Snuff Club: An Extreme Horror Novel

by Sam West

  SNUFF CLUB

  AN EXTREME HORROR NOVEL

  BY

  SAM WEST

  SNUFF CLUB

  AN EXTREME HORROR NOVEL

  by

  SAM WEST

  COPYRIGHT SAM WEST 2016

  COVER IMAGE Rocking Book Covers

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced or used in any way without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews. The characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Steven Andrew Jones, or just plain ‘Stevie’, rested his head against the bus window, his heart heavy because he was almost home. Beyond the window it was grey and raining; it was always grey and raining in Greater Manchester.

  His ghostly reflection in the glass stared back at him, his eyes empty sockets in his thin face, streaming with rain that looked like tears.

  His stop loomed ahead, just two doors down from 249 Astley Street; the house on the busy through-road he was doomed to share with his twenty-seven-year-old brother and his slag of a girlfriend.

  The hydraulics of the bus screeched noisily as it came to a halt and he lurched to his feet, shuffling off the bus with his rucksack slung over one shoulder, looking much younger than his eighteen years.

  Happy birthday to me, he thought miserably. He wondered if his brother had planned anything nice for him. He wondered if he had even remembered.

  As soon as his trainers hit the pavement, a car swung in front of him on the wide pavement.

  Her car.

  His heart started to hammer and all the moisture sucked out of his mouth as the Ford Escort pulled into the short driveway of the house next door, tucking up behind the white van.

  Walking slowly on the off chance that she would get out of her car quicker than he would reach his front gate, he made a big show of rummaging through his rucksack for his door keys.

  Which was a load of bollocks, because the front door was always open anyway because Mark’s mates were in and out constantly and rarely bothered with the niceties of ringing the doorbell.

  The engine died and her car-door creaked open. Stevie did his best not to spin round and gawp.

  “Hello Steven, how are you?” she called over to him.

  She had to be the only person in the world that called him Steven rather than Stevie. He liked that. Yes, he liked that a lot.

  He swivelled on the spot and shyly raised his hand in greeting. “Oh, hello Julie. Did you have a good day at work?”

  She smiled at him, and it was like the sun cutting through the constant grey skies. Even with her blonde hair scraped off her face and wearing the sack-like, blue nurse’s uniform courtesy of the NHS, she still managed to look like she had just stepped out of the pages of NUTS magazine.

  “Fine, thanks. How was college?”

  “Good.”

  Her gorgeous smile broadened. “Good for you, get those A levels and make something of yourself. You can be anything you want to be, Steven, never forget that.”

  Stevie was rooted to the spot, transfixed by her dazzling beauty. His face burned hot, and he prayed that the grey skies of Tyldesley drained the colour from his cheeks as surely as it did everything else.

  Say something, for fuck’s sake.

  “Well, better be getting in,” she said. “It’s raining, just for a change. Have a good night.”

  “Sure, you too,” he said, but he was pretty sure she hadn’t heard him because she had already turned her back and the roar of traffic magnified by the rain drowned out his reedy, love-struck voice.

  The euphoria of seeing her and actually speaking to her was quickly replaced by sadness.

  The grim reality of home awaited.

  *****

  Julie pushed open the front-door, all thoughts of ‘Stevie’ vanishing from her head as soon as he was out of sight.

  “Hello?” she called out in the small, tidy hallway.

  She could smell dinner in the oven. Beef casserole, she thought, and smiled.

  “Hey, baby,” Grant said from the kitchen. “How was work?”

  “Fine,” she said, going through and planting a kiss on her fiancé’s lips. “How was your day? Dinner smells great.”

  “Fine. I missed you, though, days off are no fun without you.” He opened the oven door, peering at the bubbling pot. “Who were you talking to outside?”

  “That kid from next door.”

  Grant frowned. It didn’t suit him, he had a happy face that spoke of a million laughing fits and the sudden crease between his dark eyebrows just looked wrong.

  “I’m not sure you should be talking to that lot, they’re fucking awful.”

