Chillingworth Mews: A supernatural horror novel

by Anton Palmer

  The woman threw her hands up to her face, staggering back a few steps as if she’d been physically struck and, as she backed away from the door, unseen fingers hauled on Roger’s insides, forcing him to accept their insistent invitation.

  He stepped over the threshold into the small hallway and shut the door behind him.

  12

  “Oh, it’s lovely, Jean.”

  Margaret Brown put down her knitting and slipped the phone out from under her jaw. If Jean was in one of her talkative moods then this could be a long conversation and cradling the phone ‘hands-free’ was already getting uncomfortable.

  “I should have moved out years ago – rattling around in that big house all by myself after Robin passed away...what was I thinking?”

  She threw a quick glance at the framed photograph on the glass coffee table beside her.

  A wedding picture.

  Robin looked so handsome in his officer’s uniform – his broad, strong shoulders and clipped blond hair.

  Of course, to her eyes, he had looked handsome all his life. Except, perhaps, right at the end. The cancer he had fought against so bravely had finally taken its toll, leaving him as just a gaunt, hollowed-out shell of the man she had married forty-odd years ago.

  Next to the photograph was a table lamp with its delicate shade of coloured glass. This had been one of the few items Margaret had insisted on packing herself, not trusting the removal firm with her most precious and sentimental pieces. The lamp had been a gift from Robin on their first anniversary, something he had picked up abroad – possibly India, she couldn’t quite remember after all these years. Its stem was made of polished dark wood, turned to resemble a phallus - although the similarity was subtle enough not to cause offence to a casual observer. She recalled how Robin had chuckled when she had first run her hands over its smooth surface, oblivious to its connotations…

  “Margaret? Are you still there?”

  The voice at the other end of the phone snapped Margaret out of her melancholic musings.

  “Sorry, Jean…I was just looking at mine and Robin’s wedding photo. I know he’s been gone almost seven years, but I do still miss him.”

  She gave a sniff and wiped a tear from the corner of her left eye, sitting up straighter in her arm-chair as she imagined her late husband’s voice telling her to pull herself together. Swapping the phone to her right hand, the left rummaged in her pocket for a tissue, bringing it up to her nose for a gentle blow.

  At the sounds of her friend’s distress, Jean decided to pull the direction of their conversation back to something more positive.

  “The neighbours?”

  Margaret finished wiping her nose, the change of tack beginning to lighten her mood once more.

  “Well, there’s only the young couple next door at the moment…moved in a few days ago. Newlyweds I should imagine – I’ve only seen them a couple of times…they could barely keep their hands off each other…”

  She laughed at her friend’s response, “…that’s right - still in the honeymoon period…” She giggled again. “Oh, I know…seems like such a long time ago now doesn’t it, Jean? If your memory’s anything like mine, I bet you can’t even remember what it felt like to be so young and in love.”

  Margaret laughed again, louder this time. “Oh, Jean - stop it! You are terrible…but just between you and me, that young man can blow the cobwebs away from my nooks and crannies any time he likes!”

  The widow blushed. This was the first time she’d ever thought about another man – even if it was just some ludicrous fantasy. Casting another glance at the photo on the coffee table, as if apologising to her deceased husband, she was shocked to find her hand stroking the phallic stem of the lamp. Despite being alone in the room, she felt her skin flush a shade deeper.

  Jean pursued her line of enquiry regarding the couple next door.

  “Have I heard them? Oh, I see…no, I think their bedroom backs onto my living room, so no creaking bedsprings keeping me awake at night. Although…I thought I was going to hear them at it yesterday afternoon while I was watching the TV. I kept hearing this squeaking sound - but I think it’s probably just a wonky floorboard. I remember they mentioned it when I spoke to them the other day - they were annoyed that no-one had been around to fix it yet.”

  13

  The woman screamed. Roger quickly clamped a dirty palm over her mouth, pressing down with enough pressure to muffle her shouts but, hopefully, not hard enough to hurt her. He wasn’t here to harm the woman, of that he was sure, but the last thing he needed was her cries to alert the neighbours. He didn’t want any trouble, particularly from the law. If he had to explain his actions to the police then he was pretty certain he would be talking himself into a one-way ticket to the mad-house.

