Chillingworth Mews: A supernatural horror novel

by Anton Palmer

  As she slid her key into the lock, Roger was gripped by anxiety.

  Was she expecting him to make love to her?

  He was totally unprepared; both emotionally (he had assumed he would have to seduce her slowly over the coming weeks) and practically - he had no condoms. Perhaps he was misreading her intentions. Rachel was a ‘nice’ girl - not like so many of her classmates who regularly spent their evenings in the back-seats of cheap cars with bad body-kits. She probably just wanted to kiss and cuddle…maybe he could cop a quick feel to let her know he wanted her – when she was ready.

  But what if she was as keen to take things further as he was?

  As these fears battled in his consciousness, his mind was pulled between running for home and obeying the un-ignorable erection that now throbbed with anticipation behind the seam of his jeans.

  Rachel dragged him inside and shut the door behind them. Leading him into the living room, she jumped onto the black leather sofa, lying on her back, arms outstretched, inviting him to join her. He frantically looked around the room, at the books and ornaments on the shelves, desperately searching for something to talk about, to distract her. He was on the precipice of manhood…and it scared him shitless. As the seconds passed he realised he had no choice but to follow her lead and, laying himself slowly on top of her, the battle was lost.

  They kissed, hard and deep, Rachel guiding his shy hand to her chest, encouraging him to fondle her through her sweater. At the first touch of her firm mounds, Roger’s teenage urges took over. He thrust his hand beneath her clothes, relishing the feel of her bare stomach and flank for a few seconds before sliding his hand further, almost gasping aloud as his fingers found the soft warm flesh of her breasts.

  Rachel suddenly pushed him back, struggling to sit up. She pulled the sweater over her head and discarded it casually onto the floor. Mouth gaping, Roger stared at the sight of her torso; naked except for the lacy white bra through which her stiff, dark nipples strained. She slipped the straps over her arms, “Unhook me…”

  Roger reached behind her back, his fumbling fingers trembling with excitement, wiggling and tugging at the clasp but failing to unhook it.

  “You boys are all the same,” she giggled as she brushed Roger’s inept digits away and unfastened herself.

  What did she mean, ‘You boys are all the same’?

  Roger had assumed his girlfriend was a virgin. The thought that another boy had knowledge of Rachel’s ‘special’ places sickened him and the sudden thought that he had previous expectations to live up to, filled him with a cold dread, his erection subsiding a little between his legs.

  Rachel tossed her bra into the air with a flourish and her pert breasts, many years away from the fear of gravity, begged Roger for his attention. The terrors of inadequacy that were all prevailing just seconds ago dissolved in an instant as he stared at them: the silky smooth curves, the stiff nipples…

  His erection suddenly found a renewed vigour.

  Roger placed his hands on her naked shoulders, sliding his fingers delicately over her skin, stroking her neck, stretching the time as he stared at her naked chest, trying to work out just how he should touch those beautiful breasts.

  Should he stroke them gently?

  Should he grab and squeeze them?

  How did girls like to have their breasts touched?

  The sex-education lessons at school suddenly seemed far away and woefully inadequate. As he pondered his options, his fingers subconsciously worked at the silver crucifix that hung around Rachel’s neck…

  *

  Rachel’s mouth was stretched wide.

  She choked as something filled her, pressing against the back of her throat, stimulating her gag reflex. Her stomach lurched as vomit started to rise.

  The penis withdrew quickly, deep-voiced apologies accompanying its retreat.

  “Again!” This voice was breathless, but unmistakably Rachel’s, “I want it all.”

  The rampant cock plunged back in, Rachel’s mouth gaping to its fullest extent to accommodate it. Again she gagged, but this time she threw her head forwards, her lips grazing against pubic hair, and, opening her throat, she swallowed the organ as deep as it would go before sliding her head back and repeating the exercise.

  Within seconds the organ swelled in her mouth, gouts of warm semen flooding into her…

  *

  Roger released the necklace, coughing and gagging for a moment before leaning over the sofa and throwing up onto the deep-pile carpet. Despite the passage of acidic vomit, the taste of semen was still strong on his tongue.

