A warm feeling seemed to wrap her in a comforting hug, and she smiled to herself and walked through to the hall. Her dainty black court shoes echoed on the polished marble and announced her presence.
It was true they looked after her well, and she was a friend as much as an employee. Doris paused. There was that smell again, stronger now. She swallowed hard to prevent a gag reflex as she rounded the door to the kitchen. Where was everyone? Maybe they were in the conservatory at the back of the house or working?
Deeply engrossed in her own thoughts, she negotiated the light, inviting rooms and entered the kitchen. The room was divided by a bar. Oak units suited the age of the house and were complemented by a lemon decor that sang with sunshine and joy. Fumbling with her bag and keys, she did not notice the scene before her. She rounded the breakfast bar and stepped into a sticky red puddle. Dismay clamped a hand over her mood as she felt the viscous liquid, slick beneath her shoes. Lowering her eyes further, Doris gasped. A crimson puddle spread out from further in the kitchen. It seemed to be alive, creeping imperceptibly slowly across the floor. She stopped. Her black shoes were a stark contrast to the encroaching red. Fear, like spider legs, ran down her spine, and goose pimples rose on her arms. Her shoes were sticky, slimy and unpleasant.
The pool seemed to have a life of its own, still moving past her across the marble floor, what was it? Not wine, she thought, fighting her revulsion. Maybe some form of paint? Or was it Mr. Stephens and his spells again? Yes, she smiled, calming herself. But then as she peered around the breakfast bar…
“Helen? Oh God. Helen.”
Helen Stephens lay deadly still at the farthest reach of the puddle. She was pale and fragile like a porcelain doll tossed into a crimson sea.
Doris dashed towards her, slipping in the liquid. She scrambled desperately but lost her battle and fell to her knees in the blood. It clung to her and seemed to pull her down. Frantic she overbalanced her chin breaking the surface of the blood, as she struggled to save herself. It was like warm treacle on her skin, warm honey on her face. She fought the urge to vomit, and struggled back to her feet, rubbing her face with hands that shook.
“No,” she sobbed.
Without breaking pace, she rushed through the blood to the statuesque Helen. The woman’s life fluid clung warm and gooey to her arms, face, hands and legs. Doris dropped to her knees, hesitated for a second, then reached out to check for a pulse. But Helen was so white, her skin clammy and Doris pulled her hand back as if shocked.
She sat there in the blood, her black skirt soaking up the liquid with a hunger of its own. The thought sickened her. It took all her nerve to stay. She wanted to help her friend and fought down her panic. She fought the urge to run screaming from that room, to race to the sink and wash the warm, sticky blood from her hands. Calming her mind all she could think about was so much blood.
Regaining control, she reached forward and searched for a pulse. Pressing her fingers to Helen’s neck, she fumbled but found nothing.
“Oh God Helen, can you hear me? Please be OK.” She rubbed her fingers over Helen’s clammy throat, pushing down gently the skin felt like wax, but she couldn't locate a pulse.
The sound of footsteps approaching caused her to rise to her feet. Despair wanted to drag her back down as she slipped in the blood.
”Help” formed on her lips, but something stopped her from calling out. Unsure, she backed away towards the breakfast bar. She wanted to run towards the sound, to get help for Helen, but instinct warned her, told her to hide. Her arms rose in goose pimples, and she felt the hair on her head tingling. She inched backwards even further, through all that blood, dragging it with her. The red liquid smeared across the white marble, looked like one of those modern paintings no one can understand. She fought back the tears and stopped herself from crying out in anguish at her friend’s life force all over the floor.
Hiding behind the breakfast bar, she peered deeper into the room. Across the other side she saw a polished black shoe, Mr. Stephens’s shoe. He lay on the floor of the kitchen. Face up, his shoes pointed towards her. There was no blood near him, but arterial spray was splattered across the wall. The blood ran down the yellow, like paint from a child’s tantrum.
“No.” The cry was almost silent. She sat back, shaking with fear, and closed her eyes tightly, fighting for control.