  “Where is Laura?”

  He took his hand away from the woman’s face a little, reading her eyes and finding between the lines, behind the fear, a tacit understanding that she wouldn’t scream again.

  He repeated the question. “Where is Laura?”

  “Gone…” she croaked.

  “Gone? Gone where?”

  As the words slipped from his tongue, Roger suddenly realised what the woman was saying.

  Laura was gone. Gone from this world. Gone from the realm of the living.

  Roger suddenly understood why he was here.

  “Her things…” He spoke again to the woman - who he now assumed to be Laura’s mother. “Where are Laura’s things?”

  With brown eyes wet and wide with shock, the terrified woman raised a weak hand, her vague movements indicating the single word that took all her strength to whisper.

  “Upstairs.”

  Gently pushing her ahead of him, Roger followed her up the plush, carpeted staircase, coming to a halt at her back as she paused outside a closed bedroom door.

  “Inside.” The instruction sounded harsh in his head so he added a hint of politeness in an attempt to sound more reasonable, “…please.”

  The room was immaculate: a shrine to the departed.

  The bed was neatly made with not a single noticeable crease in either the plain pink quilt or its matching pillowcase. On top of the bed, a row of teddy bears and other soft toys lazily reclined against a wall, ordered by size from the largest at the head to the smallest at the foot. On the opposite wall, beneath a long window that overlooked the small back garden, sat a white dressing table. A matching chair was tucked in squarely beside the table’s three drawers.

  Roger was suddenly aware of the cold-heat of the woman’s stare as he cast his eye around the room, searching for…

  “Is there something of Laura’s I can hold? Something personal that she would have been in contact with for long periods…a ring or a necklace perhaps?”

  The woman was in a state of shock. She had barely enough strength to wag a finger towards a small square box in front of the dressing table mirror.

  Roger quickly stepped across the soft, cream-coloured carpet to retrieve the object.

  It was a jewellery box - but not one becoming a grown woman – its white sides embossed with faded pictures of fairy princesses, tiny ‘Tinkerbells’ dancing around rings of washed-out daisies that were as tall as they were. He handled it carefully. The box itself was as light as the pixies that adorned it, but its sentimental value was palpable and weighed heavy in his hands. Opening the lid slowly, he jumped, as a three-inch high fairy popped up from inside, the winged ballerina immediately rotating to the chimes of a classical piece that he recognised but couldn’t name.

  At the sound of the music, the woman broke down, sobbing loudly and without shame. Tears poured down her cheeks, the woman letting them flow unrestricted as if to staunch them would be an insult to the daughter to whom those salty droplets were dedicated.

  Forcing himself to ignore the woman’s grief, Roger dipped his fingers into the box and pulled out a silver chain - a blue glass teardrop suspended from it. He shut the lid, keen to silence the sounds that were caus
ing Laura’s mother so much distress, and held the necklace towards her.

  “This?”

  The woman gave a barely perceptible nod.

  “She was wearing it when…” Sniffing hard, she swallowed back a second, stronger wave of tears that threatened to spill as she spoke. “…When the police found her…” The words choked her and, despite her efforts, the second wave of grief would not be stifled and broke without mercy. The woman collapsed onto the bed, burying her face in the pillow.

  Roger stared at the pendant cupped gently in his palm. He knew what he had to do, but the thought of what might lay in wait for him filled him with dread. Sucking in a deep breath, he cast a self-admonishing glance at the woman sobbing muffled tears into the bed beside him. Whatever he would experience in the next few minutes would be nothing compared to the living hell she had endured, of that he felt sure.

  He took the blue glass teardrop between thumb and forefinger and closed his eyes…

  Laura lay, naked, on a kitchen table.

  A middle-aged man with glasses stood before her. Balding and round, layers of sweaty blubber hung from his chest and gut giving him the impression of a melting, dripping, Easter-egg.

