Dark Winter: Trilogy

by Hennessy, John

  He continued. “The problem is, when you’ve got something trapped, is that it always wants to escape, to get back to the way things were, but knowing that things can never be as they were. I accepted that, when I was trapped in a cell, accused of something I did not do. I wanted to escape as well, Jeannie. But I digress.”

  He caught the top of Jeannie’s head as he snatched the package from the table. She let out a squeal and wanted to retract it immediately, but it was too late.

  “You’re not trying to make a noise, are you Jeannie?” said Curie menacingly. “I don’t like it when they do that. You do know who They are, don’t you Jeannie?”

  Jeannie stayed mute for longer than she should have done, so Curie approached Jeannie and cupped her chin with his scaly, clammy hand. “Cat got your tongue? I asked you a question. Now who are They?”

  “I-I…I don’t know, Don.”

  “I don’t know, Don,” mocked Curie. “Huh! Pathetic! Well, I’ll tell you. They’re the ones in the traps.”

  Jeannie had often returned home late on Saturday evenings from work. She would make herself a light evening meal, pour herself a large glass of white wine, and sit down to watch television. As the evening wore on, the light entertainment shows would give way to the post 9pm thrillers, or, if those films weren’t any good, she would switch over and see some of those FBI case files programmes, or the ones who focussed on serial killers and their methods.

  This situation felt unreal to her, and yet the darkness of the wood-cabin, the smell off Curie’s fingers, his obvious unease when she got up from her chair, wasn’t this some kind of serial killer foreplay, just before they committed the act itself?

  Jeannie had to be clever if she was going to survive this. Those programmes had been an education, just right for this kind of scenario. Telling her captor that she wouldn’t tell a soul rarely appealed to these men, because they would have to be human first. Sometimes they came with smiles. This would be the first tool to cut you. It wasn’t a knife, but it would do the same job. After that, it would be easier to plunge the knife in. The gleam of a knife was a terrible sight to behold, the tip of the blade looking so cold, precise and clinical.

  ‘Dear God, please don’t let him kill me,’ pleaded Jeannie to anyone who would hear her silent prayer.

  “Of course, you can’t use knives, not for that kind of job,” said Curie, who had now re-entered the room. “You need something more heavy-duty. Something like this.”

  It wasn’t a knife, but it was something with a very sharp point. To Jeannie, it looked like a bow and arrow, but the tip had something on it, a much thicker and wider point than she recalled for it to be just a mere bow and arrow set.

  Hoisting it up over his shoulder, Curie strained back on the bow.

  “It’s called a xy-light, and it kills not only what is too stubborn to die quickly, but also what can’t be killed. I bet the Dawsons would love to have something like this in stock. These days, people are lazy. They don’t take the time to do what needs to be done. They all want it now. Well, I’m going to give to them all. In time, of course.”

  Jeannie wanted to ask Hey Don, mind where you’re pointing that, won’t you? But it was useless. She knew exactly what he was going to do, and fear paralysed her, keeping her rooted to the chair.

  She decided to stall for time. “Why is it called a xy-light?”

  Curie lowered the bow for just a moment. “Why….it’s because it gleams its own special light when locking on a vital artery or organ. Very smart piece of kit, and you can’t miss once it’s locked on. I’ll show you.”

  Curie might be a sociopath, but was far from stupid. He knew the question was to stall for time. Some of Them asked that question, some didn’t, but the outcome was never in doubt. They would not be leaving Redwood, Curie’s name for the house, and that was all that mattered.

  The arrow flew and buried itself in Jeannie’s shoulder, the force of the weapon pinning her right to the back of her chair. As metal fused with wood, there was no escape, unless she wrenched her bloodied shoulder from its grasp.

  “It’s good, isn’t it?” said Curie, calmly, as if he was merely discussing the quality of beer at the Dying Swan. “Now, why don’t you ask me the question you really want to know the answer to? Go ahead. At this point, it can’t hurt, can it?”

  The pain from the embedded arrow seared through Jeannie, and she desperately, oh so desperately wanted to escape. Even if she got out of the house, Curie would follow her. He’d find her too, as he knew this part of the woods far better than she did.

  “Why do you want to kill me?”

  “Oh no,” said Curie. “That’s not the one. That’s not it. That won’t do at all. Maybe all the blood has clouded your thoughts. But I can help with that, and whilst I’m doing that, you can think of a real question to ask me.”

  Jeannie whimpered as Curie ripped her blouse clean off, just like one of those tricks where you could pull a table cloth from under a set of crockery, but leave them standing and unspoiled.

  He took two steps backward, to survey his work. “Ah. I can see the problem. Your bra strap has caught the arrow. That’s why you’re bleeding so heavily. Well, nothing for it, Jeannie. Your bra will have to come off.”

  Jeannie started to breathe hoarsely, like in school all those years ago when she suffered from asthma. She began to cry uncontrollably, and yet couldn’t move her arms to unhook her bra. She had to do it herself. She would not have Don Curie touching her. If he came close enough, she would dig her nails into his face. But he knew better than that, and kept his distance. He knew the game and he played it well.