  He pushed Rachel away and leapt off the sofa, tears pouring from his eyes.

  “I…”

  There were no words…

  He headed for the door and sprinted from the house until grief consumed all the energy he had. Finally collapsing behind a garden hedge, he sobbed, spitting the foul taste of another man’s cum from his mouth; his dreams and heart shattered into oblivion.

  1947

  The classroom was filled with the clacking of knitting needles. Miss Simpson looked up from the magazine she was reading and cast a stern gaze over the girls in her class.

  “Remember to keep the yarn behind the needles, girls.”

  She watched for a few seconds as some of the girls moved their wool, then her attention was drawn back to her copy of ‘Woman’s Own’ – a knitting pattern for a waistcoat had caught her eye – something to occupy her time on the weekend. The wool she would require was plentiful in the classroom, she could easily smuggle some home with her, no need to spend her hard earned money in the town. As she read, she gently massaged her temples as she noticed that the headaches that had been plaguing her for days seemed to be getting worse.

  A sudden groan distracted her from her reading.

  She glanced up. Jennifer Turley sat directly in front of her, a shiny pink tongue poking out between her pretty lips as she concentrated on rectifying a dropped stitch. As if sensing the teacher’s stare the girl looked up, her sparkling blue eyes making contact with Miss Simpson’s grey, weary orbs for just a second before the pupil turned away.

  Miss Simpson continued to study the girl: her beautiful sapphire eyes; her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail revealing a slender neck; her grey dress stretched tight over breasts that were far too large for her petite, youthful frame. She dropped her scrutiny below the desk, subconsciously licking her lips as she admired the teenager’s silky smooth and shapely calves, tucked into pristine white ankle socks. The teacher let out a breathy sigh before raising her eyes to the girl’s chest once more, her young breasts straining against her pinafore dress. She couldn’t help but admire the full, pert mounds before looking down at her own chest, the flow of her dress barely disturbed by the tiny bumps that she had been blessed with.

  The good Lord must have been in a cruel mood the day he created me, she thought.

  While he had not seen fit to endow her with a pin-up girl figure, he had not left her lacking as far as her libido was concerned. She was hot and horny most of the time but the Almighty, in his infinite wisdom, had made her only to be aroused by the curvaceous charms of the female sex and then, with a perverse understanding all of his own, had placed her in the role of a girl’s teacher.

  A hand-bell rang, its metallic tones echoing around the building.

  “Alright, girls. Put your work away tidily, needles returned to the pot on my desk and leave your chairs and desks straight.”

  Miss Simpson watched as her class filed out through the door.

  “Jennifer!”

  The girl turned at the sound of her name.

  “Could you stay behind please, Jennifer?”

  The teenager turned to her classmates, confusion in her eyes as to why she was being held back. She stood silently by the door, head down, as the other girls made their way out.

  “Close the door please, Jennifer.”

  The girl did as she was told then walked slowly to the teacher’s desk as Miss
Simpson gestured her forward.

  “What’s the matter, Jennifer? You look uncomfortable.”

  “I need to go to the toilet, Miss.” The girl stared down at her shoes as she spoke, afraid to meet her teacher’s gaze.

  “Is that all it is, Jennifer?”

  “I don’t understand what you mean, Miss.”

  “Well, you seemed to drop quite a few stitches today. Are you having trouble concentrating?”

  “No, Miss. I’m sorry, Miss.”

  “There’s no need to apologise, Jennifer. I was just concerned about you. Is there something on your mind, perhaps?”

  The girl shifted her feet, her discomfort plainly evident. “I really do need to use the toilet, Miss…”

  Miss Simpson moved from the desk to stand behind her pupil, pressing herself close against her back. “Perhaps, someone on your mind?” she whispered into the girl’s ear.

  “No, Miss.”

