Hooked

Footsteps. Five of them. Dust falls through the cracks from the floor above. His breath halts. He was so close. He only needs a few more moments with her. He holds the smooth blade of the fishing knife to her scalp. He pulls her head back, his meaty fist clutching her golden curls. He inhales her scent, musty with sweat. The duct tape that sealed her mouth shut is pulled taut as the poor blonde tries to screamed for help. Tim smiles. No sound escapes. He yanks her head back forcefully, enjoying watching the tears slide along her cheeks and disappear down her neck. He looks up just as little rays of light seep in through the floorboards.

You pull the thin chord. The exposed light bulb dangling in the back of the cluttered shed gives off a hazy yellow glow and the illusion of warmth. As you lean across to grab the gaff hook from the back wall you feel your foot slip a bit. The toe of your work boot lodged itself in thick green netting. There are nets, and ropes tangled like snakes on the wooden floor. You make a mental note to ask Tim to tidy up the equipment shed. Tim does all sorts of odd jobs around the hatchery. His main jobs are night feedings and general cleanup of the grounds. Tim, who, looks to be to be in his early thirties, is extremely muscular and has short tousled chestnut hair. You think he could be considered attractive if it wasn’t for his eyes. He has these deep green eyes that shift constantly. They always seem to be moving, unable to focus. You usually see him right around closing, feeding the salmon in the back pond.

You pull the chord again, turning off the light. The cool autumn air pricks at your cheeks as you walk down the hill towards the back of the farm. The sun is beginning to duck behind the trees, and you need to clean out the last salmon pool before closing up and heading home for the night. You wonder if Tim will already bee there.

He waits until the light goes out and the footsteps fade. He listens to the door of the shed swing close. Tim quickly pulls the knife along the skull of the girl. She kicks and kicks but he keeps sawing at her scalp. Tim locks eyes with her as he places her scalp on the deer antlers he had mounted on the wall. He pauses admiring the way the golden tendrils bounce as the blood drips off the curls. Leaving the girl dangling from the ceiling the same way his father had taught him to hang deer, he pushes up on the floor boards and crawls into the shed and follows you out the door.

You walk down toward the pool of salmon. Tim sees the tip of the gaff just peaking over your left shoulder. He shudders imagining the pop of the point as it pierces through the skin of your pale neck. It won’t take much force. He licks his lips almost tasting the saltiness of your blood. He envisions your eyes losing their spark as he continues to push the hook deeper and deeper. He imagines your hair hanging on the antlers, next to the blonde’s in the basement. He needs you for his collection. He has seen you around the fish farm before, but each time someone else was around. Tonight you’re all his.

You approach the pool gently. It’s darker than you expected. You pull your phone out of your pants pocket to use as a flashlight. You sweep it along the pool seeing nothing but black water. You kneel down and place the gaff hook on the grass next you. You lean in closer and peer into the water. You sit straight up.

A shimmer of a fish glides through your reflection. It creates ripples that disturb the smooth surface. When the water settles you see the figure for a brief flash before your head forced under the water. Bubbles and panic swirl around you as the murky water floods your nose and mouth. You scream and scream only taking in more water. You try to claw at the hands holding your neck. The gaff slides around your throat and you are pulled up. Gasping for breath you look into the eyes of Tim. They were still. “Up,” he commands.

You are lifted up and dragged back to the equipment shed. Tim crouches down and lifts up one of the floor boards “In.” Tim shoves you into the small opening in the floor. You drop onto the cold stone below. The smell of dead rotting fish hits you first. Tim lights a small lantern hanging on the wall. The young girl is still dangling from her wrists. You hear drops of water hitting the hard floor from your wet hair matching the drops falling from the bloodied scalp. “Here.” Tim places a bloody fishing knife into your hand.

“Gut her.”

“I-I…” you stutter.

“You interrupted me earlier. Now you must finish the job.” The flat tone of Tim’s voice lacks emotion. You see his eyes are shifting again. “Hurry. I need to get you up there next.” You take a good look at the girl. She has been scalped and pieces of her white skull are completely exposed. You choked back your rising stomach acid.

You run a hand through your own hair. The weight of the fishing knife fells heavy in your own hand.