  “I can’t do it,” she said breathlessly. “Please, whatever you want, I’ll do. Just please let me go.”

  Curie looked stone faced at her, a look he had practised in poker games of the past, and lost, But in this kind of situation, when you're the one with the power, you don’t have to bluff. You can lay all your cards on the table for all to see.

  “I told you what I want,” he said icily. “Your bra will have to come off.”

  More heavy breaths. “I-I…I can’t do it. My arm-”

  Curie waved his hand, calmly dismissing her pleas. “Alright. Alright Jeannie. Wait here.”

  Curie went into the room where he had been working on the dreaded xy-light, and Jeannie took her chance to use her good arm to try and pull the arrow out. But it was too thick, maybe half an inch in diameter on the shaft, and was embedded deep into the upright of the chair.

  Panic was overwhelming Jeannie. Her thoughts began to escape from her mouth without her noticing. She kept repeating I’m not a bad person, I’m a good person. I don’t deserve this to happen to me. I don’t want to die.

  Curie returned, and if Jeannie could have lifted her head to see what he was holding, maybe she would have stopped rambling. Curie slapped her hard on the side of her cheek, the shock of which made her eyes widen to the size of snooker balls. She was silenced immediately.

  “Sorry about that,” said Curie in an almost fatherly tone, “I just don’t like the rambling. You’ll protest of course, and say you were not rambling. Let’s say that I believe you. Let us take your first point.”

  Curie placed the weapon down. Jeannie could see that it was a small hatchet axe, the handle of which had been halved in length to accommodate Curie’s smallish hands.

  “You said that you’re not a bad person. The world doesn’t care what you think about yourself, Jeannie, and in their view, maybe it’s you. Maybe you’re the bad one.”

  Jeannie kept quiet, although her panicked breathing had turned into wheezing. She sounded like an accordion that was just about to reach the scrap yard. Curie said nothing in reprimand, but raised his voice to hear himself over her.

  “Now to your second point. You’re good person. Who gives a flying feck whether you’re good or not? Oh, you give to charity. You adopted a snow leopard for a monthly fee. You gave a bowl of fruit to the Halloweeners. Who the feck cares, man? When
you’re six feet in the hole, do you think that people will say ‘oh yeah, if only she’d given more to charity, she’s be with us today.’ No. To summarise, bad things do happen to good people, Jeannie.”

  Jeannie looked around once again. The loss of blood, though not excessive, was affecting her vision. She knew if she fainted, she really was a goner. At least Curie was talking, and whilst he did that, he would not kill her. At least, that was her reasoning. The xy-light’s arrow tip must have some sort of paralysing toxin on it, because Jeannie was unable to lift her other arm to try and free the arrow from her shoulder.

  If only the bald-headed bastard would have a heart attack, thought Jeannie. Curie might be short of a full head of hair, but was otherwise in good shape for a man of his age.

  Curie sat down in a rocking chair opposite Jeannie. It creaked back and forth, adding a voice to the darkness when Curie took a breather from speaking. Jeannie was almost glad to hear Curie speak once more.

  “That’s two points raised, and I’m still not convinced by you, Jeannie. Let’s take your third point. You say you don’t deserve to die, but you’ll die one day anyway. Why can’t it be this day? And here’s my point. At least you can say you saved one of the younger ones. You see Jeannie, you won’t die a pointless death when you’re 100 years old and unable to see a yard in front of you.”

  Jeannie realised she had only uttered one more sentence in that set before repeating herself. She wished she had kept talking, even if it had been gibberish. It would have given Curie something to focus on.

  Reaching underneath the rocking chair, Curie produced a bottle of whiskey. Jeannie could see from the label it was Jack Daniels whiskey.

  “I’d offer you a glass, but I think you’ve drank quite enough for one life, Jeannie.”

  Curie took a swig and hissed gleefully as the liquor hit the back of his throat. “You know, I went to Lynchburg one time. The distillery at Jack Daniels…you should see it Jeannie. They’ve got these huge vats of malt that they only have to lift the lid up slightly for you to get a blast of the hard stuff. What they put in this-”

  He shook the bottle at her. She thought she could make out half the bottle’s contents had gone already. Maybe if he was drunk, she could still get out of this.

  “-is basically water, and in no way strong enough for me. You don’t see me at the Swan because what they call whiskey, I call piss.”

  Curie stood up and leaned in towards Jeannie. He pointed towards a passage to the left of the wall where the moose heads were mounted. It seemed an even blacker part of the place, as if you’d be swallowed whole by it if you went towards it. Then, Curie stood behind Jeannie and pushed her chair, with embedded arrow in bloodied shoulder, all towards the blackness.

  Jeannie wanted to scream but no sound would come out. Just as she thought she could only fall forward, Curie halted the chair to an abrupt stop, the jolt from which loosened the wound which had encircled the arrow, but still, Jeannie could not free herself.

  “Do you know any magic tricks?” asked Curie.

  Jeannie wanted to reply No but I wish I could pull a vanishing act right about now.

  “Pity. I have a trick to show you. You’ll see,” he said.

