Scared to Death--Ten Sinister Stories by the Master of the Macabre

by Anthony Horowitz

  What else can I tell you about him? Well, he didn’t like garlic, but you already knew that. But it also turned out that he suffered from a condition called photophobia, which meant that he was extremely sensitive to light. He couldn’t go out in the day without giving himself severe headaches and risking permanent damage to his eyes. Not surprisingly, perhaps, he felt very embarrassed about his condition and the family preferred not to mention it, although, of course, all in all it would have been better if they had.

  Apparently he had come to my room that night because he was worried about me. According to Patrick Duclarc, the entire family had been a little concerned about my behaviour in the last few days. And they had thought I might be scared, on my own, in such a spectacular storm. Patrick and Nathalie had come downstairs a few seconds after Vladimir had opened the door. Both of them had witnessed the attack. Nathalie had needed to be sedated. It was Patrick who had called the police.

  After I had murdered Monsieur Duclarc, I was driven down to the police station in Nice but I wasn’t interviewed until the next day, when my parents arrived. Both of them looked completely shocked. They were accompanied by someone from the British Embassy, a man called Mr Asquith. They hadn’t let me get changed yet. Apparently they still needed to take forensic evidence and I suppose I must have looked quite a sight, covered from head to toe in blood.

  I told them about the way Vladimir had vanished by the gate and I also described what I had seen in the mirror. My parents didn’t say very much to me. Mum cried a lot and Dad just kept on staring at me and shaking his head. Anyway, Mr Asquith went away for a few hours and when he came back he explained to me that there was actually a small door in the gate – I’d never noticed it – and that far from turning himself into a bat, Vladimir Duclarc had simply let himself out that way.

  As for the mirror, that was the stupidest thing of all. I’ve already told you that it was on a door into a walk-in closet. Well, what I hadn’t realized was that this door was covered in some sort of two-way glass. When the light was turned off inside the closet, the glass became a mirror. But when it was turned on, you could see right through it. When I’d seen Duclarc standing in front of the door on that sixth day, just before dinner, the light had been turned on. It was as simple as that. He had no reflection – and if I’d stood next to him, I wouldn’t have had one either.

  By now, I was feeling pretty sick, as I’m sure you can imagine. But there was still my last piece of evidence. “What about the holy water?” I demanded. It was a relief to be able to express myself in English. “I dropped a tiny bit of it onto Mr Duclarc and it burned him!”

  But it seemed that the man from the embassy already had an answer to that. “The water you dropped went straight into Monsieur Duclarc’s eye,” he explained. “And it was in a shampoo bottle. It had got mixed with the shampoo that was still inside. Monsieur Duclarc had sensitive eyes anyway … as a result of his medical condition. No wonder he cried out in pain. The shampoo stung him quite badly.”

  “But I heard them talking about me!” I protested. “He said quite clearly that he was going to kill me.”

  It took a little longer to work that one out, but in the end we discovered that I was wrong about that too. Vladimir had been talking about me. He had been offering to give me a lesson in French and that was what I had heard. The French for lesson is leçon and not le sang, which sounds almost the same but means blood. As for the rest of it, I had misheard that too. He had been complimenting me on my grasp of the language…

  He hadn’t said,

  “Il doit être tué.”

  Which means: he must be killed.

  But “Il doit être doué.”

  Which means: he must be intelligent.

  It was all a terrible misunderstanding.

  I had to stay with the French police for a whole week but in the end I was allowed to return to England. But not home. My dad explained to me that, after what had happened, I wouldn’t be able to come home for some time. Instead, I was sent to a sort of hospital called Fairfields. Actually, I might as well be honest. The sign outside reads: East Suffolk Maximum Security Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

  And that’s where I’m writing this. I’m hoping they won’t keep me here much longer although it has already been one year. Mind you, my therapists tell me that I’m doing very well and, although they still give me lots of drugs, overall they’re very pleased with my progress.

