Sketch: All Tied Up With String #1

by Stuart Keane

  Sketch

  All Tied Up With String #1

  By

  Stuart Keane

  Copyright © Stuart Keane 2017

  Published: 30 January 2017

  Publisher: Stuart Keane

  The right of Stuart Keane to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  All Tied Up With String #1 - Sketch is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information about the author, please visit www.stuartkeane.com

  Scott Beagle – Come On Down

  So begins a journey to the gruesome world of All Tied Up With String.

  This is an anthology for the readers from an appreciative writer, one who cherishes their long-term support and advice, their feedback and their kind words. This collection consists of fourteen stories, each of which is dedicated to a specific reader. Whether I've met that person at a convention, got to know them online, communicated with them on social media, or known them before I ventured on this perilous journey, each person has earned their spot here by doing one simple thing; buying a physical copy of one of my novels.

  So why the thank you?

  Why go out of my way to create this anthology for the readers?

  Simple; without them, I wouldn't be living my dream. It's only fair I give something back.

  When I started my writing career, it soon became clear that people were willing to support me. I had nagging doubts about this career path – all authors probably do – but those doubts were soon cast aside by the support that flooded in. To this day, there's no word that can describe the feeling an author gets when readers message or review or communicate about their work. On the flip side, my doubts, it seems, were unfounded.

  Readers are the reason we do this, and a wise man called Matt Shaw once confirmed a fact I already knew; that giving back to the readers is key. Readers love talking to and supporting their favourite authors, and when you reciprocate, something that is incredibly simple yet underutilised with modern social media, it opens up a relationship that many will never experience. It also adds a comfortable element to the job. The look on a reader's face when you sign a book or take a photo can only be magnified when they have an open phone line, so to speak, to the author who terrifies them, or keeps them up at night, or makes them turn the light on when heading downstairs. Knowing you are doing this to someone, and in return knowing they enjoyed your work to that degree, is truly phenomenal. Does that make us a little depraved? Yes, but then again, horror isn't ballet with bells and whistles. Horror is supposed to be horrifying.

  All Tied Up With String is a personal work, for me and the readers involved. I've taken their favourite thing in the world and twisted it for the dark means of suspense and horror. Originally planned as a collection, I've decided to release each story individually, to give each tale its own mini spotlight.

  Sure, a collated collection will be forthcoming at the end of 2017, but until then, each small package has the chance to terrify, to traumatise, and to get a person thinking. It also takes the reader and turns their individual world on its head. The personalised story isn’t a new concept by any means, but I believe these stories are one of a kind; brutal, effective, and chilling. I just hope I did the topics justice.

  So here's to All Tied Up With String. It seems only fitting that I begin with a man I consider a true friend, a man I've known for many years, and a man who shares many interests. I've known him for six years, but have only met him on two separate occasions (three at time of release). We've babbled and gossiped over many an Xbox game and wrestling match, and spent hours in one anothers' company online, but we've also become close friends. In a society where the internet is the digital king, is that really much of a surprise?

  He's a family man, first and foremost, and it soon became apparent that even though Scott's passion is art and drawing, his first and main love is his daughter. As a horror writer, this seemed like too good an opportunity to pass up. Sketch is a simple tale with horrifying consequences, and I have it on good authority that Scott was disturbed by the writing. If that's the case, my job is done. And hey, he knew what he was signing up for.

  So here's to Sketch, the first entry in All Tied Up With String.

  Scott Beagle. Your time is now.

  Sketch

  Subject: Art/Drawing

  The use of a pencil is the only way to make others understand the power of my imagination.

  – Scott Beagle

  As the front door opened, his whole weekend came crashing down around him. The smile that currently dictated his buoyant mood and genuine expression of happiness, one enticed to the surface by innocent joy and fatherly duty, dropped like a broken brick into a lake. Shuffling from foot to foot, Scott Beagle placed a hand on the beaten doorframe, restricting access to his home, and sighed at the unwelcome sight of his ex-partner.

  "Hey … what are you doing here?"

  "Hey, yourself. I'm here to pick up Verity."

  "But it's Friday … you aren't due to collect her until tomorrow afternoon."

  "Change of plans, I'm afraid," Jay uttered, the words tinged with both a hint of regret and unintended malice. Windswept, she flicked a strand of chestnut-brown hair behind her ear, the action almost violent in its speed. She folded her arms. "Our car is due for a service tomorrow, and unless we take her now, we can't have her this weekend."

  "Well, if that's the case, then so be it," Scott replied, vehemence boiling in the depths of his stomach. "There's always next weekend. Or any weekend after that for the next ten years. You can’t change your scheduled time on the fly like this, and just turn up at the door. We have plans."

  Jay nodded and stepped closer to Scott, forcing him back into the house. He didn’t want to be too close to his ex-girlfriend. The sight of her still made him smart a little, and the scent of her perfume had the ability to bring back some painful memories. She folded her arms, an action that forced him to divert his gaze. She smiled. "What plans?"

