A Home by the Sea (A Supernatural Suspense Novel)

by Saunders, Craig

  Whatever he did, he knew he was going to die. He thought of Marc, leaving him behind. He thought of the pain.

  ‘Please...’

  But that was the last coherent thing he got to say, because by then the dead man opened up his shirt.

  The flesh underneath had already begun to putrefy.

  ‘I ate Franklin’s cellmate, you see. He ate Franklin. A little bit of him lives on in me.’

  Then he started cutting.

  But not David.

  On himself.

  ‘You ever hear of a canopic jar?’ he asked, but David couldn’t ask. For some reason as the man began to pull out his liver, still standing, the only thing David could think of was the taste. The awful taste of rotten flesh as it was forced past his lips, then his mind broke utterly.

  ‘I practised on my brother, you know,’ he said, but David wasn’t listening anymore.

  *

  The corpse fell to the floor. David smiled and swallowed the last morsel. At first, it had been a struggle to get this one to feed, but after a while things went easier.

  By the end, David wasn’t David.

  *

  The little bell over the front door tinged as Marc pushed the door open. It reeked in the shop. Reeked like that first day, that God awful stench of death, rot, shit...every vile thing he could imagine.

  ‘David?’ called Marc, his voice urgent, his heart pounding. Someone was in the shop. He could hear shuffling, someone coming from the back of the shop. He didn’t know what to do. He picked up a tiara from a display and held it before him.

  ‘I’ve got a weapon!’ he shouted, but then felt like a tit because David emerged from the back of the shop, licking his lips like he’d just polished off a snack.

  ‘Marc? I wondered where you’d got to. What the hell are you planning on doing with that?’

  Marc grinned, relieved.

  ‘Oh, thank God, thank God. Oh, babe...’

  ‘Whatever’s wrong?’ said David, frowning.

  ‘Thought you were dead,’ said Marc.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Irene got a call...her mother died...Franklin...’ Marc shrugged. ‘It’s a long story. We think...well...oh. Oh shit...the mannequin...’

  ‘Where’s Irene? Where’s Sam?’

  ‘At ours. We went there first, but...oh, David. God, I’m so relieved you’re OK.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Tell me everything. Get me up to speed. Is Irene going to stay with us?’

  ‘No. We’re going there. Out to Blue House.’

  Marc kissed David.

  ‘Jesus, you need to brush your teeth. What the hell have you been eating?’ he asked.

  David just smiled as Marc locked the door behind them.

  He checked out the back, but it was refuse day, and the mannequin was gone. He breathed a sigh.

  David and Marc got into the car, thankfully away and on the way to get Irene.

  But Marc couldn’t shake that stink from his nose. He smelled it all the way to their house, like a ghost that was haunting him.

  *

  The mannequin stood in the back office of Beautiful Brides. The body of one Dr. Ingmar lay on the floor beside it. His stomach was cut open, his organs missing. They would never be found. His eyes were missing, but he was already a long time dead.

  The mannequin seemed to be making a sound, like a soft thump, like a heartbeat, but not for a second would anyone mistake the sound for Dr. Ingmar’s heart, because that, too, was gone.

  Dr. Ingmar, who worked at the psychiatric unit, had seen better days. Even on the way to Spain he’d been decomposing. In reality, though he’d been walking and talking for a week, he’d been a corpse since being forced to eat Franklin’s cellmate.

  *

  Part Two

  The Blue House

  ‘Little brother, you think that’s the worst I’ve ever done?’

  Paul took a step back, his fists still clenched.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Franklin laughed. ‘Let’s just say I’ve had a bit more practise since we were kids. Let’s just say that, eh?’

  ‘Ah, Frank. Frank, what have you done?’

  ‘You don’t want to know, do you, Paul? Do you?’

  Paul thought, no, I don’t. I really don’t. Because he was about to beat his brother senseless, if he could, and he didn’t need to know anymore than that. After this night, win or lose, he was done with Frank.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, because I love Irene,’ said Paul. ‘You leave her alone, and we’re done here.’

  ‘Leave her alone? You fucking idiot. I haven’t even started.’

  Paul nodded. Put his head down. Took a breath and swung.

  *

  Paul stepped into a straight left that smashed his lip and broke his front tooth in half.

  His first instinct was to swing again, because he was mad and angry and full of some kind of confused love for his brother that bordered on hate. Maybe even went over the border.

