Frightful Tales #1: Rose's Thorn

by Wesley Thomas

  With the phone still held to her ear, Officer Thompson's voice was blurring into her delicate consciousness.

  “Run, run now, get away from him,” his voice ordered. But her body refused to cooperate, too overcome by abhorrence. Stuck in a statue-like state, until something the police officer said struck a nerve.

  “Think of your parents, your family, survive for them! You can do this Laura!” he yelled.

  This thrashed motivation through her entire body. An unquenchable yearning aligned, daring to risk her life, in order to see family again, and laugh with friends.

  Laura dove forwards, swivelling around the clown, dodging and weaving his candlestick-wielding arm. He slashed desperately in an attempt to hack Laura to pieces, halting her bid for escape. The jagged tip nicked her neck and sliced through hair a couple of times. Her blonde locks swished as she vaulted out the bedroom. It soon came to her attention that the lighting in the hallway had not turned on, just Toby's room. Which was baffling. In the midst of sprinting she assumed all lights had been switched off then on by a main circuit board. So when it came back on, all the lights in the castle would come back. So how was it possible for one bedroom light to come on and leave other parts of the castle in the gloom? The clown knew what he was doing, and that terrified Laura. This seemed premeditated, not just a random kill, but a plotted, well thought out scheme. The narrow, dark corridor seemed to last forever as she barrelled for the stairs. Heavy, clumsy footsteps pounding the floor, almost tripping. Moonlight grew near as the stairs were getting closer. Laura used the walls to lead her to the stairs, leaning on them for support, hands spidering along them quickly. Paintings and other wall mounted artwork clattered and crumbled to the floor, leaving a line of destruction at her feet. With any luck that will slow the bastard down! More expensive portraits and landscapes thumped onto the carpet, their frames splintering. Sculptures cracked and smashed as Laura barged into them, swaying left and right as her feet fought for control. Then, reaching the first step, she began her expedition downwards, clinging tightly to the bannister. But despite efforts to maintain control of all muscles and movement, her legs became tangled.

  This sent Laura tumbling hard; head over heels. She spun sideways to the second floor, continuing on to the first. Her skull repeatedly smacking each stone step, laced with carpet. It was only now that it became clear how thin the carpet was, painfully thin. A continuous pounding bashed her eardrums as the noise of her own skull cracking brought nausea. Consciousness hung in the balance as Laura became woozy. Her vision was a surreal blur of stone and red carpet illuminated by a sliver of moonlight. Laura's head throbbed as her bag of bones smashed each and every step. Clonk, clonk, clonk. But Laura was disturbingly at peace. At least I am moving, she managed to think in the spiralling chaos. A painful spell that seemed to last an eternity soon came to an end when smooth, cold beech wood came into sight, with rugs plotted around like small pools of blood. Laura collided with the wood hard.

  The air held her for a couple of seconds, waiting to spit her out at just the right moment. The first time Laura had truly been at peace was in this instance, floating, free from gravity, temporarily. The air cradling, the freedom. But then reality came into focus, and hit her with a clout, literally.

  Laura felt as though she had been dropped from a ten story building, declining through the sky for a millennia, and then finally crashing against earth. She slumped but somehow maintained consciousness. Every crack and crevice of her was thumping with every type of anguish. Pins and needles tingled everywhere. A whooping swung around the insides of her skull as she tried to concentrate on making the necessary preparations to stand. Hands were the first to co-operate, pushing Laura from the ground until her torso was vertical. Next, the knees lifted her like a fire-fighter rescuing a damsel in distress. But it was her soul that held, a brawniness that kept her steady. But then the demons of her cranium made recent occurrences come to light, in a foyer with nothing but darkness. A vast space with shadows and statues, some resembling people. Stone figures prowling in the sombre hall.

  The rainbow of stresses all held within one man shone in front of her, as if he were actually there. Then the thought boomed, he could be here any second. But, to balance the situation, and keep equilibrium and maintain a natural order, there was a policeman at the other side of the front door. This gave her thighs and calves no choice but to follow her wishes. Laura drudged onwards as if wading through a lake containing a litter of sleeping snakes, administering caution with every step.

  Which led her foot to touch something squishy, and wet, almost causing her to slip. Caught unaware Laura almost slipped on the substance. By this point her eyes had adapted to the lack of light and she looked down to see the cause of this. Laura struggled to remain vertical when her eyes fell upon the bloody corpse of a police officer.

  She felt like a ship that had just crashed against jagged rock, optimism leaking out and anxiety piling in. And her own vessel being dragged downwards, succumbing to sways of giant sea waves. That was her lifeline, the life raft on this voyage of tremors, and with the snap of two fingers, it was gone. Taken from her grasp. Had the criminally insane individual had time to do this? Something did not fit into this jigsaw puzzle.