She could still hear footsteps, calm and unhurried in the hallway on the other side of the kitchen. As they approached, she opened her eyes and searched the room. She noticed writing on the end of the breakfast bar, near Helen. Not quite able to make it out, another sob burst past her lips. It was written in blood, Helen’s blood, and she could just catch the name Jenny. So typical of Helen to leave her daughter a message, but was it a goodbye, a message of love or a warning. Doris couldn’t tell. But she knew that Helen must have labored with her last breath to leave this morbid note. She could just see Helen’s right hand, the index finger smeared with blood. A shiver ran down her spine. Who could do this?
The footsteps came closer, and the door at the end of the kitchen swung open. She gasped again as a man strolled in, so relaxed. Was this the fiend who took her friends’ lives? Anger rose in her, she was ready to leap at him screaming, beating, and clawing out her revenge. It didn’t matter if she died now, what was left? As she sank down into despondency a vision of Jenny filled her mind. She may need her help, and Helen would want her to stand by her daughter.
She tucked herself down and looked on from her hiding place as the man wandered into the slaughter-house of a kitchen, wine glass in his hand. Calm, confident, arrogant, oh yes, she had known him a long time also.
Had he come to help? Had he stumbled across a scene that would horrify him, scar his remaining days? Or, as she feared, was he the perpetrator of this genocide of her family?
She did not trust him, and with good reason. She had never told anyone what happened to her. She could not tell them, and it had weighed heavily on her over the years. Had reduced her to the timid little mouse she was today, living her life, without love. What he did to her was enough to doubt him, oh yes. And it was enough to hate him, always.
Doris looked left, a pine table and chairs, a little nook where the family could share a quiet meal. She looked right. The breakfast bar shielded the majority of the kitchen. But he was there, and she had no way out. Her only escape was behind her and back into the hallway. What should she do, trust him or flee?
Then he laughed, taking a drink from the glass his voice echoed in the silent house. “Well, old friend, who’s the most powerful now?” he asked, stood over the corpse of Mr. Stephens. He slowly lifted the crystal glass in a toast. It twinkled with reflected light, which flashed at Doris mocking her hiding place. She ducked down even further.
“If only you knew my plans, old man. If only you knew my plans. If only you knew my plans, old man. If only you knew my plans,” he sang, wiggling his hips and giggling down at the body.
He took another drink and smiled with appreciation as the liquid slid down his throat. “Your last moments would have been even worse.” He giggled like a school-boy playing a joke on his classmates. His expression changed, became serious, and he drank deeply, the red liquid dribbled from the corner of his mouth. He raised a finger to the spill, wiped his face and brought it in front of him. He looked at the liquid before sucking the finger, his eyes closed in rapture.
Doris felt abhorrence at the act and released her breath, the noise seemed to point an accusing finger - there she is. She tucked herself back behind the bar, cowering in its shadow.
He turned towards her, instantly aware and searched for the source of the sound. Timidly she peered round the edge of the bar.
Seeing the mess she made when she fell, shock and anger filled her, as he continued to scan for her presence.
Doris turned, using the breakfast bar as cover. She sneaked round the back of the kitchen and into the passageway, panic taking over from her fear and revulsion.
S
he headed down the corridor, shaking, weeping. She felt as if she was overbalancing, out of control as she hurtled from the kitchen. Scared and devastated at the murder of her friends and panicked by the sights she had seen, she bolted through the desolate house. The empty, bright, inviting halls seemed to mock her. Should she run? No, she would not make the car, not with him so close, she must hide? Where should she go? How could she call for help? And him, not him, he had known the family for years. She had never liked him, aloof and creepy. There was that incident between them. He told her it was just a dream. That she was just a hysterical woman, but no dream left marks. She touched her chest, feeling the tattoo throb beneath the thin material of her white blouse. If only she had been able to tell.