  I’ve also, incidentally, taken my GCSEs since I’ve been here. And I’m delighted to tell you that my visit to Nice must have helped. Because, despite the rather unfortunate things that happened during my stay, I got an A* in French – so perhaps my father was right and the exchange was worthwhile after all.

  sheBay

  IT WAS WITHOUT DOUBT THE most shocking thing she had ever heard.

  “I’m sorry, Jenny, I really am.” Her father was looking terrible. There were red rings around his eyes and he hadn’t shaved. With his bald head, round chin and slightly protruding cheeks, he reminded her of one of those Identikit pictures that the police put together when there has been a crime. “You know things have been getting more and more difficult recently. This credit crunch. The business … all the problems we’ve been having.”

  “Your dad’s done everything he could,” her mother interjected. She had been crying. There was a tissue clamped in her right hand. Tears had turned it into a soggy mess.

  “We’ve come to the end of the line,” her father went on. “The banks won’t cut me any more slack and, in a word, we’re bankrupt. The house is going to have to go. And the car. I’m afraid the dog’s going to have to be put down. And we can’t keep you, either. You’re going to have to be sold.”

  And that was it.

  At first, Jennifer Bailey couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She thought that she must still be asleep and she would wake up in a minute in her pink bed in her pink room and it would all have been a horrible dream. Of course she was aware that her parents were struggling. Her father had been working later and later every night, sometimes spending whole weekends at the office. There had been arguments and Jennifer had plugged herself in to her iPod with the volume turned up high to block them out.

  Businesses had been going bust all over the country. She’d seen it on the news. But she had never believed it could be as bad as this.

  Jonathan Bailey ran a garden-ornament business, selling fountains, furniture, bird-tables, gnomes and exotic plants to customers all over the south of England. He had invented some of the products himself. There was a bird-bath, for example, that actually had a small bird-shower attached. He had a radio-controlled gnome that sang highlights from Disney’s Snow White and waved its arms in time to the music. And his range of garden furniture, manufactured from recycled wheelbarrows, couldn’t have been more in tune with the times. What could possibly have gone wrong?

  For twelve years, Jennifer had enjoyed an almost perfect life. She loved being an only child – it meant twice as much attention on birthdays and at Christmas – and she was never lonely. She adored her mother and she had a pet poodle – Boodle – who was allowed to sleep on her bed. She had a beautiful room in the family’s three-storey home in Watford and she had even been allowed to decorate it herself, painting and draping everything in her favourite colour, pink. She went to an all-girls school just five minutes from the house where she was popular and successful, adored by her teachers and admired by her friends. In a recent vote to choose the new Head of School, she had come first by almost a hundred votes.

  And now this!

  “Can’t you borrow more money?” she asked, with the wobble in her voice that usually meant she was about to burst into tears. But Jennifer forced herself not to cry. That would come later, when she was on her own.

  Her father shook his head. “We’re already up to our ears in debt. Credit cards, mortgage, bank loan … the lot.” He sighed. “This is my fault…”

  “Don’t say that, Jonathan!” Jennifer�
��s mother was a small, blonde-haired woman (although the colour now came out of a bottle). She was rather plump and always worried about her weight without ever actually doing anything about it. She also worked for the family business, doing the books. She and Jonathan had been married for seventeen years. “It wasn’t your fault,” she continued. “It’s the market. They aren’t interested in gardens any more.”

  “They’re cutting back,” Jonathan agreed. He shook his head. “I should never have bought those Tibetan prayer bells.”

  “The bells were lovely!”

  “But nobody bought them. And we ordered ten thousand.”

  “It’s too late for regrets.” Jane Bailey turned to Jennifer. “There’s nothing we can do,” she said. She dabbed at her eyes with the useless tissue. Her mascara was halfway down her cheeks. “You’re going to have to be strong, darling. We all are. But we can’t look after you any more. Being sold is the best thing for you.”

  “But how are you going to sell me?” Jennifer asked and this time there was a crack in her voice and she felt the tears pressing against the backs of her eyes.

