The Last Victim_ A True-Life Journey Into the Mind of the Serial Killer - Jason Moss [21]
While we were occupied with one of the games, a man approached us and sort of struck up a conversation.
“You’re pretty good at that game,” he said. “You must practice a lot.”
“Thanks, I do,” I answered shyly. I knew I wasn’t supposed to talk to strangers but in this case I couldn’t see any way to avoid it. Besides, he seemed nice enough.
“Jason,” my brother said, tugging at me, “what do I do now?”
Normally, I’d be bugged by Jarrod’s interrupting, but I was glad for the distraction. “Sorry, mister, but I gotta help my brother.”
“That’s okay, little guy. I just like watching you play.”
I looked around the room helplessly. My parents were a million miles away. My brother had no idea what was going on. And this guy was getting more and more familiar with me. Now he was bumping into me and rubbing my shoulders.
“Uh, mister, we gotta go now. Our parents are waiting just over there.” I pointed in the general direction of the casino, but he could tell I was lying.
“I’ll tell you what, son, why don’t you just come with me for a little while. I’ll take you back to my house and we can play some games there together.”
I froze. I knew my brother and I were in deep trouble. But every time I tried to move away from the man, he kept following us closely, touching me whenever he could.
What was even more annoying was that Jarrod was completely oblivious to the danger. “Come on, Jason, look at this! Look what I did!” He was so mesmerized by the flashing lights of the games that he wouldn’t look at me long enough for me to signal him that we had to get out of there.
I thought I could get away from the guy if I was by myself, but there was no way I could do much with my little brother there. I saw the man looking around, checking to see who was watching us, when I punched my brother in the arm hard enough to make him cry.
Perfect. Jarrod was making some serious noise. “
That’s not going to work,” the man said to me with a smile. “You’re still coming home with me.”
“Okay, mister, I’ll come with you, but I can’t leave my brother like this. Let me just show him where my parents are so he doesn’t get scared. Then I’ll come with you.”
I don’t know if he bought my excuse or not. Maybe he just got nervous because he realized things were getting more complicated than he’d anticipated. But while he was thinking things over, I grabbed my brother’s hand and started moving us toward the door. I whispered in his ear that a monster was after us so we’d better run for our lives. Jarrod thought I was kidding but we still shot out of there as fast as we could.
I didn’t want my parents getting all excited, so I didn’t tell them much about what happened—just that some guy scared us. I was curious, though, about why someone would want to snatch kids and hurt them. What was it about a person’s background that fed such urges? I somehow connected that child molester in the casino with slashers in horror movies and, later, real-life serial killers.
I finally saw Friday the 13th —with two friends, and without my parents’ permission. Just a few minutes into the film—when the eerie music first starts to rise, signaling impending doom—I closed my eyes, and I kept them tight until the closing credits. I didn’t actually see the movie this first time, but hearing it was bad enough. Afterward, I had vivid nightmares in which a monster would stalk and try to kill me.
Even so, I went back to see the movie a second time, this time forcing myself to watch the whole gruesome spectacle. I figured the reality had to be more tolerable than the nightmares.
On some level I don’t really understand, a part of me also enjoyed the feelings of panic and fear that we all recognize as the stimulation that draws us to such films in the first place. Once the lights come back on, we breathe a sigh of relief when we realize that our own sorry lives are not nearly as bad as we once imagined.