Victim: An Extreme Horror Novel

by Sam West

  “The thing is, I found her diary. And she wrote about her experience in fiction form, like it was one of Sam West’s books.”

  “That’s creepy.”

  “Not necessarily, her therapist recommended it,” he said in self-defence. But fuck it, Susan’s right. It is creepy.

  “Her therapist? Complicated kinda gal, ain’t she?”

  “So you keep saying. The thing is, I don’t know how to handle it, I don’t know if I can give her what she needs.”

  “Oh, I think you can give her what she needs, but can she give you what you need?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that if you loved her, then you would have no trouble getting your head around her past.”

  “That’s out of order. She’s been through so much…”

  “And you feel suffocated by it. Because as harsh as this might sound, she’s damaged. And now you’ve only just beginning to realise quite how deep it goes.”

  “Thanks for your support, really appreciate it.”

  “Wanna know what I think?”

  “Please, why hold back now?”

  “I think that maybe you just don’t love her as much as you thought you did. I think you may have simply picked the wrong girl.”

  “Maybe you should mind your own business.”

  “Hey, no one forced you to tell me.”

  “Maybe not, but there’s no need to be so judgemental.”

  “Maybe you’re right. But I guess I’m biased.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, even when he had the sinking suspicion he already knew.

  “This is what I mean, Greg.”

  Before he had time to react, she closed the gap between them and stood on tiptoes, pressing her lush body against him. Her mouth was hot and wet on his, making him hard instantly.

  He groaned into her mouth, partly in protest, but mainly in ill-suppressed desire. His hands fluttered in the air and hovered around her waist, torn between pushing her away and pulling her closer.

  “No,” he gasped, his heart hammering, finally mustering together the willpower to push her away.

  “Wow,” she panted, staring up at him, flushed and wide-eyed.

  Wow, indeed. Fucking hell.

  He could still feel the imprint her body had left, and the pressure of her lips.

  “I’m engaged,” he managed to get out in what he hoped was a voice that didn’t shake too much.

  “To a woman that you don’t love.”

  “Christ, Susan, that’s not your place to decide.”

  Instantly he regretted the words, for her face seemed to drop in disappointment, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

  “I think I should go.”

  His gaze slid down to take in the sight of the rapid rise and fall of her breasts beneath the silky blouse; he could see her nipples straining against the fabric and the red flush of her chest above the open ‘V’ of her collar.

  He gulped. “That’s probably a good idea.”

  “Yeah.”

  She turned to leave, visibly shaken, heading for the small door cut into the wide, garage-style doors at the far end of the workspace and he used the moment to discreetly adjust his raging hard-on.

  “Hey, what about your bag and coat? Aren’t they upstairs in the office?” he called after her.

  She stopped in her tracks and turned round; there was no mistaking the tears in her eyes. “I’ll pick them up Monday morning.”

  “But what about your keys? And your mobile?”

  “My flatmate will be home, and I smashed my mobile yesterday. What do you care anyway? Goodbye, Greg.”

  He could think of nothing else to say to prevent her from stropping out – he knew she walked to work and it wasn’t even cold enough to wear a coat.

  Just let her go…

  But before he could stop, he found himself calling after her: “I’m sorry. If things were different…”

  His words trailed off when she exited through the backdoor and he saw he was talking to an empty space.

  Well, that’s that, then.

  The strangest sensation overtook him and he shivered, his hard-on wilting in a heartbeat.

  Must be the guilt, he reasoned. Have I been unfaithful? He honestly didn’t know.

  But it wasn’t guilt he was feeling – it felt like he was being watched.

  He stared at the door Susan had just disappeared through, at the way it swung slightly on its hinges where she had slammed it but not shut it properly.

  A sudden banging noise made him jump. It was coming from over by the huge timber-stack by the doors.

  What the hell is that?

  There was no denying it, Greg was feeling spooked. I’m jumpy because I’m feeling guilty.

