Horror Thriller Box Set 1

by Amy Cross

  After a moment, I hear footsteps nearby and I turn to see Mr. Taylor coming back through.

  "Well?" I ask.

  "He's fine," he replies. "Why were you going to call an ambulance?"

  "Because he's..." I pause for a moment. "Was he in bed?"

  He nods. "He was fast asleep until I went running in." Heading back over to his desk, he starts going through the pile of files and folders. "Why did you say you needed to call an ambulance?"

  I stare at him. "Was his leg okay?"

  "His everything was okay," he replies. "Is this your idea of a joke, Juliet?" He sighs. "Listen, we've got more important things to worry about. I need to find all the relevant files before the audit starts. There are some very important things I need to double-check."

  Without saying anything, I turn and hurry back through to the red ward. Something seems very wrong about this whole situation, and I'm starting to get the feeling that Jennifer Mathis is playing with me. As soon as I reach room 109, I burst through the door and hit the light switch, only to see Kenneth Jenkins slowly rolling over in bed to look at me. He doesn't look happy.

  "Hi," I say.

  "What now?" he asks grumpily.

  "Are you okay?"

  "No!" he says. "People keep coming in and out of my room. First that Taylor idiot, and now you. Is something wrong?"

  I pause for a moment, and suddenly I realize there's someone standing behind me.

  "Nothing's wrong," I say, stepping back and pulling the door shut.

  "Did I miss anything?" Jennifer Mathis asks.

  "Not much," I reply, turning to her and trying not to sound angry. "Where were you?"

  "Busy," she says, smiling as she starts walking away.

  "Busy?" I ask, following her. "I needed you! I came to find you and you weren't there!"

  "You might be surprised to learn that occasionally I have other things to be doing," she says. "My existence doesn't entirely revolve around you, Juliet. Well, maybe it does these days, but I have to have some time alone occasionally. Why? What have you been up to?"

  "You know what I've done!" I insist as we reach the door to the abandoned ward. "He's in there right now!"

  "Who?"

  "Dr. Larson! He's in the cupboard. I did it." Looking down at my hands, I see that they're shaking again. "I need you to help me cover it up. People are going to ask questions, and -" I pause for a moment. "What did you do to Kenneth Jenkins? One moment he was hurt on the floor, the next he was asleep in bed."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," she replies, even though her smile says otherwise. "You must have imagined it all. But don't get too stressed, Juliet. I've already found Larson's body, and I'm going to take care of it. As for Mr. Jenkins, he seems fine, so anything that happened earlier must have been all in your head. If I were you, I'd go and make sure Mr. Taylor's happy. He seemed awfully worried about finding those files."

  I open my mouth to argue with her, but then I realize there's no point. It's pretty clear that she disappeared on purpose, to prove some kind of point.

  "Don't take me for granted," she says suddenly. "I'm not your servant, Juliet. I don't just do whatever you need me to do. Remember that. Do you seriously think that I'm just going to float around here, doing what you want, forever? Do you think this is some kind of permanent solution to your problems?"

  "I have to go and check on the other residents," I say quietly, turning to walk away.

  "I have a question," she calls after me.

  Stopping, I look back at her. "What?" I ask, failing to hide the annoyance in my voice.

  "You killed Lizzie McGuigan because she attacked you. You killed Piotr Cymbalista because he was causing trouble. You killed Dr. Larson because of what happened all those years ago. For all I know, maybe you've killed other people over the years. But I'm confused, Juliet. What about Samantha? She attacked you in her bedroom, but you didn't kill her. Why not?"

  "I deserved what she did to me," I reply. "I deserved worse than that."

  She smiles. "Good answer."