  “We’ve already put you on sheBay,” Jonathan replied.

  Of course, it was obvious really. Once there had only been eBay – for objects of every description. But recently two more sites had been added online: heBay for boys, and sheBay for girls. Jennifer knew well that these were difficult times. The newspapers never stopped going on about it – and anyway she’d seen it for herself. A dozen girls had been forced to leave school when their parents were no longer able to pay the fees. And at least half of them had been sold on sheBay in the family’s last attempt to make ends meet.

  She just hadn’t expected it to happen to her.

  “I think I’m going to go upstairs, if you don’t mind, Mummy,” she sniffed.

  “Of course, precious,” Jane said, struggling to keep her emotions under control.

  “I’m sorry, Jenny,” her father muttered. There was nothing else he could say. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. What difference did it make? She was still going to be sold.

  She climbed up to the first floor and went into her room, closing the door behind her. Curiously, she still didn’t cry, even when she noticed Boodle sitting on the bed waiting for her. The poodle was wearing a pink ribbon and as usual was half-asleep, but when it saw her it wagged the short stump of its tail. The dog had no idea that in a few days’ time it would be taken away for a lethal injection. Jennifer didn’t bother patting it. Right now she had other things to worry about.

  She sat down in front of the computer at her desk, tapped a few keys and went into sheBay, navigating her way to the page for members’ accounts. Over the past year her parents had sold plenty of items online, and although neither of them had said anything at the time, it was obvious now that they needed any money they could get. Jennifer knew their password on eBay. It was their surname backwards: YELIAB. Had they used the same word for sheBay? She typed in the six letters. The next page opened.

  And there it was. Under items offered her parents had posted several photographs of her, taken at her last birthday party, at school and walking on Hampstead Heath. She remembered her father taking that last shot. He had been very careful about it, framing her between two trees with the sunlight pouring over her shoulders. Had he already been thinking of using it for this purpose at the time? Jennifer felt anger rising. He’d pretended that it was to go on his bedside table. How could he have been so mean?

  Her name was written under the photograph. A description followed.

  JENNIFER JUDITH BAILEY

  Age: 12 years 1 month

  Height: 5’1”

  Weight: 46 kilograms

  Health: excellent

  Jennifer is a delightful, intelligent girl with a friendly and pleasant personality. She has done consistently well at school – first in French and geography, second in maths, physics and biology. Her reports (available for inspection) are outstanding. In addition, she is a good cook and has kept a high level of fitness by playing tennis and lacrosse.

  She would make an excellent servant or companion. Although a little shy, she has a reasonable grasp of world events and is a good conversationalist.

  She is quick to learn and would soon adapt to new work. She is our only daughter and we are selling her with great reluctance. Offers starting at £1,OOO.

  Further enquiries to jrbailey@zmail.com.

  The auction was to take place over the next forty-eight hours. So far there were three bidders. SBEANSW3 had opened the bidding at the minimum £1,000 demanded. Someone calling himself drMACNEILceh had raised it to £1,100. Twenty minutes later, 666grimsby had gone to £1,300. The bidding was now back with SBEANSW3 who had jumped to £2,000, perhaps trying to scare the others off. As for finding out who these people might be, there wasn’t a great deal to go on but Jennifer was a bright girl and in the next few hours she set to work, using a search engine – and common sense – to find out what she wanted.

  SBEANSW3 was the first name she cracked. She guessed, correctly, that SW3 might be a London postcode, and by entering Bean and London into Google, she eventually came across a restaurant in Chelsea. Why would they be interested in buying a young girl? Their website provided the answer – and unfortunately it wasn’t for the washing-up.

  “Welcome to Sawney Bean restaurant in Cloak Lane, just off London’s famous King’s Road,” it read, beneath a photograph of an old-fashioned building constructed of white-painted bricks. “Are you looking for the ultimate dining experience? Have you a special occasion that demands something very special indeed?