  "We … well, we’re getting our portrait drawn tomorrow morning."

  "Drawn?"

  Scott nodded. "Yes, I've hired a sketch artist to draw us. Just us, me and Verity," he added hastily, closing the door on a potential invitation. Scott bit his lip and observed the tiny woman before him. Her large eyes were gazing over his shoulder, scanning the interior of the house. "So … you can't take her. I already paid a deposit for the slot."

  "Drawn? Why don’t you get a painting done instead, it's much more elegant. Charcoal and pencil just doesn't scream … class."

  "Because I want a drawing instead, okay? You know how I love to draw, so it's much more apt. It'll look brilliant above the mantel. If you want a painting done, why don’t you book your own bloody slot?"

  "Okay, okay," she said, holding up her hands. She smiled again, her twinkling eyes watching Scott with a dark curiosity. They narrowed a little. "And maybe I will. It's a great idea."
>
  "Good…" Scott shook his head. For him, the conversation was concluded.

  Jay slipped a hand into her handbag and rustled around, searching for something. She removed her mobile phone, checked the screen with narrowed eyes, flicked a thin finger across it, and dropped it back into a large leather pocket. "So, is Verity ready?" she uttered, finally looking up.

  "Why would she be? She's not due for pick-up until tomorrow."

  "Scott, I don’t have time to argue this with you. Either I take her with me, or this can get … complicated."

  "Is that a threat?"

  "No," she said, the life disappearing from her face. "You know I would never use her as a weapon, I'm not a complete animal. I meant … I mean with the car … please, let me have her this weekend. I'll make it up to you. I'll owe you one." Jay sighed, clearly uncomfortable.

  Scott said nothing. He shuffled his feet on the carpet once more, his skin suddenly boiling. The brewing anger beneath his flesh was close to overflowing, it made his muscles twitch and spasm, and he heard the subtle squeak of the battered doorframe beneath his tightened grip. He wanted to tell her no, wanted to refuse her sudden intrusion and slam the door in her face, but in the grand scheme of things, and with fragile circumstances as they were, he knew better than to do that.

  "I need fifteen minutes to get her ready, okay? You know, since you just turned up out of the blue," Scott conceded.

  "That's fine." She feigned a smile. "I'll be waiting in the car." And with that, Jay turned and left the shadows of his small stoop, disappearing behind the brick porch. He heard her footsteps fade away on the path as she retreated.

  Retreated? Sounds like a battle term, like you fought the enemy and won.

  This is a battle. A constant battle. And I never win.

  But one day, it'll be over.

  I'll win one day. You'll see.

  Scott Beagle was a man of simple persuasions, a man with a want for nothing but what made him happy; family, video games, good food, and his beloved daughter. He'd lived by the mantra for many a year, and never aspired to anything beyond his reach. Unlike the average human being, he didn’t get excited about grand holidays, or flash cars, or have any dreams of owning a grand house that had the potential, no, guarantee to cripple his finances and put him in debt for thirty-five years. He answered to no one but himself, a tiny island in society. Scott Beagle was a man who had everything he needed. He was content with his life, and the simplicity of the daily routine that carried him along like a willing passenger.

  Well, until one person ruined it all.

  But, at this precise moment, he wanted to forget about her, wanted to forget about that side of his life. It was a difficult task considering he would now be alone for the weekend, but now, hidden away on a metal tube filled with complete strangers in the middle of Kent, and jostled by the bumpy roads beneath that guided him to his destination, he felt he was making a little headway towards it.

  She won't ruin this for me.

  I'm keeping the appointment. I'll go back with Verity another day if they do a decent job.

  A contemptuous sneer crept onto his face as he reluctantly glanced down the narrow aisle of the number 155 bus. His eyes flicked from side to side, both assessing and criticising the crowded vehicle and its variety of patrons, recalling that this mental judgment of the masses was a regular occurrence. A daily occurrence, especially when commuting to work.

  Scott hated getting the bus.

  But he had no other choice, and didn’t look beyond that.

  Without it, he couldn’t provide for his daughter, so like many decent parents, he accepted it. Sacrifice came easily to him because it made him happy, and provided his daughter with a simple but happy life, despite the occasional hindrance or minor inconvenience.

  The bus pulled over, hissed, and lowered slightly. A trio of passengers slowly climbed to their feet and departed the vehicle with stunted caution, their movements hindered by the fatigue of weary routine. Scott watched them mill out in a staggered fan-like shape as they hit the concrete, paused, and gained their bearings.

  Nearly there, he thought.

  Not long until it's over.

