to drop to the floor. She had looked so delicious running from him, so tantalising as he stood over her and so desperate as his hands had clasped her throat. Kane, save me. The words tormented him; she had begged him to save her life, to grant her life. He had obliged against every instinct in his body, every instinct except one. A primal lust that continued to burn through him.
Kane looked down at his victim; she was his victim. He was in total control of her. He could hurt her anytime he wished; he could hurt her to feed one primal desire or he could forcibly feed his other lust. She was powerless. He ran his gloveless hand over her face; she would never want him. No one wanted him; only his mother had ever shown him any love. Even his father hated him and tortured him for being different. Abruptly, he moved his hand away from her skin and touched his own face. All she would see is the monster that everyone else saw, the hateful killer and deformed demon. She would reject him outright.
He felt his own face; the rage was beginning to build again. It never stopped, never went away completely. She would reject him; that would enrage him, and he would hurt her again. Kane put his glove back on. The woman could not leave even if she wanted to, and he could force himself on her if she tried.
Somewhere in the blackness, Lyra had tipped into her dream world. She was running through the forest, running as hard as she could, but her legs were heavy and kept plunging into an invisible mire, dragging her back and slowing her. The monster was coming; he was coming to kill her. Her throat ached and burned; she was thirsty, but there was no water, only that thick sludge. She could hear trees cracking all around her; footsteps were closing in on her from every direction. Then he was there; his heaving body stood before her. The machete pointing in her direction. The sludge held her fast; she could not move even though she was trying so desperately to escape. The monster closed in on her; she could feel him all around her. He was measuring himself up against her, menacing her. His hands clasped her throat; the parched dryness stung until one word was forced from her lips.
‘Kane.’