  But he didn’t. He stepped back, and Frank’s wild swing went past his head. He felt the air as Frank’s fist passed his cheek. Then, maybe because he was cold, things seemed to slow for a second.

  That second was all he needed. His next punch connected with Frank’s ear, a hard right that rocked his brother and made him stumble. Paul followed in with a left uppercut that broke Franklin’s nose, then a miss that caught the back of Franklin’s head as he went down to the pavement outside their house.

  Frank began to rise and Paul knew he couldn’t let him get back up. It wasn’t the kind of fight where you shook hands after. Wasn’t the kind of fight where the loser held up a hand, said they’d had enough, or they were done.

  It wasn’t a fucking match, and Paul knew it right from the start.

  He swung his right foot as hard as he could into Frank’s ribs, figuring if he killed his own brother at least Irene would be safe.

  You think that’s the worst I’ve ever done?

  Frank’s ribs shattered with the first kick. The second knocked him out cold and broke his jaw.

  The police didn’t get involved. Maybe if they had, Paul would have lived. So would a whole lot of other people, too.

  *

  Irene jumped as the outboard motor gave a cough and died. For a second she panicked, thinking of the loud thump thump thump she’d heard, thinking the mannequin was a bomb, or something. She’d dozed in the boat despite it being a cold day, colder up here on the coast.

  ‘We’re here,’ said Marc from the back of the boat. The boat coasted the last few feet into the boathouse, under cover and out of the biting wind.

  Irene looked down at Sam, in the carrier on her front. He was sleeping soundly, as he usually did. His cheeks were ruddy from the wind but he didn’t seem fazed by the cold or the sharp breeze blowing across the bay.

  ‘Thank you,’ she told Marc, and gave David a smile, too. ‘Thanks, both of you, for this. I don’t want to be alone for a while.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Marc, mooring the boat next to Irene’s and lending a hand to Irene to step off onto the wooden plank.

  ‘It’s not fine,’ she said. ‘I feel bad, dragging the two of you out here.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have it any other way, honey,’ said David. ‘I’ll get the bags. Get the baby out of the cold. I’ll be along.’

  Irene nodded and as her feet hit the sand her legs almost gave way.

  Relief, she thought. Relief to be home. She opened the boathouse door and there it was, like it was rising from the sea itself.

  The Blue House.

  *

  The first thing she did was feed Sam. Marc put the kettle on for tea, flicked on the gas grill because Irene hadn’t eaten all day and she was feeding for two, or so he figured. He sliced almost a whole loaf of fresh bread, a little past its best but good enough for toast.

  When he came back in Irene had her feet up on her red couch, with Sam atop her. Both were sound asleep.


  He heard the front door snick and padded on socked feet through to the lobby. David shivered and dumped the bags beside the door.

  ‘I’ve never been here before,’ he said. ‘Where’s the guest room? Or are we on the couch?’

  ‘No,’ smiled Marc, remembering that David didn’t like the sea. In the rush he hadn’t thought of it. He loved his husband afresh right then, because despite his fear he hadn’t complained once, and all for Irene.

  ‘There are guest rooms on the second floor. Irene and Sam are sound asleep. You want some toast?’

  ‘Sure,’ said David. ‘I’m starving. I’ll follow my nose when I come back down.’

  ‘Kitchen’s not too hard to find,’ he smiled, and turned back to his toast before it could burn.

  *

  David put the bags in the guest room on the west side of the house, facing the point. He placed them on the bed, and stood for a while, staring out to sea. He made no attempt to unpack, but licked his lips and tried to remember the taste of flesh.

  He unpacked the important things. He’d brought some little extras along for the ride. David and Marc weren’t psychopaths, so they hadn’t had everything he wanted when he’d been packing, but he had enough. There was a meat tenderiser, a good cleaver, and a sharp knife that would get through flesh.

  He could feel himself beginning to decay already, so far from the focus of his power. But he didn’t think he’d need this body for long.

  Things would end this night, and he’d have what he came for.

  What he’d wanted all along.

  His own flesh and blood. A vessel that could hold him.

  Sam.

  *

  Marc and David ate a simple lunch of buttered toast at the old kitchen table while Irene slept with baby Sam on her chest.

  ‘She must be exhausted.’

  ‘She’s had so much stress...so much loss. I’m not surprised,’ said Marc.

