Unable to move, she waited for him, suspended and held by a mystical barrier. She looked delicate and graceful, like a dancer frozen by the camera lens. He approached slowly, enjoyed the moment, yet feeling sick to his stomach, wanting her to run. He raised the statue and brought it crashing down on her head, a grin of pure joy on his own face. As the figure connected, he felt her skull give and warm blood splashed onto his hands.
Helen fell to the floor, the light already gone from her eyes, blood gushed from her head. Just to be sure she was dead he kicked her still form again and again, each time he laughed as his foot connected with her body. He could feel the mania in him causing him to strike again and again. Each time his foot hit her in the chest, it was like hitting a cushion, the blow would sink into her flesh and her body would rock away from him. At last he stopped.
Then he stood over her and pushed her once more with his blood covered foot. The foot felt warm, sticky and wet. She did not move. A pool of blood was rapidly spreading around her, and he was convinced of his success.
Turning, he put the statue back on the surface, collected his horn and glass of blood, and walked calmly out of the room.
Simon was shaking as the vision ended. It had been so real, he wanted to vomit and at the same time he was filled with the emotions of triumph and euphoria.
He rolled across the sweat soaked sheets of his bed and reached for the phone. Anxiety tingled up and down his arms. He must get to Jenny quickly. She must be with him before Saturday, her thirtieth birthday.
Chapter Eight
Doris could do nothing but watch as he walked away, so calm, so causal and so arrogant. He never glanced back, never even slowed his pace, just strolled to the stairs and climbed out of the darkness. As his footsteps faded, the fog closed in around her. Its glow gave her a little more light, but this caused more unease than it offered comfort.
Its presence was like the pressure you feel when you take off in an airplane. As it closed in, her ears popped. She cried out, and struggled once more against her restraints, but all she did was cause her muscles to cramp and her wrists to bleed. She wept again, but this time in pain.
A noise from the seal stopped her. She lifted her head and peered into the mist. Her every nerve was on edge. Tingles of adrenaline touched her skin like fire ants marching towards her pounding heart. She listened.
The room itself seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. The sigh rose from the seal and challenged her. The force of it pushed her back into the post, the cross that she was tied to. Fear threatened to pull her down with its insidious might. She pressed her head against the post and started to cry. Exhaustion followed the tears and pulled her down into the nightmare world she experienced that night fifteen years ago.
She was younger then, thirty, and had been with the Stephens for a few years. She loved her work, had settled in with them and had almost become part of the family. Back then she still had dreams and hopes of rebuilding a life outside her job. Her own parents and a sister had died in a car crash a few years earlier, and she had been lost in grief. The Stephens had cared for her, had looked after her when she needed it most.
She was just starting to think about rebuilding her life when he had asked her out. He told her she must meet him away from the house, and must not tell the Stephens who she was meeting. It seemed romantic at the time, a secret rendezvous. They met in a friendly pub for a meal and a few drinks. She had worn her best dress, put up her dark brown hair, and even worn a touch of makeup.
She arrived at the bar in her little Fiesta. His car was already there, a big blue BMW. It looked so very posh. He crossed to meet her, a beaming smile on his handsome face. He wore black trousers and an open-necked shirt, which shimmered as he walked. The deep purple material was some form of brushed cotton and it caught the fading sunlight. The sight of him caused a little flutter in her stomach, and a smile spread unbidden across her face.
Though he often visited the Stephens’s house, she had never spoken to him. He’d always been aloof, a little snobby, and sometimes even downright creepy. She was surprised when he met her, exiting through the kitchen after one of his visits. He looked at her, a smile on his face, and that’s when he’d asked her to dinner. She could still remember her excitement. A blush had warmed her cheeks as she’d agreed.
