Tagged: JR Grues

Serial Saturday: On The Road Again by JR Grues, Part 3, Finale

  1. Serial Saturday: On The Road Again by JR Grues, Part 1
  2. Serial Saturday: On The Road Again by JR Grues, Part 2
  3. Serial Saturday: On The Road Again by JR Grues, Part 3, Finale



On The Road Again: Part Three, Finale




I made my way through the hiking trail to get to Cabin 4. It was a nice trail, very dark but oddly lit in a way to make the perfect midnight hiking experience. I did not like the noise, however. The bugs sang like they were warning people of my presence. I wish I had the time to hunt every one of them down and squash them like they deserve, but I had to keep my mind on the prizes. Only one of the three young ladies was outside. She was raising her cell phone, scrambling. I could tell she was trying to find a signal. No luck here, little lady. She was very attractive, with blonde hair and a tight slim body—but still with a sizeable chest and butt. She was not dressed for the outdoors. She wore booty shorts, tank top, and what looked to be house slippers. She was almost screaming to her friends inside the cabin, complaining about not being able to connect her calls and that her phone was almost dying. “Is there one in the car?” I heard her yell to her friends as she made her way to their vehicle. “This is almost too easy,” I thought. I could pick them off one by one. The young woman fumbled in the car for a bit until she finished up and started to exit. I had a good size rock in my hand that I had picked up along the trail. I crashed it down on her head as if it came down from the sky. She fell to the ground as hard as the rock came down on her skull. She started to twitch and seize, so I struck her a few more times until that beautiful face was unrecognizable. What to do now? I only thought that for a few moments until I heard the cabin door open. I quickly ran behind the cabin. Just before the second girl noticed her disfigured friend lying dead, I swooped behind her, putting my hand on her mouth and knife against her ribs. I threw her up against the cabin and told her to be quiet. She tried to scream through my palm, so I buried my knife into her side and twisted with full force, releasing and stabbing multiple times until the shock kicked in and she had nothing left. I let her down slowly to the ground so as to not make too much noise and rested her dying head safely on the gravel ground. The final girl had no knowledge of what had happened to her dear friends. As I peeked through the window of their cabin, I noticed her alone, on the bed listening to an old CD player. I felt a wave of Déjà vu. I had not seen one of those types of CD players since my sister’s final breath. I would have taken hers, but it fell in the water during our little tussle. I used to listen to hers when she would leave it laying around. I remembered how the songs would skip if the disc was too scratched. I hadn’t thought about it until now, how music doesn’t skip any more. I liked the skipping. After hearing something repeatedly, I get bored. Something unexpected happening—the lyric not being said after anticipating it, or knowing the next line is coming but then it doesn’t—resonated with me. It was very comforting.

I made my way into the cabin. The final girl was distracted with her tunes, staring at the ceiling, unaware a stranger had entered her world. She must have felt a presence enter the cabin, but most likely assumed I was one of her friends just enjoying the weekend getaway like herself. I crept to the bed and still she yet to open her eyes. She wasn’t as pretty as her friends, but the way she blocked out the world and enjoyed her peace made me feel a fondness for her greater than anything I felt for her friends. She had not a care in the world. She was much older than me—as were all her friends. They were all in their mid-twenties, but still they had a young quality about them that made me think of them like children. She in particular had an innocence that I envied. Just like those bitches from my school, but I feel like this one would be nicer to me than they had ever been. Oh, how I wish I would run into some of my old high school classmates. Another time perhaps. 

The final girl’s hair was soft when I gently touched it. I wanted to run my hands through it, but I decided against it. She had yet to open her eyes. When I lifted one side of her headphones and whispered, “What are you listening to?” she jumped up and let out a low toned scream. I jumped on her, not hesitating, and attempted to hold her down. This one had some fight in her. She kicked and scratched at me, knocking me to the ground. She screamed for her friends as she tried to run out of the cabin. As she stepped over me, I grabbed her leg, trying to get her to the ground. It was tight quarters, so I had limited space to maneuver around and get to my feet. She kicked me square in the face and then I felt a hard smack to the head. It was a pan, or some other kitchen utensil, and it stunned me for a moment. I heard the cabin door finally open, and I got myself together. I got to my feet and, just as I exited the cabin in chase of her, I heard it—the horrid scream that would ruin the rest of my night. She stumbled across her friends and now she was letting my remaining yet-to-be victims know that this camp site was not safe. The night may be over early, but I could not let her get away.