  Yet that bad feeling persisted. He made his way over to the other side of the work-floor, thinking how creepy it was without the constant noise of machinery and his work colleagues shouting at each other.

  It’s Chloe’s diary that’s spooked you, not your place of work. There’s nothing weird going on here…

  That’s when he heard the briefest, faintest of giggles. “What the…”

  The sound was coming from the largest moulding-machine near the timber-stack and he froze. He had never understood the expression, ‘blood turning to ice’, but now he bloody well did. It really did feel like ice was being pumped round his veins instead of blood, making every inch of his skin go tight and cold.

  “Hello? Susan? Are you still in here?”

  But he knew she wasn’t. No one was here, apart from him.

  I must’ve imagined it, he decided. He was, after all, wired up as tight as an overstrung guitar. Just when he had decided he had lost his mind and the mysterious laughing had been a figment of his imagination, he heard a scratching sound coming from the moulding-machine.

  What the fuck is that?

  Maybe they had rats.

  Giggling rats?

  He approached the machine, his heart thumping and a cold-sweat breaking out over his back.

  “Mate? Watcha doin’?”

  Greg jumped and spun round guiltily. Steve’s handsome black face peered at him from the door that led upstairs to the office of Prescott Ingham’s.

  “Nothing, I thought I heard something,” he called over.

  “Heard what, mate? Apart from the little voices in your head?”

  Greg grinned despite himself. Of all the guys that worked here, Steve was his favourite and the only one he really bothered with outside of work. The others were okay, but too ‘laddish’ for his tastes. Steve was a decent bloke and Greg had a lot of time for him, even if the most profound thing they ever discussed was the football scores. Steve never bragged about the notches on his bedpost, despite being single and the two men shared a quiet respect for each other.

  “Do you think we’ve got rats?”

  Giggling rats... He pushed the bad thought away.

  “Rats? Nah, I doubt it. What the fuck are you doing down here going on about bloody rats? And where’s Susan?”

  Oh, she remembered somewhere she had to be.”

  “So she just left?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “She just left without her coat and handbag? Man, a woman never goes anywhere without her handbag. What the hell did you say to her? You give her the brush off?”

  “What? No!”

  “Oh, come on, it’s no secret she’s sweet on you.” He stepped off the bottom stair and strode over to where Greg stood. “Why are you gawping at the moulding-machine like you ain’t ever seen one before?”

  “I heard something…” His voice trailed lamely away.

  “Heard something? Mate, that machine ain’t long been switched off, it’s cooling down, ain’t it? Gonna be making some clicking noises, and shit.”

  “No, it wasn’t that, it was scratching sounds. Like, really loud scratching, shuffling kinda sounds.” And let’s not forget the fucking giggling…

  Steve looked at him bla
nkly for a second, then his eyes widened dramatically.

  “Oh my God, you think there’s someone fucking hiding under there? What the fuck, man? Are you out of your tiny mind? They’d have to be a midget, or something.”

  “Porg.”

  “Huh?”

  “Person Of Restricted Growth. Gotta be politically correct, ain’t that right you black bastard?”

  “Fuck off, white boy, you suck your mother’s pussy with that ugly little mouth? Oh, I forgot, I do.”

  They guffawed at their usual mindless banter, but Greg’s gaze was still drawn to the bottom of the moulding-machine. Steve was right, it was less than six inches off the ground, it would be impossible for a human-being to squeeze under there.

  Steve abruptly stopped laughing. “You look like shit, mate. Your ugly, pasty face is even whiter than it normally is. You look like a piece of fucking chalk.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Whatcha doin’ now?”

  Greg had got down on his hands and knees and was peering under the moulding-machine. It was dusty, and cast in shadows. His heart stopped beating for a second, convinced he had seen something move under there, but it was only Steve’s shadow as he shifted position behind him.

  “Jesus fucking wept, I know this job is shit, but it’s seriously making you lose the fucking plot. What the fuck are you so jumpy for?”

