Amber StClaire And The Beast Of Sanur

by Brooke Dark

  103

  THE EROTIC AND SUPERNATURAL MYSTERIES OF AMBER StCLAIRE

  ♀♀

  AMBER StCLAIRE

  AND THE

  BEAST OF SANUR

  A tale of mystery, horror and lesbian erotica

  Copyright © 2016 BROOKE DARK

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  WARNING

  THIS STORY CONTAINS EXPLICIT SCENES OF LESBIAN SEX.

  IF THIS OFFENDS YOU PLEASE DO NOT READ ON.

  Cover design by

  AshbeeDesigns.com

  TheBookCoverDesigner.com

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE – AMBER StCLAIRE

  CHAPTER TWO – GHOSTS

  CHAPTER THREE - REGRETS

  CHAPTER FOUR – BRATA

  CHAPTER FIVE - VERONIKA

  CHAPTER SIX - DEADNIGHT

  CHAPTER SEVEN - LOVERS

  CHAPTER EIGHT – GHOST GIRL

  CHAPTER NINE – DARKNESS

  CHAPTER TEN – SEDUCTION

  CHAPTER ELEVEN – REVELATION

  CHAPTER TWELVE – LAIR

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN – CONFESSIONS

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN – VANISHING

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN – MONSTER

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN – LAST KISS

  EPILOGUE

  THE BEAST OF SANUR

  ~ PROLOGUE ~

  THE old man, a hungry beast of a thing, sits alone. He watches the girls as they play. It’s twilight. He sits on his bike on the path that runs for several kilometres along the top of Sanur beach. He’s alone near the palms. He wears no shoes. His feet are but stunted tentacles. His hands resemble dark worms. Constantly they curl and twist about his wrists, about the hem of his shirt, about the cuffs of his sleeves. As he grows aroused, his skin ripples in an array of colours. From beneath his wide brimmed straw hat he watches. Tasting the air with his tongue. Tasting the scent of the girls as they chase one another through the sand. Tasting their skin. Their hair. Their breath. Delicious. Alluring. Intoxicating.

  He groans.

  Beyond, lies the sea. Soft and mellow. Beyond the reef, large waves crash and roll… crash and roll. Pushing sea breezes into shore where they gather up the scent of the girls, pushing their odours to him.

  The Indonesian sunset darkens and fades over Sanur’s busy streets. The kites that soar high above the rooftops remain there, as though they are pilot ships, guiding the darkness into port, as dusk gives way to night. Further along the coast, night lights illuminate the beachside bars and restaurants. Where the girls play there are no bars. No hotel. Nothing abutting the beach but the dark and vacant grounds of the defunct Bali Sanur Resort.

  He watches. The girls are soon but shadows. Soon they will depart the beach. Soon they will head for home… and the spider shall be waiting. The spider shall snare his fly.

  He shudders in the delight of these thoughts. He retreats. The girls take no notice of him. Nonetheless, the sound of his squeaking pedal carries to them. An eerie, ghostly, lonely sound.

  The tropical sun falls quickly. The pale light from half a moon fills the sky. The night bugs begin to chirrup and chirp. He watches one of them, the girl with her hair tied back, the one carrying her shoes, the one whose virginal odour excites him.

  Like a lizard he is backed up beneath the flowering heliconia shrubs. The girl says ‘good night’ to her friends. They saunter off, giggling. She joins the paved path. She climbs over the stone wall and into the deserted gardens. Taking the shortcut home.

  Her mother has warned her about being out at night. About being alone in the dark. She has heard the tales of the witch that eats unborn babies. The creature that hides in the dark. The thing that prays on pregnant women. However, she has never seen such things. She believes her mother worries too much. She likes to rebel against her mother’s words. For the sake of it.

  Unwittingly, she moves toward him. To her mind, she is alone. Out of company. Just her and the rising half-moon and behind her the beach and the soft roar of the surf beyond. Briefly she turns. She eyes the darkened ocean. She fantasises that she is the last person on Earth. That she might meet a nice young man… a prince, maybe. They will build a shack on the beach. They will sail tall ships by moonlight. They will discover distant lands together.