  She swatted him on the arm. “Language! And don’t be mean. Steven’s a sweet kid. Can you imagine losing your dad like that to alcoholism? Can you imagine what it must feel like to know that your mother died giving birth to you? It’s just so sad.”

  “Maybe. But his brother is scum.”

  “Their dad didn’t die that long ago. God, what that poor kid must have been through…”

  Her voice trailed off thinking about the boy next door. He always seemed so lost, so forlorn. She guessed him to be around seventeen – far too young to be alone in the world. He was different from his big brother. Grant was right, Mark was bad news. But Steven was different, she could tell.

  “They are shit, sweetheart. Pure shit, through and through.”

  Julie rolled her eyes. “For a nice guy, you can be pretty judgemental.”

  “I’m serious, sweetheart, they’re bad news. I worry when you talk to them.”

  He was looking at her with such intensity, that she couldn’t help but smile. “You know, for a brickie, you’re pretty in touch with your intuitive, feminine side.”

  “Thinking that they’re scum has got nothing to do with being intuitive. I don’t think we should encourage them, or get involved. Just keep it polite and distant, yeah?”

  “That’s what I do,” she said. “What’s the harm in saying hello on the street?”

  “I’ve seen the way that kid moons after you. He’s got a crush, baby, it’s as plain as day.”

  Julie squirmed in discomfort at the thought. “Don’t be silly, he’s just a kid.”

  “Yeah, a horny pubescent with a constant bloody hard-on.”

  “Will you please stop?” she said, slapping his arm again. “Besides, we’ve almost got our deposit together, then we can move away from this dump.”

  “And not a moment too soon. I really didn’t think Tyldesley was as shit as this.”

  “Yeah,” she said, falling silent.

  Grant was right. Tyldesley was shit. They had only moved here because the rent was a damn sight cheaper than in the centre of Manchester and it was a convenient location for both their jobs.

  But it was cheap with good reason. Unemployment was rife, drugs were openly dealt, crime was the norm, and the streets were ankle-deep in litter…

  Julie shuddered; thank God they were getting out.

  *****

  “Oi, Stevie, you perving over that slag next door again?” his brother Mark said by way of greeting.

  Stevie paused in the tiny, grubby hallway, desperate to leg-it upstairs to his box bedroom but not wanting to piss off Mark. If Mark wanted to talk, then he’d better make damn sure he did, or else.

  “No,” he mumbled, blushing hard.

  Mark was sitting on the tatty grey sofa with Crystal, his arm draped over her shoulder. A joint dangled from his fingers, which he passed to his girlfriend. He was wearing a tight, white t-shirt with his designer, grey jogging bottoms, and Stevie’s g
aze was drawn to his biceps.

  I swear, he gets bigger every day.

  Fleetingly, he wondered if he would get as big as Mark if he worked out. They shared the same genetics, didn’t they? You wouldn’t think it to look at them; Mark was well over six foot and big boned. Stevie was five foot nine, skinny, and slight. Mark’s wiry black hair, which he wore close to his scalp, strong jaw, and big nose was the polar opposite to his own floppy, dark-blonde hair, perfectly oval face and straight nose. Mark looked like a brute, and Stevie a choirboy. The only facial similarity they had in common were the same, piercing, powder-blue eyes; a trait passed down from their long-dead mother.

  “Aw,” leave him alone, Crystal giggled. “Little Stevie-weevie has a little crushy-wushy.”

  Someone else snorted laughter from the kitchen and Stevie’s heart sank further. He recognised that rapid-fire, high-pitched giggle. Sure enough, Ratski appeared in the doorway that separated the living-room from the kitchen, three tins of lager in one splayed hand.

  Ratski – real name Ryan Eaves – handed Mark and Crystal a tin of lager each and sat down on the armchair opposite. He was called Ratski because he was thin and weaselly with shoulder-length, ratty hair and he had a long, narrow nose that vaguely resembled a ski-slope.

