“Stupid bitch,” he spat with fury echoing in his voice.
He couldn't even begin to conceive a logical explanation for why she would do that. Is she stupid as well as a home-wrecker? Or so high on arrogance she thinks that landing can be made without dying? Then his stomach twinged.
“NOOOOOOO!” he roared with rage.
He wanted to kill her. She'd be sprawled at the bottom, already a body. No longer inhabiting a soul, but a lonely vessel, eyes empty and any sign of dismay gone. Laura would be caked in dirt and blood, laid in a muddy grave, speckles of rain washing the gunk from the lifeless corpse. He craved to brutalize, observe the fright, take pleasure in her limbs shake and mouth pour out words of sorrow and plead forgiveness. But now that had been ridden from his wishes. He stormed to the broken window, passing a damp chair on his way, coated in a red liquid that still oozed. Bruce gawked down at the sludgy ground below, leaning over the glass covered desk, and nothing. No one was there. She had survived! Jesus Christ! His mind exploded. Without a seconds hesitation he mounted the glass peppered desk and leapt from it.
His flamboyant, pompous shoes cushioned the blow as he landed. He struck the grass and rolled forward instantly. Nothing, no jolting pain or pounding ache; the costume had swallowed any stings or abrasions that could have occurred had it not been for the larger than life frills and material. Not wasting any time he stood and peered around. The moon was a poor source of brightness, but his eyes were already adapting. Scouring every barked stump, every leaf, every twig, puddle of dirt. But she was no where to be seen. His optimism was somewhat fractured. Bruce was aware that the chances of finding Laura with little light, in a vast space, were low. But determination drove him onwards.
The shoes were sturdy and protected his feet, but they were awful to walk in on slippery terrain. The grass may as well have been coated in oil. Soon patience evaporated and he plucked off the shoes, tossing them into the chaotic breeze and sharp speckles of rain. He was becoming petulant, intent on finding the slut and ripping her apart, skin, muscle, bone and organs, every part of the bitch. He would expose the life-ruiner. Then amidst his deranged thoughts he almost leapfrogged for psychotic joy, when Laura came into view only a few steps from him.
Laura was slumped on the grass, curled over on her side, dangerously close to the cliff's summit. A couple of rolls and she'd drop off. But he wasn't going to let her get off that easy. If she was still alive, he would drag her from an easy release and make her experience a new type of suffering. He was getting eager at all the ways he could end her life. Which was odd. In the beginning, when he came to the conclusion he would murder her, he wanted it to be quick, simple, and not leave behind any incriminating evidence. But now a hunger for inflicting agony and torture had spawned. Ideas of burning flesh so it sizzled, peeling it off and force feeding it to her actually aroused him. A hormonal bomb detonated every time one of these concoctions appeared. Pouring acid, ripping off body parts, pulling out intestines and making her choke on them. He could barely contain the buzz. A new notch had been added to the pleasure stick, sex was near the top, but massacring was by far the clear winner. Beyond ejaculation, above money, further than power, a sensation that had no competition. As he gained on her still bag of bones, he was tempted to sprint in anticipation. But he held it in, like a child on Christmas morning.
Now she was only a few steps away, commotion thrived in his heart. He was overpowered with homicidal urges and desires, he crept forwards. Now standing over Laura he withdrew a knife from his pocket. The same one he'd severely wounded Laura with once already. That thought gave him great pleasure. He imagined the blade piercing through his daughter as she sat seizing against the computer room door, no doubt crying.
A thrill yammered in his head, a stirring rumbled in his groin; he could do anything. He was in the cover of darkness, clouded by the night sky, with only light of the moon and a few nosey stars along for the show. He could rape, molest, and abuse until his sack had been emptied. Then destroy her. He stood, looking down at the blonde hair, shredded and stained clothing, flesh bruised and badly cut. He prayed Laura was still conscious, and that she wouldn't pass out after too much physical misery had been inflicted. But he was hopeful, and believed his God would help him in his time of need.
