Read the Prologue for My Thriller 'The Final Boy'

The pitch for my thriller novel, The Final Boy, recently won Third Place in a contest hosted by the London Writers' Salon (you can read it here). And now, you can read the opening pages below. If you like what you read, feel free to reach out as I am seeking beta readers. 

Excerpt from Movie Night, a manuscript by Nathan Okada

First, there was the screaming.

It came from the large, ultra-high-def TV that showed a climactic scene in which a young Linda Blair was running from the hideously disfigured killer who butchered her friends in the creepy mansion she was trying to escape. 

He knew this movie all too well.

Aside from the booming film score, the living room was silent, all heads faced forward. The inviting scent of baked goods and pizza still lingered in the air, but there was a palpable stillness that didn’t exist before.

He scanned the space, trying to find what he was looking for without disturbing the feature presentation, whispering apologies as he quietly shuffled behind the couch. 

He winced, catching a whiff of something else.

Something sour. Rotten.

Did no one else catch it?

The three figures on the couch remained still, silhouetted against the large screen. The one on the right had his head tilted to the side. The one on the left was slumped forward. And the figure in the middle was leaning against his motionless companion. In the movie, Linda Blair managed to jumpstart her getaway car. 

Had they fallen asleep? He was about to make a joke about them being up past their bedtime when he felt his foot land with a crunch. Looking down, he made out white specks on the hardwood floor. Popcorn. Lots of it. Apparently spilled from a bowl that landed a few feet from a dark heap of clothes on the floor.

No, not clothes.

A body. Facedown. 

He stumbled backwards, bumping into the club chair that was occupied by another figure, one arm listlessly draped over the side, another head tilted back. 

On the screen, Linda Blair swerved down a road with the killer on the roof of her car, then crashed into the mansion gate, impaling the killer on a protruding metal spike.

That’s when he saw their pale faces in the glow of the TV. Mouths open in silent screams, bits of food on their lips, each one painted with a dark dribble of something.

Blood. Mixed with vomit.

The fetid stench grew stronger. 

Breathe, he told myself. Instead, he doubled over, coughing and gagging. When he looked up, he saw the sixth body slumped against the wall near the kitchen doorway.

Another dry heave.

His eyes finally adjusted to the dimly lit space, everything coming into focus. What was once an inviting living room, full of cozy comforts and friendly company, had turned into a home theater for the dead. 

He spun around. Could this be a prank of some kind? Did he walk into the wrong apartment

No.

This was the same place, the same walls, the same familiar faces, yet all terribly different. He tried to steady himself in a wave of nausea.

Breathe. Just breathe.

But he couldn’t. He felt the darkness of the truth closing in.

So suffocating.

So relentless.

Meanwhile, on the large TV, the final scene came to an end, and the closing credits of Hell Night began to scroll.