Outside the cabin I saw her standing, hands on her mouth, screaming and crying at the gruesome sight of her closest friends. She noticed me approaching her, and she went to run, but in typical victim fashion, she tripped on her own feet. I pulled my knife and began to slash away at this woman who I had briefly admired. With every cut deeper than the next, she screamed louder and louder. I came down on her with everything I had on her chest and stomach, until her insides were what showed the most. I dug my hand into her open wounds and kept digging, reaching for something. My arm was submerged to my elbow and at that moment I realized I did not know for what I was reaching. It wasn’t until I heard the muffled yells from two men that I took my arm out of her. 

I had to think quick of what to do. Is it over? Am I content? NO! I see in the distance two older men hastily making their way down toward me. The husbands! I do not hesitate, and I do not overthink. Quickly I rub the fresh blood from my last victim over my leg. I notice my head is bleeding from where she struck me in the cabin. I could use this along with the blood I’ve accumulated throughout the night to appear as what I am, a survivor. I put my knife back in my boot and I approach the husbands. I put on my limp routine that I’ve used plenty before. I ready my voice to sound helpless. The men are close but not close enough. They know there is trouble, but do not know who has created it. We meet each other in the road, and I beg for help. “HELP ME, HELP ME PLEASE! SOMEONE IS AFTER ME AND KILLED MY FRIENDS!” One husband, the bigger of the two, throws one of my arms over his shoulders. My hero. The other runs past us a bit, inspecting the crime scene. “OH MY GOD!” he shouts, seeing the results of the slaughter. The bigger husband attends to me. “Who did this? Where are you hurt?” I bend down in fake pain. I grab my knife from my boot. “I did this!” I said just before I stabbed my would-be savior in his eye. The first hero fell back in agony, and in a quick motion I reveal my gun and kill the other with a headshot. I pointed my weapon at the remaining man, who was attempting to dislodge my knife from his eye socket and ended his life with a bullet through his temple. The remaining wives were easy. I shot one in the back for trying to run away from me. The other was too scared and distraught to attempt anything but compliance. I smashed in her head with a log from their firepit. I could’ve shot her and made it quick, but I wanted to save the remaining bullets for any surprises on my way towards the exit. There was none. 

This was my night. It went perfectly and I made it through with only one scratch. Mr. Johnson was the only one who was not fully dead. He crawled a few feet and made his way to his wife. I saw the blood trail was still fresh, so I put a bullet in him for peace of mind. The others were surely dead. This would be a crime scene to remember. The high from the night was already starting to fade, but the sureness of nonstop news cycles and public outcry would make me feel better. I could always look back on this night as something to cherish. A perfect scene, better than anything one of those hack writers could ever imagine. Who would play me if they made a movie? What would they call it? What would they call me? Should I leave a note behind, maybe put some dumb cheesy name that would live on in infamy? I almost want to find the nearest payphone and call my brother. I wonder what he is doing right now. He has no idea what I’ve just accomplished. My first massacre. “The Glamping Massacre.” That’s what the movie should be called. It would be an instant classic. 

I decided I should take the Johnsons’ car just a few miles and ditch it. It would help me get plenty far away before the bodies were discovered. I grabbed my bag and some snacks from the office, changed my clothes, and threw my bloody ones in the Johnsons’ fire pit and reignited the dead fire. I should have checked the other cars for some supplies for the road, but best not be too greedy. I’m a bona fide cold-blooded murderer, and I pride myself in that—not so much a thief except for the occasional necessity grab. I popped the trunk of the Johnsons’ car and to my horror, there he was. He was there all along—the missing Johnson boy. He was tied up in his parent’s trunk with a plastic bag wrapped around his head. He had been dead for some time—over twenty-four hours from the looks of him. What did he do? What was the trouble he had gotten into in school? What kind of punishment was this? He must’ve done something awful that his own parents would murder him. They most likely planned on burying him out here, or were they just going to ride around forever with their son in the trunk? These people were really twisted. How could you sit there making smores while your own flesh and blood rotted just a few feet away from you? I’ve said it a million times and I’ll say it again. This is a strange world with stranger people. Poor kid. Did he deserve this? Maybe they just wanted to be free. I couldn’t take this car anymore. In no way shape or form would I ever let a body count be added to mine that I did not deserve. This is the Johnsons’ victim, and I will not be credited. I closed the trunk and grabbed my things from the car. I walked over to Mr. and Mrs. Johnson and soaked their blood in a rag I found on the ground. I wiped on the trunk a clear note for the crime scene investigators. 