  She yelps as she feels the wasp sting her ankle. She raises her hand to slap the insect to its death.

  Alas, she sees a lizard tongue retracting. Her blood smeared upon its glistening surface. She gasps when she spies the face of some hideous thing gazing up at her. From the base of the bushes. A beast. A monster. Grinning. Sharp yellow fish-teeth aglow in the moonlight. Eyes like an eel. Soulless. Glaring.

  The girl does not move. Frozen by terror. She cannot squeal. Something has paralysed all movement. Her knees fail her. She collapses. Heavily.

  She slumps, staring into the beast’s glaring eyes. It smiles. It crawls from the undergrowth. It tugs instantly at her clothes. Pulling off her skirt. Pulling off her underwear. It judges the girl has seen sixteen years on this earth. Maybe seventeen.

  This will be her last.

  It opens her up as she still lives and breathes. It pulls out wet, bleeding, glistening parts of her.

  The last she sees in life is the glaring half-moon… and the beast’s hideous glaring face.

  ♥

  ~ CHAPTER ONE ~

  AMBER StCLAIRE

  THE taxi pulls up. The door swings open. Her long slender leg steps out onto the turn-around of the Villa Apsara. Her dress spills to the side. Briefly exposing her long thigh. The tropical sun falls across it. The doorman can’t help noticing, eyeing the smooth skin, the athletic form. Out the woman steps. Tall, blonde, enigmatic, sexy in summer dress and sandals.

  She offers the doorman a smile. He bows his head. Dutifully he fetches her luggage. She moves to the open air foyer. The air is humid, warm. Orchards grow from the trunks of palm trees. Orchids in flower. Pink and blue. The smell of incense floats on the warm, tropical air. The sound of the distant surf she can faintly hear.

  Dragon statues stand sentry. Two of them. Either side of the foyer entrance. A statue of Garuda watches her from beneath the high wooden ceiling. Tall, garish, bug-eyed, colourful. Its wings outstretched.

  She approaches the front desk. She smiles, and introduces herself to the Balinese beauty standing there awaiting her. ‘Hi. I have a reservation. My name is Amber StClaire.’

  Amber is escorted to her room. Through gardens green and lush. Filled with frangipani trees and hibiscus and bougainvillea. Intoxicating, delicious, the scent of frangipani flowers soaking the air. Small Hindu shrines, nestled amidst trees and shrubs, smoke with incense. Hindu shrines where Ganesha and Hanuman sit, serenely watching the world. Sparrows pick at the offerings. There are ponds with carp. Gold fish. Ponds with lilies and purple lotus flowers. She notices tiny black frogs in the grass.

  With each breath, Amber’s jetlag is swept aside. With each breath, she feels the vibrancy of Bali filling her, revitalising her, body and soul.

  Room 7. She tips her elderly porter. Her fingers touch his in the exchange. He smiles in a humble fashion. Amber smiles… then frowns.

  The man has a daughter. A daughter who is in hospital. She has a rare blood disorder. She is not expected to live.

&nbs
p; The porter says not a word of this to Amber. Yet Amber sees it all in the old man’s mind. Sees it as clear as a picture. He goes to move away. Amber asks him if he would wait a moment. He doesn’t seem to understand. ‘Can you wait, please,’ she says to him gently.

  He frowns. He waits.

  Amber pulls her suitcase to the bed. Unlocks it. Slides her hand in beneath her neatly folded clothing. She fetches out something. A small leather pouch. She unties it and tips into her palm a strange stone. Given to her once by a Nepali Jhākri, a shaman. She moves back to the doorway. The porter watching her. She hands the porter her stone. As she does so, she touches his arm. He looks puzzled until this moment…

  He sees his daughter now. Lying in hospital… holding this peculiar stone. He sees his daughter awakening. He see his daughter smiling. He sees her walking, laughing.

  He seems to comprehend… believes that somehow this stone will cure her…

  For a while he doesn’t know how to respond.

  Eventually he takes the stone. Then he presses his palms and fingers flat together, lifts his finger tips to his forehead. Bows his head. A gesture of gratitude.