  Walking away, I find myself wondering if Jennifer was right. I could have killed Samantha, and to be honest I'm a little surprised that I let her live. I suppose I genuinely think that she had some kind of right to attack me, after the permanent scarring I left on her face all those years ago. Dr. Larson, on the other hand, deserved everything he got tonight, and more. Frankly, my only regret is that his death wasn't more painful, and more pathetic, and more extreme. Sure, he died a slow death, but I'm sure I'd have been able to come up with a worse way for him to die if I'd had time to plan ahead. Perhaps I should have waited a day or two to kill him, so that I could have devised something better. As I get back to the reception area, I start thinking that I let him get off quite lightly. Then again, at least he understood in his final moments that I was the one who ended his life; at least he knew why he deserved to die.

  Chapter Eight

  Eight years ago

  It takes me a while to get the woodshed back to normal. I initially had to pull away quite a lot of the old, rotten wood that had collected behind the main part of the structure, so now I have to shove as much of that as possible back into the gap before finding somewhere to put the rest. It's a hard, dirty job, made all the more difficult by a persistent drizzle. I also have to keep checking over my shoulder, to make sure that no-one is watching me. The last thing I need right now is for someone to sneak up behind me and ask what I'm doing. I'm pretty good at lying, but I don't think I'd be able to explain any of this. I have to -

  "Juliet?"

  Almost jumping out of my skin, I spin around and see my father standing by the steps that lead down from the back of the house. He has a puzzled look on his face, but he doesn't look angry. In fact, there's something a little different about him, as if he's calmer than before. I guess he's just relieved that, from his point of view, all the problems seem to be over. He thinks the pills are going to solve everything.

  "What are you doing?" he asks.

  "Nothing," I say, getting to my feet. I glance back down and see, to my relief, that I just managed to get finished in time. There's nothing obviously suspicious about the scene; my father will probably just think I'm playing in the garden. Besides, I think he's maybe learned to not ask too many questions, since he knows he probably wouldn't like the answers.

  "Are you okay?" he continues.

  "I'm fine," I reply. "Why?"

  "No reason," he says, "I just..." He pauses for a moment. It's strange, but he definitely seems a little different somehow; it's almost as if the events of the past few days have taken a real toll on him, and he's lost the will to keep fighting with me. "Do you want to maybe head into town?" he asks eventually. "I was thinking maybe we could do something. Maybe I could buy you some ice cream or something?"

  "No thanks," I say.

  "You sure? It might be nice for us to get out of the house for a while. Just you and me? Like the old times, huh?"

  I stare at him. The old times? What's he talking about? Sure, we went for ice cream a few times, but it was always forced and uncomfortable. I never felt like we were just hanging out and having fun; instead, it always felt like he was trying desperately to get me to like him. The truth, which I feel I can start to admit to myself, is that I've never like my father.

  "Come on," he continues. "Give me a break. I know things have been a little weird between us lately, and I'm willing to admit that some of that might be my fault. I'm extending an olive branch here. Meet me halfway, okay?"

  "I don't want to go for ice cream," I say, walking past him and heading up the steps.

  "You don't have to go back and see Dr. Larson again," he says suddenly.

  I stop and turn to him. Did he just say what I think he said?

  "I give up," he continues. "I saw your face today, and it was pretty obvious that you were miserable on the way to his office, and miserable when we got there, and miserable when we were leaving. I can't keep putting you through such a h
orrible time. I mean, sure, I want to help you, but not at the expense of your happiness. It's as if a little part of you dies every time you have to go and see him. I don't want to be the kind of father who does that to his child. I don't want you to end up hating me." He pauses for a moment. "I'm sorry, Juliet."

  "Sorry?"

  "For making you see him in the first place. And... I don't think you need to take those pills, either."

  I stare at him.

  "When I took you to see Dr. Larson, I thought maybe he'd find some gentle way to steer you back toward the middle ground. I never expected him to start prescribing a bunch of pills. The last thing I want is for your head to be filled with chemicals and toxins that change your personality. I mean, I want you to be happy, but I want you to still be Juliet. The last thing I want to do is have your head rewired so that you're someone else entirely."

  I take a deep breath, finding it hard to believe that this could really be happening. After all the fights and all the tension, is he really just giving up? Earlier today, in Dr. Larson's office, I decided I was going to stop pushing back against him, and now it seems that - at the last possible moment - he's come to the same conclusion. I was expecting to have to take the first pill tomorrow morning, but now it seems as if I'm going to be spared that ordeal.