A sob escaped her, as she heard his steps on the marble floor. He was in pursuit. I must escape, she thought, her heart pounded so hard it sounded like a drum. How can I hide when my heart and breathing must announce that I’m here? But she knew the house, had worked and lived here all these years. There must be somewhere to hide. Some secret place a snobby man like him would not dirty his hands to look into.
“Oh God,” she sobbed. Dirty his hands, he had just slaughtered the two people she cared about most. The blood was everywhere, so much gore, gallons of it on the floor, splashed on the walls. He just stood there, a glass of red wine in his blood soaked hands. She gasped at the realization, the glass was not wine. He drank their blood. How could he, they were friends. Gorge rose in her throat, a thick lump threatened to choke her. She closed her eyes, gulped and fought for control.
As she ran, she thought about her employers. They had always been a little strange, earning their living from the occult. Something they called the Damion or divine power. They had tried to explain many times, but she just thought it rich folks hocus pocus. But not scary, not like him, he had always scared her. They told her it was all harmless. There were many gods, some good and some bad. But their god Sophana was benevolent, and her power could only be used for good. Whenever they mentioned the Damion, it made Doris think of that old movie, The Omen, but they assured her it was not only spelt different but was very different.
The Damion’s power through various gods could be used for good. It required sacrifices, yes blood sacrifices, and at first this had made her uneasy. But it was animals they sacrificed. Sheep, goats and cattle, all animals normally killed for food. Helen had explained the ritual was similar to a kosher killing. She had said it was relatively painless, and kinder to the animal than a modern slaughter house. The Stephens even had a license to kill animals in a kosher way, and a man who butchered the meat, which they then used for food. Doris had never attended any of the rituals but had long since come to terms with her employers’ ways. The animals were raised locally, fed organic food and allowed to roam. They lived as naturally as possible. All in all, Doris thought they got a better deal than most.
Footsteps echoed on the floor, somewhere behind her. She stopped, coming sharply out of her reverie, as fear ran a cold hand down her spine.
The door opened from the kitchen into the hall-way, the hinge screeched, like some horror movie sound-track. He was after her. Did he see her? He had to know someone was here, all that mess, and the tracks. She had been tiptoeing to keep her heels from betraying where she was. Looking down, she knew why he did not hurry. Little bloody marks led a trail to where she stood, exposed in the corridor. The blood looked obscene on the polished marble floor, sobbing she felt the urge to clean the once immaculate floor.
“Doris, darling, I have a lovely surprise for you. Come on out now.” His voice was calm and mocking; it carried through the marbled hallway and was followed by measured and unhurried footsteps. She kicked off her shoes and grabbed her keys from her blood soaked bag. She shoved the betraying items behind a huge ornamental flower vase, full of more pink highly scented lilies, and set off down the corridor. Her intention was to double back on him. If she could get to her car, maybe she could get help.
She could have kicked herself for not having a mobile. They always wanted her to, in case of car trouble or other problems. It had seemed so unnecessary, and she hated modern technology. Oh, Doris you always were stubborn. Get to the car!
She worked her way through the house, trying not to go directly, working out how to avoid him. Each second seemed excruciating long and she expected at any minute to be slashed from behind with a knife. Cut down like her friends and left to die. She was shaking uncontrollably and realized she had stopped. Her knees felt weak, and her heart was pounding. Not much further, but where was he? And why hadn’t he caught her?
She reached the rear hall-way and rested against the cool wall, checking out the room before she crossed it. Her heart pounded in her chest and a pulse beat in her head. She took a deep breath, and willed herself calm.
This was an old building, she was not sure what period, but it had huge high rooms and this was the one with the highest ceilings. It went all the way up to the third floor. Twin circular balconies surrounded the hallway, and a glass domed ceiling crowned it. On a normal day, that dome filled the place with sunshine. It was one of her favorite rooms, and she often came here to read, think, or just to soak in the sun. Where was he?