“Hello there precious, are you ready for this?” laughter broke the cold bitter air.
Rain poured ferociously. Heavy blobs of wetness shot from the murky clouds hovering in the night sky like wet bullets. The rushing of watery pellets was all that could be heard. A fuzzy sound that was everywhere. The violent waves could be seen in the ocean below. Huge splashes of salty foam in an ominous mystic blue. Waves whipped the cliff, eroding and whittling away the rock face. It was then that Laura responded.
“Are you?” but the voice didn't come from the body in front, it came from behind.
This threw him off-guard. A ghost? Then he noticed a wedding ring glimmering in the darkness. That body was not his daughter's. What the hell is going on here? Then a hot sharp twinge ran down his spine. Already wet but a thicker liquid trailed his spinal cord. The substance was like that of mud: lumpy and thick, barely holding onto its liquid form. It kept seeping, filling the clown outfit. Something had punctured his back.
Then the blonde girl in front rolled over. It wasn't his daughter, it was his wife. What the fuck? Bruce was confused beyond explanation. A million questions joined the rush of gales and drizzle. Dizziness crept into his consciousness. Bruce then saw that his wife was clenching a shard of glass, palms smothered in blood. Before Bruce could react, it was plunged through his stomach. He roared at the top of his lungs. But of course, no one was around to hear it. Not that the weather would allow anyone to hear it. Instantly the overwhelming agony made his legs cave, leaving no choice but to slam into the ground. But as Bruce fell there was a force from behind. Someone pushed. Destination sea in sights. He flung his hands out but they only punched air in the attempt to buffer the fall. His upper half was over the peak and he was almost vertical. The tufts of grass at the cliff's tip stroked him as he fell. They taunted, mocked with their soft bristles, fooling Bruce into thinking the nose dive will be just as soft as the bristles.
The night sky was heinous, it admired this event. A reprehensible human in mid air, over the peak, in the throes of gravity. An invisible hand grasped at the mortal coil, pulling him. But for the first second he appeared to be floating, being shown what his fate had in store. It scared him, as he had scared Laura and Toby. And apparently Sandra.
The air bit all of them with its icy fangs, pierced their exposed flesh and dimpled it. Laura and Sandra were watching in disbelief. How had it come to this? The downfall of a man who at one point in their lives was a great father and loving husband, but had been transformed into a monster. His brain had began rotting like expired fruit, the brown inside of an apple, the squishy texture to an old banana, that was how his brain had become. It had mutated black and evil, covered in murderous impulses.
The moon was also along for the show, like a flood light on a construction site, but exposing the destruction of a man, metaphorically, mentally, and literally. Now science refused to be so kind, they began to tug at him, bringing him that much closer to a rock littered grave. The sea lapped the base of the cliff, chipping like a pickaxe, gradually whittling them down to toothpick replicas. The white froth of the waves hit the pebbles and seeped into caves. Slithering, hissing, riving, an orgy of venomous white circling the surface of the sea. All waiting for the clown, preparing to consume him.
Laura and Sandra were now both stood, able to see the entourage of colours all on one man, plummet to the sea. A psychotic skydiver in a bright jumpsuit, only minus the parachutes, not being safe and prepared, but being injured and knowing the Grim Reaper was hanging around. This would be a long downward journey for dad, Laura thought. From the dropping off land's end to a watery grave, then from the liquid coffin straight to the burning depths of hell. An eternity of slavery for the devi
l himself. How ironic, people who commit murder, adultery, rape, molest, maim, perform terrorist acts and generally mimic the ways of Satan, end up being punished for it. Their worldly sins aren't celebrated in hell, for their tribute to the most evil being known in every dimension, they are subjected to manual labour in scorching hot temperatures and skin-dissolving steam that cooks their flesh.