When they met, he took her hand, raised it to his lips and brushed them softly across her skin. The gesture had thrilled her, sending a shiver of pleasure down her spine. He led her to the pub, opened the door and ushered her inside, like a true gentleman. It had been an exciting night, this sophisticated man, gave her every courtesy. He opened doors, helped her with the menu and complimented her on her looks. She laughed and chatted, hoping the evening would never end. It was wonderful to be out with an attractive man, enjoying the conversation. And he never once belittled her comments. He made her feel important, wanted, almost treasured.
After the meal they talked for ages, and then he said he had to get some papers from home, would she like to come with him? He winked at her, told her he was a gentleman, and she had no fears about his intentions on a first date. But he had wagged a finger then, and said that after a few more dates, she may enjoy his intentions. She remembered how she had blushed at his comments.
Back at his house, he ushered her into a study and offered her a glass of wine. She remembered the room, dark oak-paneled walls, an impressive desk, and plush cream carpet. For a second she had fantasized about living there, causing her cheeks to redden with shame. She saw the chair in front of her and wondered whether to sit. Then he waved a glass of wine, eyes raised in question. She accepted, wondering if she should, as she would be driving soon, but then she had declined wine with the meal and one small glass would never hurt.
He went behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder. She had felt a mild shiver of anticipation, and then before she could move, he muttered some words. Duratus intra potestas mea suscitavit. She remembered not being able to understand them, yet they were burned into her memory. As he finished, her body had stiffened. She opened her mouth, but was unable to scream, as her feet rose off the ground, and her head lowered till she was perpendicular in front of him. Suspended, she lay there on a cushion of air at around waist height.
The cry still would not come, and the more she tried, the tighter her throat became. She tried to thrash her arms, to move, to hit out, to stand, but nothing happened. It was as if she was drugged. She still held the glass, having not even has the chance to sip the wine. It ran over the top of her hand. She could feel it as it trickled over her skin and dripped onto the lush carpet below.
He looked down at her, smiled a greasy, sickly smile and whispered the word Numen. She found herself repeating it inside her head over and over again. Numen. She tried to stop, but could not. Fear slid down her spine like a cold knife, but Doris felt detached from what was happening, as if this was playing out in front of her, happening to someone else.
He reached out to her, a blank smile on his face. Licking his lips, he moved his hands down to her body. He undid the buttons on her dress one by one a boyish grin on his face. He stumbled with the first one, the tiny buttons awkward in his huge hands. His tongue, pink and fleshy, showed between his parted lips, bubbles of saliva forming beneath it.
Buttons undone he raised her arms. She had no choice but to move them. They did as he wanted, even though inside she was thrashing and tearing at him. He pulled the dress over her head. She felt it sliding across her skin, over her face, blinding her for a second. She felt claustrophobic as it slipped over her neck, mouth, nose and eyes, and then it was gone. She was blushing, head to toe, but her skin remained white, uncolored by the blush that she felt in her mind. He tossed the dress casually onto a chair behind him.
Next his hands reached forward and stroked her shoulders, running down her skin, he gently cupped each breast. His touch was so real. She could see he was touching her could feel it. She could feel her skin as it twitched away from his fingers, but she never
moved. He grinned salaciously as a tiny amount of saliva appeared at the corner of his eager mouth. Grinning even wider, he moved his hands from her breasts, sliding them around her back to the strap holding her practical white bra. She shuddered inside as he undid the strap. Not really a first date bra, she had thought earlier, but then she had not expected things to get this far. He removed the bra and raised it to his face. He rubbed it across his lips and nose, inhaling with his eyes closed before throwing it on top of the dress.
He slid his hands down her body, caressing her breasts and nipples. She was regaining some feeling and with it came hope. As he squeezed her left nipple, he looked into her eyes. The coldness of that gaze froze the breath in her throat. Then he squeezed the right nipple hard, the pain caused her to cry out. But the noise was only in her mind. He left her breasts, sore and ashamed and slid his smooth hands down her stomach to the elastic of her knickers. She could feel herself cringing, her muscles spasmed as his hands travelled over her sensitive skin. But her body remained rock still, unable to move.