  Roger suddenly realised he had been in this situation before and braced himself as the man thrust deeply into Laura’s vagina, her thighs held apart by podgy, clammy hands.

  She hated the man.

  He hated the man.

  He/She – Roger/Laura. They were one and the same. He sensed every thought in her head, every emotion in her heart and felt the burning of her every nerve ending. She despised the man with every fibre of her being– not just because he had tricked her; not just because he had told her he was going to rape, torture and kill her. She hated him because, despite those two facts, the filthy, greasy slob who had been relentlessly pounding inside her for the past hour or more was bringing her to the point of her fifth orgasm – and there was nothing she could do to prevent it. Her butt-cheeks slipped back and forth on the wooden table, carried easily on the slick film of her leaking juices as she screamed, her arms pulling at the ropes that bound her.

  Roger felt both her ecstasy and her shame.

  None of her boyfriends and multiple one-night stands had ever made her come like this, with her pleasure literally gushing between her soaking thighs. Perhaps if one of them had, she wouldn’t be in her current situation. Sick and tired of the multiple lame encounters which sent her home wet, but dissatisfied, leaving her to finish the job herself with the aid of a large dildo, she had scoured the internet for something better.

  Oh, God! The dildo!

  What, if after she was gone, her mother found it? The poor woman still thought her daughter was a sweet, virginal, little girl. If she discovered the truth it would break her heart. Despite her mother’s overbearing nature, Laura loved her dearly; would never want to hurt her…

  No. It would be fine. The sex-toy was well hidden – buried deep inside the fluffy innards of one of her teddy bears – she’d never find it.

  Her mind returned to just a few days ago. She had scrolled through prospective dates on her phone’s browser and Bob’s picture had stood out a mile.

  Bob’s picture!

  Bob’s picture of someone thirty years younger and thirty times better looking more like. She’d waited patiently for a quarter of an hour at the arranged meeting place - a car-park behind a recently closed down multiplex - dripping with the anticipation of finally getting a man who could fulfil her desires. The handsome stud she was expecting was nowhere to be seen and, just as she was about to give up and go home, a beaten up black van pulled in and parked up beside her. A fat, ugly bloke jumped out, leaving the engine running. “Get in, slut!”

  She had frozen with shock. Her brain screamed ‘run’, but her legs remained rooted to the spot. Bob quickly grabbed her and threw her into the van, jumping in after her and hitting the accelerator.

  Roger was privy to all the thoughts running through Laura’s mind; memories of the past, the lustful shame of the present and the bladder-squeezing dread of the future. He wept as he felt her fear; felt her disgrace…

  Oh, God! Not again…please!

  Her pelvic muscles contracted as another orgasm hit her. The surge of pleasure flooded every nerve in her body, Bob slamming harder and faster until finally, he reached his own climax, his seed jetting into her. Breathing hard, his face beetroot-red, he slipped his withering organ from between her legs.

  “So - how’d I do, slut? Are you satisfied now?”

  She sobbed. She was definitely satisfied. Bob’s jack-hammer performance had lived up to his internet profile’s promises - and then some. She was going to be bruised and sore in the morning…

  She bawled louder.

  Sore in the morning - she would be fucking dead in the morning…unless Bob’s talk of killing her was just that – talk. Maybe that’s how he got his kicks, how he got hard…seeing the fear in his victim’s eyes as he fucked them…

  “I don’t know about you, slut, but after all that exertion, I am starving!”

  She raised her head a little, watching as he walked to the stain-encrusted hob and picked up a large saucepan. Her eyes continued to follow him as he stepped over to the sink, his limp cock oozing its last dregs of semen between his boil-infested thighs. The effort of watching was straining at the back of her neck and she lay her head back down on the table, listening to the splashing of water as he filled the pan and placed it back on the stove. She heard a loud percussion of clicks, followed with a gentle ‘whoosh’ as he lit the gas.

  “Toasted-Soldiers…” Bob mumbled under his breath and placed a couple of slices of bread into a toaster, flicking down the switch.