  “Oh come on, Jennifer…” The teacher placed one hand on the teenager’s hip, her other gently pressing her belly, exerting pressure on her bladder. For some reason, the thought of the girl wetting herself, a trail of warm urine trickling down her legs, suddenly excited her. “I’ve caught you staring at me in class, averting your eyes as soon as you make contact with mine, the coquettish look on your face…”

  “That’s not true, Miss!” The girl tried to step away from her teacher but Miss Simpson grabbed her, pulling her face to meet her own.

  “Liar! You’re in love with me, aren’t you? Admit it, girl!”

  “No!”

  The woman thrust a hand behind the girl’s neck, stroking her soft skin for a second before brushing a cheek with her thumb, allowing the digit to press its way between her trembling lips.

  “There’s no need to be shy, child, I feel the same way.” She stared deep into the girl’s blue eyes, ignoring the tears that flowed from them. “I love you, Jennifer! I want you – and I know you want me.” Miss Simpson pressed her mouth against the girl’s, kissing her hard.

  Jennifer pulled away, pushing Miss Simpson from her. The teacher glared at her. “What’s the matter, girl? Don’t pretend you don’t want this. You’ve been dreaming of this moment for as long as I have.”

  “No…that’s not true, Miss.”

  “You love me, Jennifer…you love me. As I love you.”

  “No, Miss. I don’t love you…I don’t even like you! None of us like you!” Jennifer’s hand slapped hard against her mouth, but too late to stifle the words that echoed in her head as she saw the colour of Miss Simpson’s face turn raging-red. “I’m sorry, Miss. I didn’t mean to say it…” The girl took a step back. “Please, Miss. I really need to go to the toilet.”

  The teacher leapt at the terrified teenager, taking her to the floor with ease. Hitching the girl’s dress above her waist, she roughly tugged at her underwear, yanking the garment down her legs and over her shoes. Her fury subsided briefly as she gazed at the girl’s vulva with its silky blond down.

  “Oh such pretty, young lips…just begging for their first kiss.” Miss Simpson slowly lowered her head between the girl’s thighs, savouring the moment before she would have that long dreamt of taste of her untouched sex.

  “Please, Miss. I’m bursting for the toilet.”

  Jennifer tried to scuttle away, her knee accidently catching the woman under her chin.

  The lust in the teacher’s eyes was suddenly replaced by rage once more. “You need to empty your bladder do you, Jennifer?”

  The girl nodded, trying to get to her feet.

  “Well let me help you with that…” Miss Simpson thrust her left hand to Jennifer’s chest, squeezing hard on a breast, pinning her to the floor. At the same time, her right hand grabbed the pot of knitting needles from the desk, spilling the contents onto the polished floorboards. She grabbed a needle and, with an elbow pushing on Jennifer’s thigh to open her legs, hooked her fingers under the girl’s left labia, pulling the lip brutally to the side to expose her urethra. The teacher probed the delicate opening for a second with the tip of the steel needle before thrusting the implement in as deep as it would go.

  Jennifer screamed as the needle punched through the neck of her bladder, a trickle of warm urine running out along the length of the steel. Miss Simpson gave a delighted squeal as she caught the drips on her fingertips before inserting the wet digits into her mouth, relishing the taste…

  BLOOD.

  The word was crisp and clear. Miss Simpson stared at Jennifer, assuming the word had issued from her mouth, but her sweet lips were occupied by wet sobs.

  BLOOD!

  Louder this time, insistent.

  The woman scanned the room, searching for the source of the voice. No one else was present. The girl seemed not to have heard it.

  I WANT BLOOD!

  The voice was inside her: echoing in her skull, twisting in her gut. The voice was in her and of her. Both imperative and desire. Her hand reached for another needle and quickly thrust it into the girl’s abdomen, piercing her bladder, a spray of warm liquid spurting from the wound as the teacher withdrew the implement and stabbed at the girl’s belly a second, third and fourth time, urine and blood streaming from the wounds.

  MORE! MORE BLOOD!

  The voice resonated deep within her, exerting a pressure inside her skull that forced her gaze back between Jennifer’s legs.

  VIRGINS BLEED…

  Miss Simpson understood.