  This innocent man, this selfless officer of the law. This could-have-been hero was spread out on the wooden beams, blood spurting from a deep slit in his neck. The gouge allowed plasma to empty energetically, red fluid leaking onto the floor forming a large puddle. The navy uniform soiled, uneven and torn. His face was contorted in terror, that image itself was enough to make Laura squeal. A pale sheen masking the features among specks of blood. Scratches and bruises marked the flesh. This man hadn't died peacefully, that was for sure. It appeared as though he had lost a battle with a lawnmower. But Laura knew no gardening tool had done this, the massacre before her was the result of a lunatic clown. The metallic tang of his bloody lingered in the air, testing Laura's gut. Then came an idea. Police officers carry weapons, and radios to contact other officers. Laura could look for a radio or weapon that was no doubt hiding in the gloom somewhere. Or even her own phone, which had most likely clattered down the stairwell, accompanying Laura on her rocky descent. A noise suddenly came from upstairs, pushing all these brave ideas aside. Total despair was beginning to consume her. But before Laura could scream, a cold, fleshy palm trapped the noise. This hand wasn't Laura's. She didn't know whether to yell through the tightly sealed fingers, try and bite them, or stay quiet. As this person was clearly not the clown if the lack of gloves was any indicator. But also the forearm was not wearing a coloured sleeve. But this unnamed individual could still be dangerous. The hand stunk of dirt and nature, as if they had been rolling around in a forest. What was even more disorientating was that the arm looked slender, hairless and feminine. Tiny, delicate wrists and soft skin and a silver band on the wedding finger.

  “Shhh stay quiet, he'll find us, follow me,” the female-sounding voice advised Laura.

  Was this female someone to be trusted? But then logic broke through the cave of her skull and landed on her jelly-like brain. This was a girl, or woman, who would be much easier to defeat than a large crazed man armed with a spiked implement. If it came down to it. But there was a quality about this woman that was friendly and trustworthy, and dare Laura think it, familiar.

  However she was still discombobulated and weary so Laura remained vigilant; trust was a luxury she couldn't afford. This person stepped in front in a Gothic ensemble. A black jacket, jeans, and shoes. The drably dressed person tugged Laura towards an open door: the computer room.

  Officer Thompson had mentioned the heated object downstairs, in the computer room, maybe it was her? The phone! Where was her phone? It could be anywhere after the recent plummet. It could be on the stairs, thrown onto the second floor landing, or even tumbled down the stairwell to the ground floor. Or even further into the hellish basement.

  Dear Reader,

  Let me take this opportunity to t
hank you for reading Frightful Tales: Rose's Thorn. I really appreciate you choosing my book over the many millions out there. As a self-published author I rely heavily on reviews. So if you have a spare minute I would love it if you could head over to Amazon and just write a little review. It doesn't have to be long, or anything fancy. Just a sentence or two. Also, if you have a Goodreads account, the book is on there too if you're feeling generous and want to leave a review on Goodreads also.

  Reach Out

  Do you have any questions about this book? Want to ask me something? Send your questions to:

  wesley.j.thomas@gmail.com

  I will email back as soon as possible.

  Thank you again.

  About the Author

  Wesley Thomas

  Wesley Thomas, college graduate, born in the UK. He is a bestselling author, business owner, blogger, reviewer, freelance writer, and marketer.

  He has been featured in local and national newspapers throughout the UK, discussed his work on American radio, read book excerpts at several events, and attended a Twitter interview live from New York.

  He has two best selling horror collections, 'Terror Train' and 'What Goes Bump In The Night?'

  Three of Wesley's short horror stories have been accepted into multiple publications.

  'The Journey' – The Horror Zine Summer 2015

  'There's Something In My House' – Journal Of Horrors: Found Fiction

  'The Traveler' - Aphelion

  In his free time Wesley enjoys being with his family and friends, watching horror movies & series, computing, reading horror fiction, travelling, aromatherapy, writing reviews for horrornovelreviews.com, and dining. Furthermore he is very passionate about fitness, passed down from his mother. Every week he jogs, meditates, practices yoga, and is always trying out new ways to stay in shape, both physically and mentally.

  He also loves to blog, and read work from fellow bloggers. Wesley is somewhat of a knowledge fiend. Although he loves all things horror, he is widely read in many genres and feels that in order to be a truly remarkable author, one must read a vast array of genres.

  Publications:

  'Secrets Of Eriscove Lake'

  'The Darkness Waits'

  'Terror Train: A Collection Of Short Horror Tales'

  'What Goes Bump In The Night? A Collection Of Short Horror Stories And Flash Fiction'

  'Frightful Tales #1: Rose's Thorn'

  'Nightmare Fuel: The Ultimate Collection Of Short Horror Tales'

  Upcoming:

  'Frightful Tales #2: He's Watching Me'

  'Frightful Tales #3: Where Does Crazy Start?'

  'Gore Zone: 14 Tales Of Gore & Terror'

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to my proofreader Paula Limbaugh.

  Another thank you goes to the social networking pages that have promoted and advertised the release.

  Last, but not least, a huge thank you to my loyal and dedicated readers for their continued support.

  I would love to hear your thoughts. Feel free to contact me using the details below.

  Contact

  Email: wesley.j.thomas@googlemail.com

  Follow

  Twittter:WesJThomas

  Blog: wesleythomashorror.blogspot.co.uk

  Website: wesleythomashorrorauthor.weebly.com

  Facebook: Wesley Thomas Horror Author

  Did you enjoy this book? Head over to Amazon and Goodreads now and leave a review.

  W. Thomas

  Wesley Thomas – Author

  Frightful Tales #1

  Rose's Thorn

  © 2014 Wesley Thomas

  The following manuscript has been proofed and edited using British grammar and punctuation.

  Copyright

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email the Author, addressed below.

  Email: wesley.j.thomas@gmail.com

  Proofread/Edited by Paula Limbaugh.

  Cover design by Sajjad, Courtesy of Fiverr.com/covermaestro..

  Digital Edition

  Disclaimer

  This is a work of fiction. Although genuine factual historical events and locations are mentioned, everything else is fictitious. Including, but not limited to, characters, storyline/s, situations, occurrences. Any semblance to anyone of the living or dead is purely coincidental.