On the road again, I walked. I cut through some woods and some small towns to make my route difficult to trace. I stopped at a rest stop and dyed my hair again. I went from blonde to black and cut it down to my shoulders. The scratch on my head was healing pretty good. A couple more days and it would be as good as new. Any day now the news will break, and I cannot wait. “Multiple casualties at the local campsite.” BREAKING NEWS! BREAKING NEWS! I will be riding high on a euphoria that no drug could ever give me, and just in time for my seventeenth birthday. Seventeen will be a great year. As I stick my hand out and walk down this highway, I make a bet with myself on who will stop. Maybe they’ve already heard something. Maybe we will be riding down the highway together and the news will break over the radio. I need to practice hiding my excitement. It’s going to be almost impossible. I hear the air brakes from behind me, and I turn around to see a big rig coming to a slow stop. Here we go again. The truck stops and an older man lifts his head to meet me in the eyes. He asks what they always ask.

“Where you headed, pretty lady?” 

I put on my best fake smile.


Serial Saturday: On The Road Again by JR Grues, Part 2

  1. Serial Saturday: On The Road Again by JR Grues, Part 1
  2. Serial Saturday: On The Road Again by JR Grues, Part 2
  3. Serial Saturday: On The Road Again by JR Grues, Part 3, Finale



On The Road Again: Part Two


The sign read . . .“Welcome to The Cabin Getaway. Camping has never been more Glamorous!” It was an Airbnb mixed with the idea of camping. The site was comprised of a small circle of tiny cabins that were more like tiny homes. They even had a sketched map of the place on the sign near the entrance. There were five small trailers accessible by a gravel road. The one lane road led to each home and looped all the way around back to the entrance, which was also the exit. There was one way in and one way out. At the entrance was a small office trailer. It appeared to be where the tenants checked in and out. That would be my first stop at dusk. The thoughts were nonstop in my head. “How could I do this?” “Should I make a plan or just wing it?” “Knife or gun?” I could just use what was readily available. I should wait to use the gun until I absolutely need it. I haven’t needed it since I found it. I picked it up off one of my famous truckers. It was a black 9mm honor-guard. I also found a full box of bullets. It has some bang to it, but the kick back isn’t too bad. Best not to use unless necessary, perhaps maybe for my final victim. There was no need to alarm the entire campsite before the fun really got started. 

The sun starts to set, so I make my way to the office. There was only one person at the front desk. This will be a piece of cake. I don’t want to get too cocky just yet, so it’s best I make sure he is the only one around. The door was open, so I invited myself in for a chat with the man sitting at the desk. 

“Excuse me sir, is there a manager I could speak to? I’m having trouble with the Wi-Fi.”

The man looked confused for a second. There are not that many cabins, and I assume he meets with everybody that checks in. He didn’t recognize me and was unsure which party I was with. 

“Umm…what cabin are you in?” he asks as he checks the computer. “The Wi-Fi is up, so I’m not sure why you wouldn’t be getting a connection.” Still looking at the computer, he clicks the mouse a few of times before he focuses his attention back to me. “Are you sure you’re connecting to the right userna…” The sight of my gun now pointing at him threw off his speech. I asked him again, “Is there a manager I could speak too, sir?” He shivered at the presence of a gun. So many thoughts probably flooded his head. Who is this? What do they want?  He most likely begged me for his life in his own head before he could ever get the words out. Please don’t hurt me, take what you want! But those thoughts never translate to words when regular people are thrust upon with real violence and threats. He finally spit out some words riddled with stutters. 

“Please, I, I’m the only one working. We don’t have any money. It’s . . . It’s all done online. Please.”

This was fun and all, but I had no time for this. Once the piss became visible in his jeans, I told him to turn around and take off his belt. I instructed him then to get on his knees and close his eyes. He complied. I placed the gun on the desk and tied his hands with his own belt. I saw a meat cleaver in a butcher’s shop about a month ago, and I just had to take it. I knew someday the perfect time would present itself to use it. Today was the day. I grabbed the cleaver from my bag and went at his neck until I freed his head from his body. He had soiled himself, so I dragged his body into a closet that was filled with toiletries and snacks. I propped his head on the desk for my own personal amusement. I helped myself to a bag of cheese puffs as I scrolled through the computer files, checking on my new guest. This system had it all—the detailed layout, trails to and from, even a complete guest list of who was staying in each cabin. To my disappointment, only three out of the five were occupied. How could there be vacancies on the night of my arrival? Were they not expecting me? How could they do this to me? Very well. I will make do with what little opportunity I have. 

