Chapter 2: The Cheese Knife Gambit

Chapter 2: The Cheese Knife Gambit

The two playing cards in Alex’s hand felt impossibly heavy, their edges sharp against his trembling fingers. A nine of clubs and a four of hearts. Useless. Meaningless. His mind wasn’t on the game; it was in the dim, foul-smelling space under the bathroom sink, replaying the silent scream on that mummified face.

He was sitting across from a killer. The thought was a drumbeat in his skull: killer, killer, killer.

“Your bet, Alex,” Wallace said again. His voice was the same as always—calm, patient, with an undercurrent of friendly challenge. But now, Alex heard a predatory stillness in it. The sound of a spider waiting patiently in its web. Wallace’s eyes, those sharp, intelligent eyes, were fixed on him, and Alex felt stripped bare, his terror a pulsing, visible thing.

“Right. Sorry.” Alex forced his hand to move, to push a few chips forward. The plastic clacked against the others, a sound as loud as a gunshot in the ringing silence of his mind.

“You’re shaking, man,” Dan noted, mid-chew on a slice of pepperoni pizza. “Must have a killer hand.”

Alex flinched at the word. A strangled laugh escaped his lips. “Yeah. Something like that.” He chanced a look at Dan. Was he in on it? His goofy, harmless friend? Or was he just another lamb, blissfully unaware of the butcher at the table? Dan’s face was open, his expression one of simple, beery contentment. There was no flicker of deceit, no hint of the monster Alex now saw lurking behind Wallace’s calm facade.

Maybe Dan doesn’t know, a desperate voice whispered in his head. Maybe I can get to him. If I can get him alone, just for a second…

His gaze darted around the room, searching for an escape, an excuse, a weapon. It landed on the greasy cardboard pizza box. Lying next to it on a paper plate was a small, serrated cheese knife, its wooden handle stained dark with oil. The blade wasn't long, maybe four inches, but its edge caught the dim light, promising a sharp, tearing bite.

The knife became the center of his universe. It was a threat—he imagined Wallace snatching it up, his friendly smile twisting into a predator’s snarl. But it was also a promise. A last resort. A chance, however slim, to fight back.

He had to try something. Now.

“I, uh… I need some water,” Alex stammered, his eyes on Dan. “Hey, Dan, can you give me a hand? My stomach’s really acting up.” He hoped the lie sounded convincing, a continuation of his earlier excuse. He started to push his chair back, trying to signal with his eyes, with every ounce of his being, for Dan to follow him into the kitchen.

Dan was already half-rising from his seat. “Sure, dude, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

But Wallace placed a hand flat on the table, a quiet, definitive gesture that stopped everything. “Stay put, Dan. Finish your slice.” His gaze slid to Alex, and it was like being pinned by a shard of ice. “I’ll get it for you, Alex. You look like you’re about to fall over. You shouldn’t be walking around.”

The words were dripping with concern, but the message Alex received was a threat: Don’t move. Don’t you dare try to leave my sight.

Wallace stood up, not with the easy grace Alex was used to, but with a slow, deliberate motion that seemed to fill the small room. He moved to the kitchen, his back to them for only a moment, but it was enough for Alex to see that the path to the front door was completely blocked. Wallace was a wall between him and escape.

The seconds stretched into an eternity. Dan, oblivious, started telling a long, rambling story about a malfunction at the bottling plant where he worked. His voice was a meaningless drone, background noise to the frantic screaming inside Alex’s head.

Wallace returned with a glass of water, his footsteps unnervingly silent on the worn floorboards. He placed it carefully in front of Alex, his fingers brushing Alex’s hand. The touch was cold, and a jolt of pure dread shot up Alex’s arm.

“There you go,” Wallace said, his voice low. He sat back down, picking up his cards. But as he did, his eyes met Alex’s, and for a fleeting, terrifying instant, his friendly mask seemed to slip. The smile was still there, but it didn’t reach his eyes. In their depths, Alex saw a cold, calculating intelligence. It was a look that said, I know you know. And I’m enjoying the game.

Alex’s blood ran cold. The gambit had failed. He hadn’t just failed to get Dan alone; he had revealed his hand. He had shown Wallace that he was suspicious, that he was scared. He had tipped off the monster that the prey was aware of the trap.

The poker game resumed, but it was a pantomime. Alex folded instantly. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Every rustle of clothing, every shift in weight, every casual glance sent fresh waves of adrenaline crashing through him. The cheese knife lay on the plate, a gleaming sliver of hope and horror.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, Dan tossed his cards down in disgust after a losing hand. “Alright, that’s it for me for a bit. Emptied my bladder and my wallet.” He drained the last of his beer and stood, stretching his arms over his head. “Gotta make a deposit. Be right back.”

No, Alex thought, his heart seizing. No, not now. Don’t leave me alone with him.

But Dan was already lumbering toward the hallway, toward the bathroom. Toward the source of the nightmare.

The click of the bathroom door shutting echoed in the sudden, oppressive silence.

It was just the two of them.

The sports recap on the TV had ended, replaced by the low hum of a test pattern. The only sounds were the buzz of the refrigerator from the kitchen and the frantic, shallow gasps of Alex’s own breathing.

He kept his eyes glued to the table, to the meaningless pattern on the back of his cards. He didn’t dare look up. He could feel Wallace’s stare on him, a physical weight pressing down on his skull. The air grew thick, heavy with unspoken knowledge.

Slowly, deliberately, Wallace set his cards face-down on the table. The soft whisper of cardboard on wood was deafening. He folded his hands, a picture of perfect calm.

Alex knew he had to look up. He had to face him. He slowly raised his head, his neck muscles screaming in protest.

Wallace was leaning forward slightly, his elbows on the table. The dim overhead light cast the sharp angles of his face in shadow, making his eyes seem like dark, bottomless pits. The friendly mask was gone completely. In its place was an unnerving, placid curiosity. The look of a scientist observing a particularly interesting reaction.

Then, he spoke. His voice was quiet, conversational, and it was the most terrifying sound Alex had ever heard.

“So,” Wallace said, a faint, chilling smile touching his lips. “Your play, Alex.”