Her knickers were also practical. White and large, he slipped his hand, warm now and slightly clammy, under the elastic and he laughed. “Well, Doris, I see you pulled out all the stops for our date. What a sexy beast you must be.” He grinned down at her face, his lips wide like the joker.
She struggled and desperately fought against the force that held her. Just for a second her left leg moved, not much, maybe just a few millimeters. She felt triumph and expected to break free. His face darkened, his brows furrowed and he muttered again. “Retardare aut mori oppressus.” As the words were spoken, pressure forced her back, held her down, and seemed to crush her into whatever was holding her. This is crazy she thought. How I can be forced down? There’s nothing beneath me!
She fought against him, but the pressure increased and breathing became difficult, each lungful of air was sucked into tortured lungs. He could just as well be kneeling on her. The pain was intense and desperate for breath, she began to weaken. She stopped struggling and the pressure released. She laid there, exhausted as tears fell from her brown eyes and rolled down her cheek to drip uselessly onto the carpet below.
His hands continued their descent, circling her stomach with a lover’s caress, gentle now, teasing. He slipped his fingers into the elastic of her knickers and tugged them gently down. They caught momentarily on her hips but then slide down her shapely legs without resistance. Her fear and disgust multiplied, but she could not move. She laid silent, weeping inside.
He brought the knickers to his face, breathed in her aroma and rubbed them against his nose and mouth. His eyes were closed as an expression of ecstasy spread across his features.
Revulsion filled her and gorge formed in her throat. Swallowing hard, she fought to stop it. Would she choke if she allowed herself to be sick? Would he let her choke?
He took in one last breath from her panties and then tossed them to join her other clothes, smiling a little as they landed on the heap.
He went to her feet and gave her his sickly smile. She tried to shout at him, tried to move and found the pressure and the pain in her lungs returning.
“Come now Doris. Relax and this will soon be over. Besides we’re having fun, fun, fun, fun.” He raised an eyebrow mockingly. “If you struggle, your lungs will burst inside of you, showering blood everywhere. It’s a very painful way to die, and makes so much mess. New carpet.” He pointed to the floor. “We don’t want to spoil it.” He wagged his finger at her, as if she were a naughty child.
She forced herself to relax. She would survive this and deal with him later. He placed a hand on each foot. She shuddered in her mind yet her body remained frozen. He caressed each foot for a second, before opening her legs. They moved at his touch, comically parting. As he exposed her private parts a boyish grin of delight crossed his face. He covered his eyes in mock embarrassment and peeked through his fingers. She felt her body flush with heat, shame and rage, but her skin remained white and cold. He stepped between her legs. “Isn’t this just fun?” he asked.
She could feel the rough material of his trousers scratching her skin as he walked slowly between her legs, forcing them wide open with the pressure of his thighs. When they would open no more, he stopped, his groin pressed against her groin. She screamed inside, and the pressure forced down on her, forced her breath from her lungs and sent her into further panic. Her ribs hurt, her chest ached, and her throat rasped as she struggled to breathe. But this time she did not rest, she continued to fight against him. Desperate for breath, her vision clouded, and her lungs felt like they would explode. The pain built up and up to a crescendo, and then she thought she could move. Just a little more, a little more effort and she would be free. It was as if a car was resting on her chest, but she felt her legs start to move. She fought even harder sucking for breath but gained only blackness as she passed out.
She was back in the cellar, her memories just a bitter enemy that had stalked her dreams for years. As she remembered what had happened she felt anger build up inside her, at what he had done to her, but more rage at how he had prevented her from talking about it. He had made her doubt it happened and cast a spell that meant she could not communicate about it. If she had been able to warn them, maybe this would never have occurred. Maybe Helen and Alex would still be alive.
Chapter Nine
Jenny leaned back into the sofa. The leather seemed to comfort and cuddle her weary body and she felt safe here. The large room was subtly lit. Two down lighters behind them provided enough light yet were easy on her sore eyes. Beige curtains shut out the world, making the room a cozy cocoon.