  Curie steadily walked into the darkness, and from even the first step, he seemed to disappear. Jeannie didn’t wait to wonder what would happen next. With what could only be described as a flash of super-human energy where she used her mind to lift her right arm, she locked a hand around the arrow and pulled as hard as she could. Damn the bra strap. If it hadn’t caught the thick, unyielding material, it wouldn’t be any less painful to remove the arrow, but escape would be possible.

  Jeannie could not tell how long Curie had been in the darkness, or if he was just simply waiting long enough to jump out and shout Boo at her, which would be certain to cause her a heart attack, never mind wishing it on Curie.

  Curie had disappeared into the darkness for what seemed like an eternity. Jeannie let rip with a barrage of curses. It wouldn’t change her situation, but it helped to relax her a little.

  Still no sign of Curie.

  “I hope you’re dead, cocksucker!” Jeannie couldn’t help but swear. For all she knew, Curie could see her, hear her, and was salivating over every single moment.

  “Are you touching yourself, watching me, huh?” Jeannie wriggled some more, but the pain was too much. She was stuck. “You bastard!”

  Finally, the smiling, mocking face of Curie emerged from the darkness. Jeannie shrank as much as she could into the chair, not even caring that the arrow shaft found new skin tissue to rip.

  “As I was saying, I have a trick to show you. Do you know, Jeannie, at your age, you’re in the highest category of risk for breast cancer? Pity you would lose those.”

  Curie surveyed Jeannie’s rather large breasts. “Yes. Pity. But with all your writhing about, and the aforementioned risk to your age group, hell yes…it’s better that they go. As I said, I had a trick to show you. Kill two birds with one stone, you might say. Or one knife.”

  The knife that Curie revealed could have come from any home in Gorswood. A simple bread knife. Curie flipped it from one side to another so it glistened in the moonlight.

  “A crescent moon,” breathed a hoarse Jeannie.

  “It’s supposed to bring luck. But not for you,” mocked Curie. “But you can keep your eyes on it while I do this. Enjoy it, because I’m going to enjoy what I’m going to do.”

  Jeannie felt Curie’s cold, death-like hands wrap around her bare shoulder. The knife probed underneath her right breast.

  “Cocksucker, am I? Is that what you called me? If so, I’m really disappointed in you Jeannie. You’re the one making me do this, just like the others before you. It was your decision that brought you here tonight, and that it was the grounded Bethany who unlocked the O’Neills front door, which let me in. She made it all too easy for me to kill her parents whilst they slept. They became ghosts, Jeannie. Did you know that we don’t actually die? Instead we fade into becoming ghosts after we have given everything we’ve got in this life.”

  Jeannie wished it would end. She was sick of his voice. Curie read her thoughts.

  “You want the talking cocksucker to stop, huh? You got it, you damn whore. I should rip your goddamn arm off and feed it to you. Bitch.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Why? Why? Because it takes people like you, to make people like me. That’s why.”

  Curie forced her to look away towards the window, but he made sure he could see her reflection.

  “Enjoy your last crescent moon, Jeannie. One double mastectomy coming right up. Sloop. Sloop.”

  Jeannie uttered under her breath. “Crescent moon, save my soul. Save my-”

  Jeannie found she could grab the arrow with her left arm, and managed to rip it out of her shoulder. The pain was indescribable, but she was free. Curie, for once, looked like he could not believe the turn of events.

  He kept the knife in his hand, with Jeannie hurling the arrow at him. It caught Curie in the neck, and though it was a glancing blow, the distraction was enough. Jeannie threw herself out of the window and though bleeding, dazed, and hurting, ran towards a light in the distance.

  Curie was behind her, and it would be easy to track Jeannie, with her droplets of blood giving Curie the easiest of trails.

  “Oh Jeannie? Come back now! I was just playing around. You’re not safe out there, come back! I forgive you for what you said, okay? I forgive you.”

  Jeannie kept running. She was cold, confused, and bleeding to death. She had to get to that light. She had to. She was grateful she had been a middle distance runner in her youth. She could make it. Curie’s voice was getting further away from her.

  She took a chance to rest by a tree. She took a few breaths, kept the pressure on her wound, and started to walk slowly.

  “DIDN’T YOU HEAR WHAT I SAID? I FORGIVE YOU, YOU ROTTEN BITCH!”

  Curie must have been closer than Je
annie thought. Maybe less than a hundred feet away. He enjoyed it. He enjoyed the chase. He knew Jeannie couldn’t make it. They never did. This was East Gorswood. There was no escape, unless Diabhal made it so. And Diabhal never made it so.

  Jeannie had other plans. The crescent moon teased its light through the trees, the glimmer setting a path towards that building in the distance. No matter how fast Jeannie ran, she could not seem to get close to it. All the time, the presence of Curie behind her, who was making slashing noises in the air with his knife, motivated her to keep going.

  “You had better run,” mocked Curie, before he burst a gut laughing. “When the forest gives you up for dead, only your fleas will mourn you.”

  Suddenly, she realised what the building was. St Margaret’s Hospital. The home of the lunatics, or perhaps the home of the ones who had fallen on hard times, depending on your opinion.