  "So..." I pause for a moment. "I don't have to do anything?"

  "Not if you don't want to."

  I stare at him, feeling as if he's trying some new tactic. Is he attempting to use guilt to get me to take the pills? Does he think that by adopting a softer approach, he might persuade me to come around to his way of thinking? It just seems weird that, at the point of victory, he's suddenly waving a white flag.

  "Have you told Dr. Larson that I don't have to see him?" I ask cautiously.

  "I emailed him," he replies. "I told him to cancel the next appointment."

  "And he agreed?"

  "He has no choice. You were his patient because I wanted you to keep going, but if I stop booking slots, he can't force you to return."

  "Okay," I say, turning to go into the house.

  "Okay?" he calls after me. "Is that all you've got to say to me? Okay?"

  I turn back to him. "What else do you want me to say?"

  "You've got nothing else to ask about all of this?" he continues. "No thoughts or feelings?"

  It's weird, but I feel like he's pushing his point unnecessarily. There's no 'this' to talk about. Things are just the way they are, and that's the end of the matter. I wish he'd stop being so argumentative with me all the time.

  "I just want to help you," he says. "I want to make sure you're okay. Even if we don't see eye to eye all the time, I'm still your father and you're still my daughter. That means something. Whether we like it or not, we're stuck with each other. I'm not going to give up on you. I just want us to be friends, and I want you to stop hating me."

  "Okay."

  He sighs. "Can't you let me in, Juliet? Can't you let me know how you're feeling? What are you thinking? Are you okay? Are you happy? Are you sad? Are you scared? Are you relieved?"

  "I'm fine," I say.

  "You're not fine," he replies. "You're really, really not. You're a good girl at heart, but you're troubled. If we don't do something to help you, you'll grow up troubled too. You'll be unhappy, Juliet, and that's the last thing I want. You need to address certain issues in your life that are causing problems. Like the thing with Samantha. Do you really think you can go around solving problems like that?"

  "I'm hungry," I say.

  "You want me to make you a burger?"

  I shake my head. "I can do it."

  "You can?" He smiles. "Fine. I guess I have to stop treating you like you're a child. You wanna stick a burger on for me too? I could eat something."

  "Sure," I say, turning and heading inside. I hate it when my father tries to act like my friend. Lately, he seems to be alternating between being really really nice to me, and being really really mean. Either way, he's clearly lost when it comes to knowing how to deal with me. He's tried his best, but it hasn't worked and he's obviously starting to realize that I can't be molded into someone else. As I grab the things I need from the fridge, I realize that in some strange way I feel as if I'm a little more self-sufficient. Perhaps, before, I always held out hope that in some way my father would help me; now I see that he's never going to be anything more than an obstacle, and it's clear that I need to get him out of my way. Fortunately, as I'm making dinner, I glance back and see that he's gone through to his bedroom. I guess he doesn't want a burger after all. That's fine by me; I'd rather be alone.

  After I've eaten, I go up to my room. The first thing I see is the large box of pills sitting over by the window. I want to pick them up, open the lid and take a look, but I'm scared that I might be tempted to start swallowing them. I still don't quite understand why my father has suddenly decided to let me off the hook, but I guess I shouldn't tempt fate. Besides, I know what he's like: he changes his mind frequently, so I won't be too surprised if he decides in a couple of days' time that he wants me to go back to see Dr. Larson after all. I still have to be very careful, and I have to make sure that I don't do anything that pushes him back to being my enemy. Walking over and sitting on the edge of my bed, I force myself to remember that although I might have won a battle today, there's still a war raging.

  After a moment, I realize there's a strange smell in the room, kind of like roses and lavender. At first, I can't work out where it's coming from, but finally I recognize it from earlier today. Maybe it's in my clothes, or in my hair, or maybe it's just a particularly vivid memory, but I can still smell the receptionist's perfume. I like it.

