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The wind shook the panes of the old home with a force that had been missing for months. After a brutal summer, the fall season was well upon them, and Liza O’Connell had no complaints about that. This was her favorite time of year, especially Halloween. And though the holiday was now in the seasonal rearview mirror, she was already planning her costume for next year. The scarier the better. She’d always been a fan of the horror genre, often finding herself creating stories of her own about all the dangers lurking in and around this old place. Or anyplace.
Liza’s boss, Carrie King, had purchased the home a decade ago, updated it, and turned it into a salon that didn’t take long to become the town favorite—Best Tressed. After Liza had graduated from cosmetology school in Atlanta, she’d passed through the small mountain community on the way to somewhere else, and she knew right away it was the perfect place to hang her hat. Outdoors activities, small-town coziness, and cute country boys. She’d applied for a stylist position at Carrie’s salon and got the job in a snap.
It was just past closing time, and Liza was in the back room of the salon, cleaning up after a long Saturday of constant customers. As Carrie wrapped up with the last client of the day, Liza folded the towels, put the handful of dishes in the dishwasher, and started working on sanitizing the tools of her trade.
“How you doing back there, Liza?” Carrie called out.
“Good, almost finished.”
Liza walked into the styling area and saw Frank, a handsome, middle-aged man, sitting at Carrie’s station as she put the finishing touches on his tightly cropped beard. Her back was to Liza, and she could see Frank’s chiseled features in the mirror as he inspected Carrie’s every move. Everything had to be just so with Frank, and Carrie always delivered.
Carrie swept aside the cape with a flourish and gave him a hand mirror so he could inspect her work from all angles. He smiled, satisfied, and then met Liza at the register to pay.
Carrie did a quick but thorough cleaning of her station and then said, “You okay to close up tonight?”
“You bet.”
“You’re the best,” Carrie said, giving Liza a quick, one-armed hug.
When Carrie shuffled out the front door, Liza headed to the back once again. Closing the door behind her, she picked up where she’d left off. Washing, wiping, drying. She even organized the dyes, extensions, and other essentials used by the group of five stylists. Carrie was a stickler for order and shine, and Liza couldn’t blame her one bit. She’d do the same if she owned a salon. Maybe one day.
As Liza cleaned, her thoughts wandered, as they tended to do when performing mindless tasks.
It would be a late walk for Tracker, the sweet hound dog she’d adopted, and an even later dinner for them both, which they’d have out on her little patio under a halo of twinkle lights. She didn’t care about the hour. The cooler weather had given her attitude a shot of adrenaline, and she looked forward to being outside, the amazing Appalachians and colorful falling leaves within view of her patio.
As she grabbed the broom and prepared to sweep, the back door blew open.
Startled, Liza dropped her broom and spun around.
It hadn’t been a force of nature that slammed that door open.
It had been something else—someone else.
Liza gasped and said, “What are you doing here?”
Fingers, long and firm, wrapped around her short, platinum locks, jerking her to the ground. She fought to free herself, kicking and screaming, but it was to no avail. She was overwhelmed—in shock, off balance, tired from the exhausting day. As the tears came, she thought about negotiating, but before she could say a word, her attacker turned and raced toward the counter by the sink.
Liza scrambled to her feet. She wiped her tear-stained cheeks and said, “Wh-what do you want? Why are you doing this?”
No reply.
She needed to get out of here.
She needed to get out of here now.
Liza turned toward the back door.
If she was fast enough, maybe she could get to it first, get herself to safety.
Don’t think. Just go.
Liza’s attacker lunged at her, and she spun back around, staring down the business end of a rattail comb.
Held high.
Plunging down.
Through her blue eye and straight into her brain—a horror story she would never live to tell.