  “Maybe Stevie should go and get himself a real girlfriend and stop lusting after a bird old enough to be his mother,” Ratski said, snapping back the ring-pull of his lager and simultaneously checking his phone.

  “Yeah, like, how old is she, anyway? Forty?” Crystal said.

  “Nah, thirty if a day,” Mark replied helpfully, “and she is fucking hot.”

  Crystal’s face fell; if looks could kill, Mark would have undoubtedly been dead.

  Jealous bitch, Stevie thought with a stab of satisfaction. At twenty, Crystal may have been a good ten years younger than Julie, but she couldn’t hold a torch to her. Crystal was quite pretty, but she was trash, through and through. Everything about her was trash, from the miniskirts and skyscraper heels she wore, to her fake tan, inch-thick make-up, hoop earrings and dyed-black hair which she always wore scraped off her forehead in a high-bun.

  “Yeah, well she looks way older,” she pouted. “I don’t know why Stevie likes her so much.”

  “I don’t like her,” he muttered, edging towards the stairs. “Just bein’ nice, that’s all.”

  Mark snorted laughter. “Fucking bullshit. Grab a beer and join us.”

  Mark patted the empty space next to him on the sofa and Stevie could’ve cried. All he wanted to do was lock himself away in his room, surf for porn on the net and do his English and Sociology homework.

  Julie’s voice rang in his mind: You can be anything you want to be, Steven. Never forget that…

  Sure. Try telling my brother that.

  “You coming in, fucktard, or are you just going to stand there gawping?”

  Ratski giggled and Stevie contemplated telling them all to fuck off.

  Then he thought of his brother pummelling him and decided not to; his ribs still ached from the beating he’d got last week.

  Trying not to be too obvious about it, he tucked his rucksack behind the living-room door, hoping that there it would be ‘out of sight, out of mind’. Mark wasn’t adverse to rootling through it when the fancy took him and tearing up his college notes.

  Stevie made his way into the kitchen and opened the mouldy fridge, helping himself to can of lager that he really didn’t want to drink.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Back in the living-room, Mark had fallen silent. Stevie watched him, a knot of apprehension in the pit of his stomach. He recognised that look in Mark’s eyes and he didn’t like it one bit. Mark was pissed off about some perceived injustice or other, and that didn’t bode well for any of them.

  Tentatively, he sat next to him on the sofa, wishing that he was anywhere but where he was.

  “Curly and Dairy are coming round in a bit,” Ratski said, not looking up from his phone, seemingly oblivious to Mark’s sudden, black mood.

  Fucking wonderful, Stevie silently fumed. All the cunts together.

  “Good. I’m almost out of gear,” Mark said, sucking hard on the joint.

  “Save some for me,” Crystal said, extending a hand complete with hot-pink fingernails.

  “Fuck off,” Mark said. “I think you’ve had enough.”

  Stevie winced.

  What the fuck’s rattled his cage now?

  Crystal fell silent; obviously, she knew better than to reply. The semi-detached house was small and Stevie knew for a fact that he wasn’t the only person Mark got fist-happy with on occasion. He could hear Crystal’s muffled screams coming from the bedroom at night. He bet that her torso was black with bruises – Mark never hit where it would show.

  Crystal fumbled in her sparkly, gold handbag for her phone and frowned in concentration at the lit-up screen. She shuffled out from under his arm and propped her back up against the arm-rest with her bare toes resting against Mark’s thigh.

  “What you doin’?” Mark asked her.

  “Nothin.”

  “Yeah, you are. I bet you’re on facebook again.”

  “Hey!” she protested when without warning he snatched her phone out of her hand. “What the hell are you doin’?”

  “Shut up,” he said, jumping to his feet and turning his back to her. “You ain’t got nothin’ to hide, have ya? Don’t mind if I take a squiz, do ya?”

  “Give it back, Mark, I’m warning you.”

  “Fuck off,” he said, his fingers working the buttons of the phone, frowning in concentration.