  Epilogue

  Today

  "I don't really know what to tell you," Robert Hopkins says as we sit on his porch. "Martina was my sister, but we weren't as close as we could have been. Life always got in the way. I suppose it was mostly my fault, really. I might seem like a relaxed old fart these days, but back then I was..." He pauses for a moment. "Do you have any siblings, Juliet?"

  I shake my head.

  "I don't know whether to say you're lucky or unlucky," he continues. "Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I'd been an only child. Martina and I fought a lot. She was always very studious, very focused on the family business. It was pretty clear from the start that she was the one who'd be taking over the funeral home. I never really wanted to get involved, but I still resented the presumption. For a while, I guess I was kind of bad to her. I didn't give her the support she needed; in many ways, I treated her as if she was an enemy. When she died, we weren't really on the best of terms. We'd have sorted things out eventually, of course; brothers and sisters always come around. But then the accident happened and that was the end of it all."

  "So the last time you saw her, you argued?"

  He sighs. "I wouldn't say we argued, but it was definitely a missed opportunity to be friendly. I mean, we're talking about stuff that happened more than a decade ago. It seems so trivial and stupid now. Hard to believe, really, that we could have been so stupid. Time's very precious." He smiles. "If I can take a moment to lecture you, Juliet, let me impress that point upon you. Don't waste time on pointless arguments. You never know when someone's going to be snatched away from you."

  I take a deep breath. This is the second time in as many days that I've come to visit Robert Hopkins. I've told him who I am, and that my father was dating Martina when she died all those years ago. Initially, I claimed I was looking for a photo of her to include in some kind of scrapbook, but that explanation has kind of fallen by the wayside and now I'm just sitting here, listening to him talk about his sister. He lives alone, and I get the impression that he's never been able to talk about her properly. Besides, it's kind of interesting to hear his stories. The only question is whether I'm ever going to tell him the truth about Martina's death. That was my plan originally, but I can't bring myself to be honest. Not yet.

  "I remember the
very last conversation I ever had with her," he continues after a moment. "It was a couple of days before she died, and I went over to the funeral home to pick up some papers. She was fussing 'cause her cat had disappeared. I can't remember the damn thing's name, but -"

  "Gizmo," I say.

  "That's right! Gizmo! Anyway, the cat had gone off somewhere, and she was fretting, and I made some kind of smart-ass comment about how she should be more focused on running the business rather than searching for that annoying little ball of fur. She damn near bit my head off."

  "So what happened to the funeral home after she died?" I ask, hoping to change the subject. After all, my memories of Gizmo aren't entirely positive.

  "I ended up with it," he says. "Of course, I sold it immediately. About two days after Martina's funeral, this Gilardi guy showed up and offered me a load of money, and I took every cent. Maybe I should have held onto the family business rather than let some corporate funeral set-up take over, but I didn't really care. Besides, I've invested the money and now I'm doing okay." He stares out at the garden for a moment. "I should probably regret what I did, but I don't. I'm happy with it." He turns back to me. "Anyway, what are you still doing here? Why's a nice young lady like you spending her time listening to a middle-aged guy ramble on about things that happened a long time ago?"

  "It's fine," I reply, feeling a little uneasy.

  "Got nothing better to be doing?"

  I smile. "It's interesting," I say after a moment. "My memories of Martina are pretty vague."

  "Here you go," he says, reaching into his pocket and holding out a photo. "Let's see if we can remind you. This is what you wanted, isn't it?"

  Taking the photo, I feel my chest tighten a little as I see Martina's face staring back at me. She looks a little younger than when I knew her, and her smile seems more genuine, but it's weird to see her after all these years. In the corner of the photo, Gizmo's eating from a bowl. Two lives, caught on camera for a moment; if it hadn't been for me, Martina would still be alive and Gizmo would at least have lived a little longer. Meanwhile, the funeral home would never have been passed on to Robert, so his life would have been very different. So much change, and so much drama, all because of my actions. I guess it's true: you make a choice, and the repercussions of that choice echo through the lives of everyone around you, in ways you could never possibly anticipate.