  She grabbed a handful of the sharp needles, half a dozen or more, and thrust them between the girl’s legs. Jennifer shrieked as the needles penetrated her. The woman ignored the agonised wails and continued pumping the steel implements into the girl, tearing at her vaginal walls, pulverising her cervix. Blood pumped from between Jennifer’s labia as the assault continued, the knitting needles penetrating deeper with every thrust. One needle penetrated the neck of her cervix, perforating her uterus over and over, stabbing at the hearts of foetuses that would never be.

  Blood and urine pooled on the floor, soaking into the teacher’s dress. Laughing and squealing, the woman pulled the garment over her head, tore off her brassiere and splashed herself all over with the warm fluids. The cocktail of blood and piss trickled from her tiny breasts, flowing over her belly and soaking into her underwear, the heat of the liquid between her thighs sending her into a frenzy of blood-crazed lust. She grabbed more needles, jamming them repeatedly into the girl’s breasts, her slender neck and those beautiful, sapphire eyes, before thrusting a hand into her own gore-stained knickers and rubbing herself to a shattering climax.

  Miss Simpson stared down at the lifeless body, at the blood that was spreading out across the floor, some trickling between cracks in the varnished boards. Her clitoris still throbbed dully between her thighs but her lust had been sated. As she stepped over the dead girl a floorboard groaned under her foot. The teacher started at the sound, glancing down at the two circular knots in the wood that glared back at her through the bloody footprint she had left and she shivered a little as if sensing the stare of unseen eyes.

  There was just one more thing left to do…

  She plucked the knitting needles out of Jennifer’s eyes, almost blind to the spurts of vitreous fluid that squirted from the punctured orbs, and returned to the chair behind her desk. She sat and held the needles, blunt end down, against the wooden table.

  Slowly lowering her head, she inserted the tip of a needle into each nostril and, with eyes closed, head-butted the desk as hard as she could.

  4

  “I’m watching that bloody speedo.”

  Dan Nelson glanced at his wife. He was starting to lose his patience.

  “What?” he snapped.

  “I’m watching your speed. You’ve sped up fifteen miles an hour over the last few minutes. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

  He let out a long breath, trying to stifle the anger he could feel building within him, but, like a spasm of vomit rising in his gullet, he eventually had to let
it erupt from his mouth. “For Christ’s sake, woman – will you get off my fucking case!”

  “Don’t you dare use that kind of language in front of Sam!”

  “Fuck off!” The response was muted as Dan made a pretence of rubbing his face as he spoke, the merest hint of a grin on his lips.

  Maria slapped at her husband’s arm making him jerk the steering wheel.

  “Christ, Maria. Watch it!”

  “Well you should keep both bloody hands on the wheel then, shouldn’t you? Jas…” she cut herself short, her cheeks flushing.

  “Oh go on,” Dan goaded, “go on – say it.”

  “Say what?”

  He put on a mocking tone. “Jason always keeps both hands on the wheel.”

  Maria shook her head and turned to look out of the side window, fumbling in her pocket for another cigarette. “Well, he does.”

  “Good for him. What else does he keep both bloody hands on? That’s what I’d like to know.”

  Maria angrily thrust the unlit cigarette back into the pack and rounded on her husband. “Don’t you dare start all that again, Dan, he’s just my bloody boss. Why is it that you think I’m having an affair with every bloke I work with? I mean, for Christ’s sake, you even accused me of sleeping with that salesman - Martin – and he looked like a bloody bulldog!”

  “Well it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve cheated on me, would it? Why shouldn’t I believe you’re screwing half the guys in your office? I mean, you must be getting it somewhere…”

  “You what!” Maria screamed at him.

  “Well you’re not interested in getting anything off me anymore, are you? So you must be getting your thrills somewhere else.”

  “You…“ Maria’s rage seemed to block her throat; a barricade of fury that stopped her from venting verbally and she let her hand fly into her husband’s face. The force of the slap stung his cheek as the manicured tip of a red-painted fingernail raked the surface of his left eyeball.