  Crystal gave up trying to retrieve her phone, and just stood there staring miserably at his turned back. Stevie’s gaze was involuntarily drawn to the heavy curves of her backside. She was on the stocky side, but she was still sexy. Pear-shaped, he believed her body-type was called. She was short – chunky from the hips down but with a tiny waist, small breasts and slim arms.

  Fleetingly, he wondered what it would be like to fuck her and his cock twitched.

  Stop it, he chided himself, tearing his gaze away from her well-padded rump in the white mini-skirt, and her small, braless tits in the red halter-neck top.

  “You fucking slag,” Mark said in a dangerously low voice. “You fucking skanky little cunt-whore.”

  For a second, Stevie’s heart stopped beating, then resumed again at twice normal speed. He held his breath; Mark was about to throw a wobbly.

  “What’s the matter?” Crystal stammered.

  In a split second, Mark was on her, grabbing the tightly coiled bun on the top of her head. Something between a gasp and a scream escaped her lips, and her hands flew up to her hair, her pink talons clawing at his hands.

  “I’ll tell you what the matter is, you dumb fucking cunt, you’re fucking shagging around behind my back, that’s what the fucking matter is.”

  He walked the wailing girl over to the sofa and shoved her down on it, face-first with her arse in the air. Her skirt rode up past her hips, exposing the fleshy orbs of her buttocks in the red thong. Sure enough, just as Stevie had suspected, her cheeks were blotched with yellowing, old bruises.

  Despite feeling bad for the girl, Stevie’s cock stirred again.

  Ratski laughed, and when Stevie glanced at him, he was holding his phone outstretched, filming the spectacle.

  “Oh yeah, nice view,” he giggled in that high-pitched way of his.

  Inside, Stevie winced. Usually, Mark didn’t take kindly to men leching after ‘his woman’, but this time he only laughed. Her head was buried in the cushions on the back of the sofa, held down by Mark’s hand on the back of her neck.

  Her cries were muffled by the upholstery and Stevie couldn’t tear his gaze off her wobbling arse as she tried to struggle out of his grip. Her flesh was dimpled with cellulite, unlike the girls he liked looking at online. He decided that she was no less attractive for this supposed imperfection – in fact, he found it incredibly sexy because she was so very real.
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  “You reckon, Ratski? I’ve seen better,” Mark said, cutting through Stevie’s lustful haze. He slapped her exposed arse, and his hand left a red-print on her buttock. “You should delete your messages if you don’t want others reading them, you dumb slag.”

  Stevie couldn’t imagine her playing around behind Mark’s back, he doubted that she would have had the nerve. Besides, she very rarely left the house as she was on benefits. In fact, it was a miracle that she wasn’t knocked up already.

  It sounded like she was trying to say something, so Mark yanked back her head by her bun. She gasped for air, and began speed-talking:

  “I ain’t been unfaithful! Rob is just a mate, we chat sometimes, that’s all – “

  Her words gave way to more muffled screaming when Mark shoved her face back into the cushions again.

  “Stop filming, Ratski, I’ve got an idea. Stevie, go upstairs and look in her knicker drawer and bring me down all the tights you can find.”

  Her tights?

  He looked blankly at his big brother, hearing the words but not quite getting them.

  Mark’s jovial expression gave way to a scowl: “Now, fuckwit, before I pound some sense into you.”

  Instantly, Stevie scrambled to his feet – he knew better than to aggravate his brother when he was in this mood – and he scurried upstairs to the bedroom that Mark shared with Crystal.

  Once upstairs, he went straight for the rickety chest of drawers and yanked open her underwear drawer. A shiver of fear coursed through him… Or was it excitement?

  What is my brother going to do to her?

  With trembling fingers, he pulled out all the hosiery he could find, and went back downstairs, hugging numerous pairs of black and flesh-coloured tights to his chest. He dropped them like an obedient dog on the sofa next to Crystals buried face.

  “Good lad,” Mark said, still holding down the back of her head. “Now listen here, I’m going to teach you some manners, you stupid fucking slag. I’m going to teach you to be fucking faithful to your master.”