  Was he boiling eggs? Perhaps, with his lust satisfied he no longer had the urge to torture and kill her and was now going about his normal routine. Maybe she could talk him into letting her go.

  “Bob?”

  He turned towards her.

  “Thank you, Bob. I really enjoyed you fucking me. I have honestly never come so hard or so often in my life…”

  Bob turned his attention back to the hob, the water beginning to bubble noisily.

  “Perhaps we could be ‘Fuck-Buddies’? What do you think, Bob? You’re clearly a man who enjoys sex and there aren’t many men out there with your prowess, I can tell you. I’d love to come over a few times a week and let you fuck my brains out…”

  Laura squirmed inwardly, knowing that she was not entirely lying. Bob may be a hideous blob of a man but he knew how to fuck.

  “What d’you say? It would be win-win for both of us.”

  “I don’t think so, slut. I won’t be hard again for months. Right now, eating is my top priority.”

  As if on cue, the lightly browned slices of bread popped up from the toaster. Bob laid them on the work-surface, smothering them in butter before cutting them into strips.

  “There’s my soldiers…just need something to dip them into…”

  He stepped back over to Laura, staring down at her for a few seconds before taking hold of her right breast. He ran his hands over the fleshy mound, gently massaging and fondling, his tongue flicking back and forth across his lips.

  Something struck Laura as off. The way he handled her breast was not sexual. This was not foreplay - Bob was not gearing himself up for round two. It was more like the way she had seen people handle fruit in a supermarket – gently squeezing and prodding, checking to see how ripe it was. The man repeated the process with her left breast, before cupping a hand around each, as if performing a final comparison.

  “You have very lovely breasts, slut. A ‘C’ cup if I’m not mistaken – my favourite.”

  He cast a glance across to the saucepan. The boiling bubbles were visible above the rim, clouds of steam drifting up towards the brown, nicotine stained ceiling. Bob punched Laura hard in the stomach, knocking all the wind out of her. As she gasped for air, he untied her arms, lifting her off the table and onto her feet. Taking advantag
e of her breathlessness, he shoved her towards the stove, towards the bubbling saucepan. She tried to dig her bare heels into the faded yellow linoleum but the floor was wet and slick, her feet sliding relentlessly towards her fate. At the edge of the stove, he punched her again, doubling her over, using her bent-double momentum to force her right breast into the pan.

  The pain was agonising.

  She could feel the skin on her breast blistering the moment it was enveloped by the boiling water. She tried to scream, her windless squeal barely more than a croak, and attempted to lift herself away from the saucepan. Bob smothered her back with his sweaty bulk, his weight pressing her down, pushing her chest tight onto the pan’s scalding rim. Her body bucked and trembled, her legs barely able to support the weight of herself and her attacker.

  As her lungs recovered from his punch, air flooded her chest and she screamed loudly. The volume of her shrieking seemed to fill her with a renewed strength and she thrashed under Bob’s bulk. The man adjusted his feet, allowing more of his weight to overpower the girl, holding her in place as her breast cooked.

  Laura was suddenly aware of the smell and for an instant, she was back in the kitchen at home.

  Christmas Eve. Sitting at the table wrapping gifts as her mother boiled a ham, the odour of the cooked meat arousing both their taste buds.

  She felt her mouth watering and screamed again as she realised she was licking her lips at the aroma of her own boiling flesh.

  Bob turned off the gas and yanked Laura from the hob, scalding water splashing to the floor. His fist impacted her belly once more before he dragged her back to the table, binding her arms to the table legs.

  Her right breast was swollen to almost twice its normal size, the skin a livid red, blistered and peeling. Despite being bigger than its twin, the fleshy mound lay limp on Laura’s chest like a wet sack – the breast’s innards liquefied by the heat of the boiling water.

  She cried out as Bob lifted her tender breast in his hand, a tea-towel protecting his palm from the heat, and tied a piece of string around it, squeezing the mound into an egg shape, the skin now a dark and angry purple. Yellow rivulets of pus dripped from the scalded nipple as her captor tightened the string further and knotted it.