Cabin 1- The Johnsons. Husband, wife, and child. Ages aren’t shown in the registry, so I will have to determine that upon visual. Maybe I can circle back to them on my way out. They are the closest to the exit, so maybe that’s not a good idea. I’m expecting some screams so best not make it too easy for escape. 

Cabin 4- Cindy Pental along with two female guests. This one could be fun. Three friends camping together, who knows what kind of debauchery they are up to. They could be drinking heavily and consuming drugs together. I find it odd that they have their sexes identified in the system. Anybody could be looking at this thing, so why would you make it known three girls are alone in a cabin out here? Strange world. 

Cabin 5- Louie and Lucy Lockwood along with Brad and Stacey Vine. Two married couples. This could be my toughest one yet. The husbands could be a problem. Maybe they are swingers, then I could surprise them all while they are in the middle of full-on orgasmic group sex. What are the odds they are a boring pair of couples out here for some regular glamping?

I’ve made up my mind. First, I’ll hit the Johnsons. I’ll take care of the couple and the child first. The office attendant had no car in the parking spot, so I can use theirs to block the exit so no one else has an easy escape with a vehicle. Then I will take care of the three damsels, in soon enough, distress. I will have to be sneaky with that group to limit the number of screams. I will save the toughest for last. If all else fails, I can always use my trusty firearm to end the husbands and polish off the widows. I don’t ever cover my face when I do my deed. I’ve never once left a witness to any of my doings. Why start now? In a situation like this, a mask or paint of some sort is useful. It gives off a certain spookiness to my victims—makes the scares even scarier. All my big screen heroes have them, but there are no viewers here, so who am I trying to impress? Plus, I may have to blend in and make myself look like a camp goer. Nobody in their right mind would trust some stranger wearing a hockey mask asking for directions. 

I disabled the internet and checked the office attendant’s phone to see if he still had service. He didn’t. That’s great. Assuming he lived nearby and still had horrible service in these parts, then the tourists wouldn’t either. I stashed my bag in the office for safekeeping. I tucked my gun in my waistband and my knife in my boot and made my way through the trees to Cabin 1. I thought about casing every cabin out before I made my move on the family, but I spent too much time planning in my head already, I just wanted to get started. I couldn’t wait any longer. The excitement was too much to bear. As I crept on the first cabin, I felt as if I needed to pee. I was almost shivering in this hot humid night from wanting this so bad. The Johnsons were sitting at the campfire outside their cabin. The orange and red flames lit the front of their faces as they sat with marshmallows at the ends of their sticks. They were an older couple, maybe in their 40s. As I sat in the darkness, I got lost for a second in their conversation. They were worried about their son who was having trouble at school. They didn’t know how to deal with it anymore. They talked as if they had given up. The mother started crying a bit and then I snapped out of it. Where was this child? What was wrong with him? What kind of parents would give up on their son? I snapped a branch, knowing it would get the father’s attention. It did. He shot up, not out of worry, but weirdly excited. “Did you hear that?” he said to his wife. “Could be some wildlife.” 

The wife grew worried a bit. “Should we get inside?” she whispered to Mr. Johnson.

“No, nothing too dangerous out here,” Mr. Johnson responded sarcastically to his wife as he approached the tree line to where I was hiding. As the husband walked closer to where I crouched, he turned to his wife and told her to get his flashlight on the picnic table closer to their cabin. She reluctantly went for the light as her husband now stood mere inches away from me. I pounced from the shadows of the forest and stabbed him in the throat with three of the fastest jabs I’ve ever taken. I felt an intense quake run through my body starting from my knees. I couldn’t stop there. With the same murderous angst, I rushed toward Mrs. Johnson, who had yet to turn around to witness the brutality that awaited her. I grabbed the back of her hair and pulled her head back to expose the bare and vulnerable neck. I slit her throat from ear to ear with a clean cut from the sharp edge of my trusted blade. Neither of them made more than a slight moan from my quick and precise attack. Now, where is the kid? I peeked through the window of the cabin and to my surprise it was empty. You can view the entire cabin and bunks through the main window. No one else was with them and their luggage looked to be packed for just two. This was confusing, but I assume they needed a little separation from the troubled child, deciding to leave him behind. I took their keys and moved the Johnsons family vehicle to block the road. No one will leave this camp alive but me. 