  Don’t let her get you down. This is going to be great…

  The red brick, two-storey building stood alone on the outskirts of Maidstone town centre. Sitting behind a grand, spiked fence with minimal rust and a smattering of overgrown grass, the exterior had seen its fair share of the weather over the years, the red faded to a dull orange and the mortar diminished, erosion retreating the yellow latticework an inch into the wall. Scott stepped onto the wide path leading to the entrance and took in the building. The symmetrical windows – black gothic frames with a slim cross partition, two up and two down, with the impressive oak door stood central – were pristine, and glimmered in the low sunlight. A one-way film gave the glass a silvery appearance, and privately protected whatever stood behind it. He breathed out and let the atmosphere sink in. Mysterious and quiet.

  He felt a shiver roll up his spine.

  Is this it?

  The creative have their quirks, he thought.

  Alone out in the middle of the vast industrial estate, with no other buildings nearby – a fact he confirmed with a quick, furtive glance around – it was the perfect working location for someone with a creative mind. He recalled the feeling and comfort of solitude when he sketched, something he rarely obtained during fatherhood, but also remembered how satisfying and inspiring the silence could be. Drawing without any major distraction or jarring sound was one of the few things he classified as a vice; the irony being that he hardly partook of it anymore.

  When Verity is older.

  The creative buzz is still there.

  Hell, you could be doing it now. You have the whole weekend free.

  He smiled at the thought.

  When I get home, I might bust out the pencils and sketchpad. It's been way too long. Hell, the artist might inspire me to do so.

  His spirits somewhat lifted, he walked forward. His footsteps clonked on the cracked pavement as he made his approach. As he looked left and right, his hand closed around the solid black door knocker – in the shape of a lion, how cool – and slammed it against the sturdy oak three times.

  Nothing but the echo of the knocks rang around him.

  Then, a latch clunked into place and the door opened with a deafening creak.

  Scott noticed a vast black slit as the door remained ajar for three long seconds.

  What the…

  A delicate, middle-aged woman seemed to materialise in the deep, dark maw. Her thin fingers held onto the edge of the door as her face appeared. She smiled. "Hello. Can I help you?"

  Scott was taken aback by the woman's natural beauty. Vibrant azure eyes shimmered with the shackles of a permanent, inquisitive gaze as they stared at him, the silvery-blue orbs glimmering at the touch of the morning sun. The woman's complexion was flawless, almost impossibly so, and reminded him of the finest light toffee. Her appearance seemed airbrushed, like she'd stepped straight off the front of some high-profile magazine cover. As she smiled, baring pristine white teeth, he noticed a lustrous mane of charcoal hair hanging over her left shoulder, the curled strands covering most of her chest.

  Struck into dumbfounded silence, he stood there gaping. The woman addressed Scott once more, flicking her hair behind her back with a soft whup. "Can I help you?"

  He rubbed his face, sweat slicking his roaming palm. "Yes … yes, I have an appointment. Scott and … Scott Beagle?"

  "Oh, yes. Sorry, please come in." The woman stepped aside, and allowed her guest access. Scott stepped into the building, his skin warm and prickly from the increasing heat outside. He entered a circular lobby, a large space positioned between two curling staircases that rose into the ceiling, steps that directed you to unseen quarters above. A series of stone statues and beautiful paintings adorned the tiled floor and wide walls around him. He turned around, taking in the impressive décor. After a seco
nd, he glanced at the woman, who looked confused. She hadn't closed the door, and stood with it still in hand.

  "I was led to believe you were bringing a young girl with you? Your daughter?"

  Scott nodded. "I apologise. Scheduling issues with the ex-partner. You know…" Scott trailed off. He look at the woman, still stunned by her radiance; he didn’t know if the woman had children, or even if she was married. He saw no stress lines on her face, no wrinkles, and certainly no jewellery that indicated a marriage. "Sorry, parental issues. It'll be just me today."

  The woman nodded and smiled. "I understand." She closed the door and walked to the left staircase. Scott observed the woman as she walked, her hips swaying, mesmerising him into silence. "Despite the change in plans and personnel, the price will be the same, regardless? I hope you're okay with that? I already organised the space, props and whatnot."

  Scott nodded. "That's fine, no problem. I'm just so sorry to inconvenience you."

  The woman smiled again. "Such a polite young man, but it's no major concern. These things happen; you weren't the first and certainly won't be the last." She held out a thin hand. "My name is Tabitha."

  "Scott," he replied, shaking her hand. Her skin felt smooth and soft in his palm. He retracted his hand slowly and smiled, captivated by the beautiful woman before him.

  "Are you ready to get started?"

  "Sure. Lead the way."

  She pointed to the ceiling. "My studio is upstairs."

  Tabitha walked across the room, started to climb the stairs and paused on the third step. She turned to Scott. "I warn you now, I have … shall we say some of my methods for creating the perfect portrait are a little … unusual. I find it brings out the best in people; after all, it's about capturing the natural beauty in its purest form. I do anything to make that happen. Anything. Customers get the best bang for their buck, that way."