The TV played in front of them, volume low, ignored. In her hand was a brandy glass and between her and Robert was a half empty bowl of soup. She swirled the brandy, staring through it at the flames from the gas fire. Comforting flames mesmerized her. The brandy’s warmth had spread through her body, and for now had eased the pain, grief and guilt.
Rosie was curled up next to her, a blanket thrown over the white leather sofa. Her head in Jenny’s lap, her breath slow and contented, eyes closed. Jenny had been stroking the dog’s head, running her fingers in circles over the short silken hairs. Rosie would moan in pleasure before eventually falling asleep, Jenny’s hand still on her head.
She felt herself starting to nod off, her head was heavy and her eyes refused to stay open. She decided to call it a night.
“I think I’m off to bed.” She looked across at Robert. His face was lined with concern.
“That’s a good idea. Tomorrow we’ll start to sort out this mess. I think you should stay here till after your birthday, just to be safe,” he said.
“Oh, I’m not sure. I should contact Simon.”
“Let’s see what the police say about that. I’m expecting them to ring tomorrow. Come on, let’s get you to bed.” He got up and extended a hand to help her rise. She took it, glad of his strength as he helped her up. Swaying slightly from the effects of the alcohol, she allowed him to escort her from the room. Rosie stretched and then slid off the sofa to follow.
As they reached her room, Jenny turned, a yawn trying to surface on her face. “Why haven’t they called already?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “Maybe there’s a lot to do? But don’t you worry; they’ll call in the morning. Goodnight.”
Jenny snuggled into the comfy bed and pulled the soft and luxurious quilt up around her ears. She could feel Rosie’s muscular body curled up next to her. The dog’s breathing was slow and even she was already asleep. Jenny reached across, enjoying the feel of the warm, silky coat against her fingers. She pulled her close, Rosie’s comforting smell, like warm biscuits, relaxed her. The contact helped her feel safe.
Sleep seemed an elusive beast now and she found herself wondering how difficult it must be for the house-proud Robert to allow this big dog to run riot in his ultra clean home. It just proved how much he cared.
Snuggling up to the dog, her thoughts turned to h
er mum, who had been her only confidant, since a messy divorce five years ago. Jenny had stopped trusting anyone and had become a bit of a recluse. Only her mum seemed able to give her the support and comfort she needed, but now she was gone. With this thought on her mind and hot salty tears on her face, she fell into a deep, exhausted, dreamless sleep.
Light had not yet peeled back the cover of darkness when Jenny came instantly awake. Beside her, low growls emanated from Rosie and reverberated around the room, warning all was not well. Jenny touched the lamp at her bedside, and light flooded the room. Instinctively, she leaned back into the bed but no threat lurked there, just her panic.
She reached across and ruffled Rosie’s fur. “What’s up pooch?”
Rosie jumped nimble from the bed and trotted to the door. She looked back and whined quietly at Jenny, pleading to be let out.
Jenny stretched then pulled back the covers. Wearing only a light, floral pair of pajamas she swung her legs to the floor. A sudden metallic thud and a loud bang caused her to gasp. Every nerve in her body was alert as she crossed the room. Slowly, she pulled Rosie out of the way. She held her ear to the cold wood of the door and listened, all seemed quiet. Rosie’s hackles had risen, giving her an almost comical look, as if her hair had been jelled into a peak all down her spine. But the low warning growl that issued from deep in her throat was not funny. The dog was serious about something. Jenny’s leg was touching the dogs flank, and she could feel a slight shivering, which informed her of the depth of Rosie’s anguish. Jenny’s hands were shaking slightly as she replaced her ear on the door.
Rosie was not a barker, her temperament was warm and loving and she rarely showed aggression. Perhaps the night’s events had upset her, or perhaps the killer had found Jenny here and was stalking the house, searching for a way in.
Flee Page 6
