Scarf Face

Ryan, a mid-thirties banker in tastelessly expensive attire, stumbles out of a bar and into the silhouette of a bundled-up woman on the street. Huffing in annoyance, he bumps her out of his way and stumbles on toward his car.

Shortly behind comes a young woman screaming, “Jerk!” She returns inside the bar to comfort her friend, whose drink was unchivalrously dumped down her shirt front moments before.

The stout, bundled-up woman turns from her view of the girls back down toward the scrawny man drunk-jogging away. She can barely see through the layers of scarves wrapped tight around her face under the jacket hood, completely masking her.

Ryan gets to his Alfa Romeo parked at the end of the street and fumbles through his pockets for his keys. He finds them, drops them, scoops them off the street floor, and rises back up.

The bundled-up woman is now standing at the hood of his car. Ryan jerks back.

“What? What do you want?” He asks. No reply. No movement. “What?”

After a beat, Ryan slips into his car and locks the door. He punches the radio on. Revs his engine and flicks on the high beams, illuminating the watching woman. Still, he cannot make out her face through the thickness of the scarves. He flashes the beams at her. No movement. Just watching.

“What the hell?” He whispers no one, then kicks the car into reverse. He looks behind him, moves back into drive, then looks forward. She’s gone.

Relieved, Ryan calls his buddy up.

“Hey man, steer clear of that dive bar on 18th. Full of girls looking to get into a fight.”

The car meanders off the road then back on. The bundled-up woman watches him go from a nearby tree.

“No, I didn’t fight with anyone.” Ryan bickers on the phone. “I bought a drink for this girl, then like a few minutes later she’s all over this other guy so I simply came over and snatched the drink I bought out of hand and the stupid thing spilled…” He goes on. “Oh whatever. Alright. I’ll hit the club without you.”

***

Ryan now sits on his couch in his townhouse, nursing a glass of whiskey by himself. The T.V is on, some reality show where people throw drinks at each other for entertainment.

“So dramatic.” He mumbles to himself, thinking about the bar girl’s cry when he accidentally knocked her drink down her shirt.

Then, the doorbell rings.

Ryan rises and sways over to the front door, hoping his friend has come to pep him up.

He opens it – no one’s there. He shuts and locks the door again, finally wondering if he drank too much. Ryan wanders to the kitchen to dump his whiskey in the sink. Suddenly, the lights cut out. The buzzing drama playing on the T.V cuts to black. Ryan slams his glass on the floor in fury.

“Come on! Seriously?!” Ryan shouts to the empty home, then steps around the glass to grab an unused candle his mom bought him for Christmas years ago from the closet and lights it up.

He moves to the window and sets the candle down, peering through the blinds at the neighborhood. Lights glow from the homes across the street. The streetlights all still work…

…including the one shining down where his car is parked. She’s back – that weird little woman with all the scarves. Standing at his car. Watching him.

Ryan runs and yanks open the front door, charging down the front steps and onto the sidewalk at her.

“What do you want? Huh? You want me to call the cops, is that what you want?” He spits. Nothing. The scarf-faced woman is like a standing corpse.

Ryan advances, jabbing her in the shoulders.

“Move or I’ll run you over. How about that???”

He panics and starts ripping at her scarves—all of them---unwinding so he can see his stalker’s face. Still, she does not move. Scarves of every color drop to the street around her. When the last one falls, Ryan screams.

The bundled-up Scarf Face woman wears a white theatre mask, the mouth hole pulled downward in a frown. Piercing blue eyes beam through the two eye holes.

Finally, she extents one arm up toward his tie…maybe to fix it straight, maybe to choke…

Instinctively, Ryan pushes her and she falls back onto the street.

***

The girl, whose name was Amy---which Ryan would know if he bothered to ask—cleans up her tear-stained face and shirt while her friends wait by the bar.

“Where’s Amy?” One asks casually.

“I think she’s in the bathroom calling her mom.” Another replies.

Everyone else in the group pauses.

“Like…that mom?”

“What does that even mean?” The first questions.

“Dude, Amy’s mom is in jail. She straight-up murdered her boyfriend.”

“What???”

“Yeah, apparently he was really abusive to her. Amy said she never knew ‘cuz the mom would cover the bruises and scars with like, wraps and scarves and stuff. She had no clue what was going on…until one day the mom just snapped.”

They all fall to a hush. Amy returns.

“Sorry, guys. I tried to call my mom but the whole facility is on lockdown or something. I guess someone escaped.”

***

Scarf Face rises up from the ground and faces the scared boy head-on. She flicks out a knife and instantly stabs Ryan’s stomach. Ryan screams again, for the last time. She tugs the blade upward, reaching his lungs and puncturing them. Ryan barely has a moment to defend himself before collapsing onto the street. Scarf Face takes off her white mask and drapes it over her victim’s face. Blood gushes out of the mouth hole in reply, but Ryan is already dead. Scarf Face looks down at her second murder victim – and yet not a victim at all-- her piercing eyes framed with long-worn facial scars and cigarette burns, until she buries them beneath her rewrapped scarves once again.

Once finished she slowly waddles away from the body, now nothing more than a road bump in the street.