  Amber smiles in return.

  He departs.

  The door. She leaves it open. The air is humid, warming as the day moves on. She has breathed nothing save dry, stale airline and airport air since Heathrow. She invites the spiciness of Southeast Asia into her room. She inspects her accommodation. Very clean. A large main bedroom, a large flat screen telly. Large cool tiles underfoot. Fresh, crisp sheets on a queen sized bed. An en suite bathroom. Plus a private outdoor garden, with a small table and deck chairs beside a five metre pool.

  ‘Very nice,’ she says to herself. ‘Now, before business, some refreshments.’

  She slips out of her dress. Kicks off her sandals. Fetches her swimming clothes from her case.

  Bathroom mirror. A luscious woman in blue swimming shorts and a bikini top gazes back at her. Tall. Square shoulders. Blonde. Full, natural breasts. Hourglass waist and hips. Long smooth thighs. Tall, shapely legs.

  She offers herself a smile.

  She pulls her hair into a pony tail. Wraps a sarong around her waist.

  From her bed she slips the case files into a shoulder bag. Stores her valuables in the room safe. Vacates her room.

  The hotel pool is bathed in warm, tropical sunshine. It sparkles in aqua marine water. Tiny swallows swoop and wheel; skimming the water’s surface. From there, through the open-air restaurant, Amber spies the glistening waters of the Badung Strait. Beyond the reef, waves crash, blue waters twinkle, the distant roar of the surf, ever present.

  Around the pool, hotel guests lounge on sun beds. Reading novels on iPads or on kindle devices. Reading magazines. Dozing. Eating bar snacks. Sipping chilled Bintang.

  A sun lounge. Unoccupied. There beneath the shade of the beach umbrella. Amber moves over and places her gear on the table beside it. Her case file beneath her towel. Some eyes are on her as she slips off her sarong. Women and men both. She drops her sarong onto her towel. Strolls to the pool. Dives in.

  Warm. Luscious. Revitalising. She swims half the length before surfacing. She breast strokes to the edge. Leans her head back. Breathes in deeply of the warm tropical air. She knows some eyes are still upon her. She does not need to look to realise this. She senses these sorts of things nowadays. Some stare from fascination. Others stare out of jealousy. Some stare out of pure lustful hunger… desire. Women and men both, she realises. She has learned to ignore this. Or to act upon it… if she deems the occasion right, of course. In this moment she does not. She won’t let herself be distracted. Not yet.

  She swims the length of the pool again. Climbs the pool stairs. Drips on the stone pavers. Steps to her sun bed, grabs her towel.

  She dries her hair. She drapes the towel about her. She orders guava juice. A plate of tropical fruit. She lies back and flicks through case notes as she waits.

  The notes are ordered. Harrowing images of murdered women. Young women. A forensic pathologist has made a detailed summary of findings. Amber looks for trends. Similarities. The young women have had their wombs removed. Not cut out. Pulled out. Entire reproductive systems. No other wounds present. Cause of death: shock… bleeding.

  Listed are addresses, locations where the bodies of each girl was discovered.

  There is a map of the Sanur district.

  Amber studies it. She realises that one of the marked locations is nearby.

  Amber’s juice is placed upon her table. With her fruit platter. Watermelon. Rockmelon. Pawpaw. Mango. Delicious. Sweet. Juicy. Satisfying.

  Except for peel or skin, she leaves not a morsel.

  ♥

  ~ CHAPTER TWO ~

  GHOSTS

  She walks along Jalan Segara Ayu, the path at the top of Sanur beach. Hawkers push dive tours. Rental bikes. Glass bottom boat trips. Cheap clothes. She declines each with a smile. Eventually they leave her be. The surf breaks upon the reef two hundred metres from shore. The water between there and the beach is gentle. It sparkles blue. Sand is white. Shadows of coral beds hang in the shallows.

  Kites hover above the water. Operated by boys who are perched beside palm-roofed gazebos that sit upon sand breaks branching out from the beach. Some kites shaped like sailing ships. Others like dragons, with tails as long as buses.