Serial Saturday: On The Road Again by JR Grues, Part 1

  1. Serial Saturday: On The Road Again by JR Grues, Part 1
  2. Serial Saturday: On The Road Again by JR Grues, Part 2
  3. Serial Saturday: On The Road Again by JR Grues, Part 3, Finale



On The Road Again: Part One


Lucky me, what have I stumbled across? Welcome to the cabin getaway…The rustic sign with thick black letters may have well read “violence is welcomed!” Secluded, contained, and such a classic setting. A great opportunity awaits me, and the timing is perfect. It has been a long and tiresome trek across these hot Tennessee mountains. I had only a few fun experiences on my journey through this state. A couple of well-meaning citizens offered me rides from here and there. Of course, traveling on those sketchy highways, you are bound to run into some not so God-fearing types. I received a couple of solicitations to perform fellatio on some tough-knuckled truck drivers. Those, of course, are the main demographic willing to pick up a fresh-faced sixteen-year-old hitchhiker. They assume I am just another runaway trying to escape a troubled home situation. I play into the stereotype just long enough. They ask me about my life: where I’m going and where I’ve been. I act interested in what they do and where they are heading. I even pretend to be interested in their families. There is always a wife and kids waiting for them to get home from their long week on the road. This is how the conversation goes until that hint—the unbuckling of the seat belt and thrust of the hip to insinuate this ride isn’t free. If only their families knew of their depravities. 

Those types are my favorite. They honestly believe they are doing me a favor by helping some poor teenager escape an abusive father or overbearing mother. I always wish I told them the truth before they unzip their pants and close their eyes. “My parents are dead. I slit my mother’s throat, and bashed in my father’s head.” I never get the words out in time. Instead, just a quick stab to their jugular vein, and I rid this Earth of another scum. I grab my bag, and I am off on the road again. I tried to drive one of their trucks one time, but I didn’t make it too far. I didn’t know how to work the shift. 

A few genuine people pick me up. Those are the ones with whom I find it harder to deal. Putting on a nice face for nice people has always been something with which I’ve struggled. I keep my smile wide and conversation pleasant. I play with their kids in the back seat and try my hardest to suppress the urge to take their child’s head and bash it against the window, stab the mother in the passenger seat, and then strangle the father with his own seat belt until we all crash and die in a fiery blaze. 

For the most part, I let the innocent families along my journey remain alive. Their deaths will attract too much attention, and I’m looking for that perfect scene. It’s a constant search for a perfect night, like the plot of my favorite pictures—The Terrifier, Friday the 13th, and the classic The Strangers. I like to refer to myself as a SIN-efile. I love the bloody stuff. At a young age I realized it wasn’t real, and that upset me to no end. 

My interactions with the prey should have been the first red flag to my parents. We could never keep a pet for too long. After two cats, a dog, some fish, and a bird, we no longer had any pets in the house. My older sister and younger brother became very frightened by the time I decided to move on. It will be two years in a month since I was last home. My older sister was taking a bath when I ended my parent’s miserable lives. She had her headphones on, listening to a vintage CD player. She heard nothing and didn’t notice me standing over her watching her naked body, until it was too late. She was a lot weaker than I thought she would be, I was prepared for more of a struggle as I held her under the soapy water. I left my younger brother alive. He was not home when I committed my cleanse. There was no other reason I let him live. My urge trumped my preparedness. I emptied the family safe of cash, packed what I needed, and hit the road. I kept up with the articles and news reports on my family’s demise until I needed to rid myself of smart phones. The last I checked, they never actually listed me as a suspect. I was just reported as missing. I’m sure they wised up by now. I suppose I’m no longer placed on the milk cartons, but now on the wanted posters. Good luck to them. Along my travels, I’ve cut and dyed my hair more than a few times. I also broke my nose once or twice along with the burning of my fingertips on a cast iron skillet I found in a couple’s unlocked car. I try not to stay in the same area for more than two days. I stay long enough to get my fix, rest, and then I am on the road again. They probably want to know why I did it, but I don’t have an interesting reason. Maybe, I just wanted to be free.

It’s been a pretty boring couple of weeks. I haven’t had a victim in a while. Nothing excited me. I thought I had something good, about a month back, when I ran into another traveler at a truck stop. I kept thinking, “Maybe he’s just like me.” That would be intriguing—two serial killers facing off for survival of the fittest. Who will be the chosen one to carry on, to continue the devil’s business? Of course, he was just a wandering loser, running away for a fresh start. The conversation became boring, so I stabbed him in the chest ten times and stole his socks. He had great socks. City after city, ride after ride, the urge never came over me. Nothing gave me the desire or the thrill. That was until I came across this wonderful place. The cabin getaway, oh what awaits you.