  “We are London’s only restaurant serving human flesh. Once a great delicacy in many parts of the world, ‘long pig’ (as it was known) was only recently reintroduced to European haute cuisine. High in vitamins and low in saturated fats, the delicately poached thigh of a young boy or girl will provide you with…”

  Jennifer couldn’t read any more. Her heart was in her throat and she wanted to scream or cry – or both! At the moment, SBEANSW3 was ahead in the bidding. If the restaurant bought her, she would be killed and butchered and then poached! She would end up as the ultimate dining experience! How could her parents do this to her? Surely they wouldn’t let it happen. But, as wretched as it was, Jennifer knew that £2,000 was a lot of money and they needed every penny they could get.

  She turned her attention to drMACNEILceh. In her mind she imagined an elderly GP who had been unable to have any children of her own. Dr MacNeil would surely be a woman. Grey-haired and kindly. She was using her life savings to acquire a daughter.

  But it turned out the truth was otherwise.

  The initials ceh eventually led Jennifer to the Cambridge Experimental Hospital. Checking out their website, she found that Dr Roderick MacNeil headed its dissection unit. She had to look in a dictionary to find out what dissection meant.

  “The action of cutting up an organism. The practice of performing surgical experiments upon animals such as frogs, rats or small girls.”

  The hospital’s website told her everything she needed to know – and more. The Cambridge Experimental Hospital was at the forefront of medical science, not only finding new cures for old diseases but new diseases with no cures at all. The policy of the hospital was not to experiment on animals. This was considered cruel and, at the end of the day, unhelpful. Instead, the hospital regularly advertised for children and, indeed, there was a link to a page where you could offer sons, daughters, nephews and nieces for sale. Preferably they should be aged sixteen years or under and in excellent health.

  Jennifer blinked. Even as she had been sitting at the screen, the bidding on sheBay had changed. drMACNEILceh had just raised the sum being offered to £2,250, putting him clearly in the lead. Jennifer’s head was spinning. Was being used for medical experiments any better than being eaten for dinner? Either way she ended up dead. What was going on? She was a pretty, clever, adorable girl. Her mother had often told her so. She baked delicious sponge
cakes and she could play one or two pieces by Chopin on the piano. Surely there must be someone out there who wanted her for herself.

  She was unable to track down 666grimsby. She knew that Grimsby was a town in the north and the three sixes did ring a faint – and unpleasant – bell in her head, but it was only the following morning, Saturday, that she had a stroke of luck. By then, SBEANSW3 was back in the lead at an astonishing £3,000. Acting on impulse, Jennifer accessed her father’s personal mailbox – and that was where she saw it. An email from 666:

  > Can you let us have your daughter’s zodiac sign?

  Fortunately, Jonathan Bailey hadn’t seen the email yet.

  Jennifer typed back:

  > Why do you want to know?

  The answer came back almost at once:

  > Blood sacrifice takes place on All Hallows’ Eve (31 October). It helps to incorporate the child’s star sign into the ritual. Sincerely, Ethan Kyte

  Jennifer thought she was going to be sick. First a restaurant for cannibals, then a hospital that wanted to cut her open for experiments and now a coven of witches! For that was what 666grimsby undoubtedly was. The slightly unusual name – Ethan Kyte – led her to a website which only gave her more horrible details about what she already knew. Yorkshire had a long history of witchcraft and it seemed that the ancestors of certain fifteenth-century witches had regrouped and were using blood sacrifice and black-magic spells to raise powerful demons. 666 was, of course, the number of the devil. Their next “sabbat” – or secret meeting – was going to be in October. In his blog, Ethan Kyte wrote that he was actively looking for a young girl or boy to provide the necessary blood sacrifice.

  There was absolutely nothing she could do. The sale was due to end on Sunday night and there were only these three bidders interested in her. That was when Jennifer did finally cry. Tears, hot and heavy, flowed down her cheeks and dripped off her chin. On the bed, Boodle began to whine. “Oh shut up!” she exclaimed. What did the dog know? It had an easy option compared with her.