  She leaves the hawkers behind. She leaves the stretch of hotels. Bamboo poles are prod into the beach sand. Cut and whittled at their tips so that they moan in the ocean wind. The sound is haunting. Ghostly.

  Before Amber, the beach stretches south out of sight. In the distance, jukung, traditional outrigger fishing boats, rest on the sand at the top of the beach. Distant figures work on them. Between her and the breakwater, fishermen stand in the glaring sun. The water to their waists. Long bamboo fishing poles strung out before them.

  She follows the beach path still. There is a wonderful heat on the air. A bright light to the tropical sky. It was raining when she left her flat in London. It was grey and cold when the British Airways Airbus lifted out of Heathrow.

  She hears voices. Australian tourists cycling their hire bikes along the path. Chinese visitors strolling along in a group. Holiday makers all.

  Yet, it is not their voices she hears.

  She spies a young couple on the beach. Some distance away.

  Japanese, she senses.

  She listens to their language. Although around her all that can be heard is the breeze, the sounds of waves, the call of birds, she can hear them. Understands them. Though she speaks no such tongue.

  It’s a discussion regarding intimacy, she senses. Or a lack of it. Rokuro… the male, argues that they’ve had sex just once. Since their engagement. He wants more. Misaki, his fiancé, argues that they ought to wait. Until their wedding day.

  —I’m shrivelled through lack of use, Rokuro argues.

  As though it is the fault of his fiancé.

  Misaki. Her name means beautiful blossom. She speaks not. Not for a while. Then…

  —Rokuro… I… I am sorry. I love you. But please understand. I want to be traditional. Please forgive me…

  He huffs. She sighs.

  Amber leaves them to their discussion.

  The location where the first body was discovered is situated on the grounds of a derelict hotel complex. The Bali Sanur Resort; awaiting new owners, new financiers. The buildings appear to rise up out of wild bougainvillea. Out of clumps of frangipani trees. The property is shaded by tall coconut palms and banyan trees. Otherwise it is overgrown, unkempt, choked in tall grass and weeds.

  Amber needs not the notes. To tell her where the body was found, she simply senses it. Sees it. Feels it.

  The exact position lies on the property’s eastern quadrant. Amidst what must once have been a lush heliconia garden. From here, Amber can see the ocean—beyond the low stone wall along the beach front. There’s the distant muted sound of the surf. The distant sound of bustling traffic along Jalan Danau Tamb
lingan. The sounds of birds in the trees.

  Hindu offerings lie around the vicinity where the girl was found. Little baskets woven from some sort of palm leaf, filled with dead flowers, desiccated balls of rice, burnt out sticks of incense. Amber is careful not to disturb them as she lies down on the spot where the girl’s blood was spilt, where she took her last breath.

  Grass stalks. Weeds. Tickle her face. They rise up in front of her eyes. Was the girl alive when she died? If so, this might have been the last thing she saw. The weeds and grass. In front of her eyes.

  Amber wonders, did the girl see her killer? In her dying moments.

  Amber closes her eyes.

  From white to grey… Amber’s skin turns.

  Her eyes roll back into her skull.

  Her cheeks sink. Her eye sockets become prominent. She becomes corpse like. Her ribs poke through her dress. Her belly sinks. Her limbs wither. Fungus grows along her body where it rests against the earth. Her body grows dark. As if from rot. Decay.

  Her eyelids come open. Her eyes are bone white.

  She views the gardens. She sees dark shadows. Watching her. Shadows with no form. Shadows with white eyes. Slitted eyes. Fearful eyes.

  A spectral part of her rises from her body. It hangs there. As if it was white cloth anchored to her body.

  She looks beyond the dark forms that watch her. She searches the trees. The undergrowth. The boughs. The canopy. Other shadows and other forms… watch her.

  None of them are the girl’s killer.

  None of them are the girl’s ghost.

  She whispers to the entities that surround her. None answer her. She asks them, in the strange spectral language she has come to learn, if the girl’s spirit is nearby. She asks them of her killer’s whereabouts. None answer her still. Instead they fall further back into the shadows… and make themselves scarce.