She sneaked around the corner into an empty hallway, cautious. She was so close, yet so far. Where was he? She had not heard him for some time, maybe he had fled, afraid she would call the police. Praying this was so she moved out, and peeked into the room ahead. Her heart was pounding; her breath was short and rasped in her throat. She needed to cross the open space, or go all the way around to get to the back door. She stopped her leaden legs and sweat ran down her cheek. She could not decide. What if he waited for her? Or what if he was closing from behind? Not knowing was a subtle form of torture.
The empty house mocked her with its silence, lulling her to believe she was safe, yet every nerve told her he was waiting. She made the decision and stepped out onto the floor. Tentative step by tentative step, she inched her way across the exposed area. Her body was tense and stiff, each foot placed with infinite care. This room she loved for its light and open aspect now felt like a death trap. The very air seemed charged with menace. Where was he?
Instinct warned her to freeze, her breath stopped. For a second, she felt like her whole body was somewhere else, and she was just observing. She was going into shock, she had to mobilize herself if she wanted to escape, and escape she must for Jenny’s sake. This thought stirred her, broke the spell, she forced her rubber legs to move, just one step after the next. She moved across the brown and gold marble tiles she loved so much. She inched towards the seat in the centre of the room, a round golden bench, the centre filled with purple bougainvillea. She was so proud of that plant. She would sit on the gold bench and talk to it in her spare time.
She felt the urge to stop. At the same time, a draft of cool air stirred her brown shoulder length hair and lifted it, gently from her face like a lover’s caress. Something she had not experienced for many years – not since...
The movement was gone as quickly as it came, but the feeling of unease only increased. She froze, rigid as a board, breath held as she listened and then slowly raised her head. She looked up. The cream walls were beautiful and so normal. There was nothing on the first balcony, just marble pillars and old family portraits. She looked up further, slowly, and searched for the hidden assailant. Afraid of moving, afraid of staying still, her chest ached as she held onto her breath. There was nothing on the second floor, just more marble and oak doors. All looked quiet, all looked normal. Helen could walk out one of those doors any minute now.
A sob escaped her, and she released the air from her lungs. There, she glimpsed a shadow, a movement just in the corner of her eyes. Was he on the upper levels, thinking she would hide rather than run? She sighed. Triumph crept into her being and calmed her. Keep still, keep calm, and keep looking. If he did not spot her, she was home free. She took a breath, steadied herself, and kept looking up. Scanning the third level,
the same cream walls and oak doors all looked normal. Then she spotted a shadow from the glass dome. Fear crept stealthily down her spine, a primeval fear. She did not believe things could get any worse. She looked up further and further, seeing the domed window, and then she screamed.
Chapter Three
Doris screamed. The sound rose into the dome above her and echoed back down, almost crushing her into the marble floor. Suspended in that Dome was a creature from her worst nightmares. Shaped like an enormous bat, its bloated body was the size of a small deer. White, translucent, paper thin skin allowed the skeleton to show through. She could see its bones compressing as it prepared to strike. Could see its heart beating and worm like intestines squirmed and wriggled about inside the creature’s abdomen.
Her scream ripped from her leaving her breathless and dizzy. With her mouth still open and her head tilted back all, she could do was gape up at the horror. She knew she must move knew she should be running for cover, but somehow her traitorous legs were routed to the spot.
Not suspended, she realized. It had wings and was hovering above her, like a malevolent force waiting to strike. It turned its head, watching her. She could not make out its eyes, but the gesture towards her was plain enough. It cast a shadow across the floor, a shadow, which drained the energy from her body. She froze, knowing she must run, must try to escape, but she was unable to move. It turned its grotesque head from her to the balcony. Her eyes followed its gaze, and there he was, watching her. Though considered a friend to this household, she knew him as Numen. The name he used, that night so long ago.
He told her over dinner that it meant divinity, or local god, and she had laughed, not unkindly, more of a nervous laugh. She had been enjoying herself and though he teased her. Later, when he demonstrated what he meant, she had not laughed.
Doris felt his malevolence radiate towards her, and was unable to break eye contact even at this distance. She had been careful, over the years, ensuring she was never alone with him, but what now?
Flee Page 2