Then like a penny plopping into a wishing well, one of Adam's many billion descendants dropped into a vast sea of navy. But not before hitting a rod of rock poking from the cliff's wall, puncturing and sending him somersaulting quickly to a sloppy demise. Sandra, down to her last reserves of energy, decided to do something. Still dangerously close to the peak she pulled off her wedding ring. She wriggled and twisted it until it slid off into her right hand. Laura was about to ask, but then understood what she was doing. Sandra looked at the ring intensely, eyes watery and nose flaring. She was recalling all the good times. The wedding, the marriage, the birth of Laura with a subtle smile on her face. But then at the memory of finding out of Bruce's indiscretions her teeth gritted. Sandra's jaw clenched, feeling betrayed and angry. But a part of her felt foolish. How hadn't she seen it? Not just the affair, but the mental decline of her husband. Was he a terrific actor? Or was she the world's most gullible woman? But either way, it was over now. She had her daughter and would hopefully survive this, given that her injuries hadn't caused severe internal damage. She was a fighter, and so was her daughter. So squeezing the ring in her fist, Sandra set her arm back, and then launched it into air. Both women watched it fall from the edge and head for the sea. A glistening ring flying through the air, twirling in the wind, sparkling in the night sky.
“And it's done,” Sandra exhaled, turning from the cliff and holding her daughter.
The two women trudged from the disaster area, exhausted and wounded, headed to the castle. Survivors, warriors, soldiers fresh from battle. Injured, bleeding, and limping, but determined to live. Intent on breathing, loving, laughing, and together they would destroy anything, or anyone that attempted to ruin that.
***
An hour later Sandra and Laura sat at the back of an ambulance outside the castle, their lesions being stabilized by paramedics until they could get to a hospital. The weather wouldn't permit a safe journey so they had to wait until the downpour relented a little. The doctor parents had returned, riled with grief at the discovery of Toby's death. Laura wept into her mother's soggy shoulder, devastated at the killing of an innocent young boy. Officer Thompson finally saw Laura face to face. He repeatedly told her she had been remarkably brave, more so than most adults. And that unfortunately people die in horrendous circumstances. But when it's a child, it makes things dramatically worse. The officer continued to console Laura, along with Sandra. It was then it occurred to Laura just how delicate life was. This was a wake up call for her. Live each day as if it's your last. Live your life, if not for my sake or my mother's, then for Toby's.
While ambulances and police cars were strewn across the front of the Anderson's home, red lights flashed into the early morning hours, wounds were tended to, coffee and water was consumed greedily, and cops were bustling around with detectives trying to find out what exactly happened, not one of them knew just how angry Dr Anderson was. Not even his wife. He held back utter fury at the death of his son, and blamed Laura. If only the young girl had delved into the basement and dug under floorboards to hide. Then she would have known it would have been far better to sacrifice her own life, than to let the son of a doctor die. Especially a doctor whose basement was brimming with bodies. Bodies of the people he'd killed for his own pleasure. But Doctor Anderson managed to see the silver lining. No one knew he had worked with Bruce in his mission to kill his daughter. And no longer would he have to patrol the streets for hookers to kill. His next target had already been decided. He would seek vengeance for the death of his young boy. Bruce may have failed. But Dr.Anderson would not.
Epilogue
The brain is a playground, a magnificent one, capable of millions of wonderful thoughts, ideas, emotions, and reactions. But when too many children frequent this playground, all those cognitive actions: swinging, sliding, twirling and playing hopscotch, become too hard to control. You have to decide who enters this exclusive area, and have complete power over their actions. They can break equipment, bully other children, cause themselves harm, and scream into infinity. This can disparage sanity. And little by little, piece by piece, begin the road to insanity. Where you see fatality as a gift you want to share, pain a pleasure you want to spread, and mercy....well, mercy soon becomes a five letter word, and nothing more.