  Steve had no idea about Chloe’s dark past; Susan was the only person he had told and now he deeply regretted it.

  Fucking hell, what I’d give to rewind the last half-hour.

  “I guess I just need a drink. Let’s lock up this fucking shit-hole quick.”

  “Ain’t you gonna catch that pesky porg first?”

  “Fuck off.”

  Steve slapped him on the back, and made his way back over to the stairs on the other side of the factory floor. Greg followed because he’d left his bunch of keys over on his moulding-machine and he needed to lock the doors. A heavy thump made both men stop dead in their tracks; Greg’s head snapped round just in time to see the backdoor banging on its hinges.

  “What the fuck was that?” he gasped.

  “I guess that pesky porg ran the fuck out, huh?” Steve laughed, but Greg only half-heartedly joined in.

  He finished locking up then followed Steve upstairs to the office for warm beer and forced conversation. That feeling of unease never left, clinging to him like a wet shroud.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Greg stumbled through the front-door, slightly worse for wear. Squinting, he peered at his wristwatch.

  Nine twenty-five. Not bad, she can’t moan at me for being out all night…

  He could hear the low babble of the TV coming from the living-room and he pushed open the door.

  Chloe was asleep on the sofa with the laptop rigged up to the TV. ‘American Horror Story’ was playing to no one on Netflix and Greg reached for the remote-control in her slack hand to mute it. His touch, or the sudden silence woke her and her eyelids fluttered open.

  “Mmm, what time is it?” she asked groggily, uncurling and stretching her slender body.

  “Half nine. Fancy a cuppa?”

  She sat upright on the sofa and dry-washed her face. “Sure.”

  Greg went into the kitchen which was right behind the living-room and kicked off his work-boots. A hot gust reminiscent of camembert and fish hit him in the face, making his nose wrinkle in disgust. Picking up the offending boots, he opened the door to the laundry room and chucked them in. After that, he quickly stripped off his stinky socks and shoved them in the washing-machine.

  Shutting the laundry-room door behind himself, he turned round and almost screamed. Chloe was standing right in front of him.

  “Christ, you almost gave me a heart-attack,” he moaned.

  “Sorry. Did you have a good, not-a-party, party?”

  “Not really, just the same old boring crap.”

  He stepped round her, heading for the kettle. His heart was hammering, whether from the fright Chloe had just given him or his guilty conscience at kissing Susan, he didn’t know.

  I didn’t do anything wrong.

  Yeah, keep telling yourself that.

  “Greg, can we talk?”

  His heart kicked up a notch.

  Oh my God, she knows I kissed Susan. I don’t know how she knows, but she knows...

  He chided himself for being so ridiculous. “What’s up?” he asked in a deceptively sober, calm voice.

  “I’m scared,” she said softly. “I didn’t want to tell you this, but I’ve been getting these weird messages from strange accounts on facebook and I got another one tonight.”

  “Weird messages? How do you mean?”

  “Come on, I’ll show you.”

  He abandoned the kettle and followed her into the living-room, sitting down on the sofa next to her. She opened up the lid:

  The message came from someone with the user name, ‘Killer Jones’ and had no profile picture. It read; I’m coming for you, bitch. Gonna slice you up, like I did the cunting Jones’ family.

  Greg scrambled frantically to grasp the implications of what he had had just read.

  “Who sent this? Did you say there were more messages?”

  “There were, like from a week ago, but I deleted them.”

  Greg stifled a wave of irritation. “You deleted them? What did you do that for? What did they say? Were they from the same account name?”

  “Different accounts, similar messages.”

  “But they’ll be on your block list, right? Please tell me you have some evidence of them?”

  “No, I told you, I didn’t block them, I deleted them. They were sickening and I couldn’t bear to look at them.”

  “They’ll still be on the history of your pc.”

  She looked sheepish. “No, that got wiped the other day when I was trying to make the computer run faster.”

  “The police will be able to retrieve them.”