Sample from Frightful Tales #1 Rose's Thorn
He had only been allowed to watch a few horror flicks as he was very young, but he knew about possession and that in order to cleanse the spirit and rid the evil, an exorcism was needed. He also knew about voodoo dolls, but he doubted Rose was one, as those types of dolls were used to inflict pain on someone you knew by jabbing the dolls with needles. As Rose was of a porcelain construction, needles and such would prove pointless. Research! The thought sparked inside his psyche like a firework hissing at the beginning of its journey of continuous explosions. He just needed to get online and find an answer to ignite these explosions!
Maybe there would be a blog where people who have dealt with this situation before have advised of ways to rid the doll or dolls from their existence. He could only hope at this point. As his body was loosening and heart rate was slowing, he began to feel more optimistic that he would be able to find some useful information to help this situation. Maybe he was acting rash or perhaps a little melodramatically, but someone would no doubt see this inanimate object if it kept randomly appearing at various points in the house, and if his father saw it, a demonic fury would crawl up from the pits of hell. He could not just simply smash it, as it was his best friends and he felt that would be disrespectful, even if she had given it to him. He had considered for short lived instances of telling Emily about the doll that seems to be alive, if it was acting in this absurd way when it was in her possession. Is that the reason she gave me it? No, she would never do that! But if it was a normal doll in her presence then he didn't want to worry or alarm her, so as usual Declan suffered in silence. Just when he was building brick by brick the confidence to walk over to his desk and research on his ancient computer, he noticed that Rose was not laid on the bed after he'd thrown her there, she was somehow stood, on the uneven crumpled quilts.
Had she landed stood? Not a chance, Declan thought. There was no way, or an incredibly low percentage of a chance that she would land standing, balanced, and stay that way. Rose was stood as if being held by an invisible force, or by puppet strings of someone much more fearsome. He envisioned a spirit holding her, which sent chills up his arms. Although technically Rose's expression had not been altered or changed, as how could it, she was a doll. But he could swear that her eyes were staring with such hatred and fury attempting to pierce him and breakdown the last slivering slice of bravery that he had. Step by step, breath by breath, tremble by tremble he walked over to his desk, incredibly cautious and aware of this porcelain peeping tom.
This journey was only a few steps, but it felt like a lifetime's supply of courage and gall was needed to reach the final destination. The desk was like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, a finish line at the end of a race, but unlike those two, the computer was not the conclusion to a race or treasure hunt, it was the beginning of a voyage of abhorrence. Was he ready for this? Not that it mattered, he had no choice.
He loaded up this technological definition of failure, it took many hums, buzzes and clacks, but soon the green logo flashed across the computer screen signalling that soon the programmes would start to load. Whilst he sat waiting for this electrical deficiency to start, he was incredibly aware of Rose's tingling company. He could see her reflection in the darkness of the computer screen while it chucked up the screensaver. He could feel metaphorical bugs c
rawling on his shoulders, shivering his skin, and pricking the hairs to stand hard, protruding from his pores.
How she was able to stand on the uneven surface of a bed quilt after launching through the air was beyond his comprehensions, it both baffled and unnerved him. Then through the nightmarish thoughts his brain produced, the sound of footsteps shattered his racing thoughts. Someone was coming upstairs.
Judging by the slow and heavy steps, he knew instantly it was his wretched father. The doll! He hadn't locked the door! He jumped from his chair, grabbed Rose and flung her under his bed, letting her skid on the wood until she clunked the skirting board at the bottom of his wall, then frantically concealing her with his rucksack. He would have locked the door but this would have appeared more suspicious and he wanted to remain inconspicuous. If his father heard the click of a metal contraption he was sure to be curious like a creeping cat, only his reaction would contrast greatly to that of a cat, his ogreish reaction would be a wave of knocks and punches on the door, demanding he unlocked it and let him in. Paranoia was just one of the side effects of this raging alcoholic, along with violent outbursts and a lazy attitude. So Declan simply sat back down at his desk and pretended to do school work, this would bore his father and if he did come inside controlled by his meddling impulses, he would leave almost immediately at this vision.
He's Watching Me Page 10