  “The police? I’m not going to the police because of a couple of dumb messages.”

  “Chlo, that’s not a dumb message, it’s a death threat.”

  “The killer is dead, Greg. I fucking killed him, remember?”

  Yeah. I remember, alright…

  He sighed heavily, suddenly mentally exhausted. “Tomorrow you’re going to take your laptop to the police.”

  “Why? What can the police do? It’s just some weirdo that’s found me on facebook, just some sicko that’s getting off pretending to be the killer. I mean, it’s just a sick joke, you hear about people like that all the time.”

  Yeah, maybe in your fucking world, not in mine.

  Immediately, he felt guilty for thinking it, but there was no denying the truth of it. Chloe was different from other people, and it wasn’t just because of what she had been through.

  “Throw me a line here, sweetheart. It is seriously fucked-up to get messages from some piece-of-shit pretending to be the killer that slaughtered your fiancé and his family. It is not the norm, and I most certainly don’t hear about stuff like this all the time and it’s most definitely not a fucking joke.”

  “There’s no need to be nasty, do you think I find this funny? Do you really think I’m fine with it, like I enjoyed watching them get slaughtered?”

  “No, of course I don’t. I just…” His voice trailed off because he truly had drawn a blank. He didn’t know what to think anymore. “I just wish we were on the same page, here. Okay, so the killer is dead, but this person could be a potential copycat killer and you simply have to go to the police.”

  Her eyes widened. “Do you really think so? Do you think I have a stalker that wants to kill me?”

  Her voice rose and he cringed at his own lack of sensitivity. “I’m just saying it’s a possibility and you have to go to the police. We’ll go together, tomorrow.”

  “Fine,” she said, discreetly wiping away a tear. “I’ll go tomorrow. I just didn’t want to make it into a big thing, you know? I’m handli
ng this in my own way and I didn’t want to blow it out of all proportion. I didn’t want to give some bastard-nutter headspace, because that’s what they want, right? If he gets to me, then he’s won.”

  “I do understand,” he said, softly this time. “And it is probably just some saddo, but you can’t take any chances. You have to go to the police.”

  “Okay, I get it, you don’t have to go on.”

  Greg closed the laptop lid and placed the computer to one side, drawing her into his arms. “I love you Chlo, I just wish you’d told me.”

  “I didn’t want to worry you.”

  “Hey, that’s what I’m here for.”

  He held onto her shoulders and kissed her squarely on the mouth. She was unyielding at first, then softened beneath him. Greg pulled away.

  I don’t want sex, he thought in alarm. This was most unlike him. I guess I’m just tired. Tired and still pissed.

  Or still thinking about kissing Susan.

  He pushed all thoughts of Susan to the back of his mind.

  “It’s been a long day,” he said, turning what might have been a passionate embrace into a friendly, ‘squeeze-and-release’ style hug. “Why don’t we just crash, we’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

  “I know, I can’t wait to meet your parents. God, I hope they like me.”

  “Don’t worry, they’re gonna love you.”

  Greg’s heart stopped beating for a second – according to her diary, that was precisely what her ex had said to her before he had been slaughtered by a psychopath.

  He leaned back against the sofa and Chloe snuggled up next to him. To his relief, she picked up the remote and switched on the TV. He didn’t want to talk anymore, his thoughts were sluggish and confused. He stared at the TV without really seeing it, his arm draped half-heartedly over her shoulder.

  The killer was watching me, at work… He saw me kiss Susan…

  Instantly, he told himself off for being so fucking stupid. The killer was dead. And there was no one watching him, anyway.

  But that ill-formed feeling of dread simply would not leave.

  Greg opened his eyes with a start, his heart hammering. He’d been having bad dreams again, not that he could remember them. Sighing heavily, he sat up and stretched in the pool of morning light, wincing at the beer-induced stabbing pain behind his forehead. The bed was empty and he could hear the hiss of the shower coming from the en-suite.