  ‘I guess not,’ said David. ‘Is there anything we can do, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. She’s pretty independent. What do you think?’

  ‘Make sure all the doors and windows are locked tonight. We don’t want him getting in.’

  ‘Irene said he can pick locks, this man. This...fuck...I don’t know if I really believe it. A guy coming back from the dead.’

  ‘What do you think it is?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m worried she’s losing it.’

  ‘What about the mannequin? Sam?’

  ‘I know. It’s weird. I can’t explain it.’

  ‘Well,’ said David. ‘I think the best we can do is be here for her, look after her. Make things a little easier. She’s just lost her son, her mother. That’s got to be so tough on her.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Tonight, well...sounds stupid...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How about we take it in turns?’ Keep watch. Like security guards,’ said David, laughing a little, because the thought of the two of them acting like security guards was kind of funny.

  Marc could see the funny side, too.

  ‘Sure. You take first watch? I’m better early than you.’

  ‘Done,’ said David, taking a last bite of his toast and feeling a tooth shift in the gum. He smiled and turned his head to one side.

  ‘Got a bit of toast stuck,’ he said, and pushed his finger into his mouth. He pushed the tooth out of the gum. It came out easily. He swallowed it.

  ‘There,’ he said.

  They both smiled. ‘Maybe meet up for a little rendezvous, say, around three?’ David winked.

  Marc laughed. ‘Trust you to get horny at a time like this.’

  ‘Should I go away and come back again?’ asked Irene from the doorway with a smile.

  Marc flushed.

  ‘No need. Just talking shop,’ he said.

  ‘Right,’ said Irene and helped herself to some toast.

  *

  Irene put the stereo on then sat at the kitchen table while the boys went through the house, checking every window a second time.

  She didn’t know if she could let them take a watch all night, but she knew for sure she’d sleep better with some company in the house. She made tins of soup for their supper, with the last of the bread toasted, dripping in butter.

  Irene always thought of butter as part of a sandwich, or toast, rather than just something to spread. She heaped the butter on and as they ate it swirled on top of the soup.

  ‘David’s taking first shift,’ said Marc. ‘No arguments,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘No arguments.’

  ‘What would I do without you two,’ she said. Honestly, she didn’t know. She looked at her two best friends, watching her intently. Both had only come into her life since she’d moved out to the coast and bought the shop, hiring Marc, but within a month they’d both become a part of her life.

  She’d known them now for longer than her marriage had lasted.

  ‘Boys, I love you, you know that, right?’

  David smiled. ‘Honey, you’re talking like something terrible’s going to happen. Nothing bad can happen while I’m on duty. Me big. Me strong.’

  She laughed, although even to her it felt a little strained.

  ‘You want to listen to some music, play cards, something?’

  ‘You look like you want to get to bed, and I swear, that baby does nothing but sleep and feed.’

  ‘They do at this age. He’ll be up and around soon enough, after uncle Marc and David’s finest china.’

  ‘Can’t wait,’ said Marc, ‘But you go to bed, if you want. We’ll watch the fort.’

  David nodded and smiled, too. She noticed he had a tooth missing. She was going to bring it up, but she was so god damn tired and she knew David was vain about such things.

  David farted.

  ‘David,’ said Marc.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said with a grin. ‘Pea and ham soup,’ he shrugged.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Irene. ‘That’s my cue.’

  ‘Night, boys,’ she said, kissing them both. ‘Love you.’

  She took Sam in his carrier, wriggling his little chubby fingers, upstairs.

  ‘Uncle David’s stinky, isn’t he, baby?’ she said. Baby Sam giggled, she thought, but it was probably just wind.

  *

  Darkness fell. Marc watched it coming in, like something rising from out of the sea. There was no sun, the clouds were heavy. Blackness just came from the horizon, out of the east, until the Blue House was swamped in it.

  ‘Do you think he’s coming?’ he said to David.

  ‘The man?’

  ‘Yes.’

  David shrugged. ‘With other people here? Doesn’t seem his style. Seems like a sneaky kind of fucker.’

  Marc frowned. It wasn’t like David to use bad language. He’d been farting, sniffing, now swearing like a fish wife...maybe in his head he was getting into character, the dragon slayer, the protector of the damsel.

  Didn’t work for him, but they’d been married a long enough time that he wouldn’t gainsay him. If David needed to man up to feel braver...

  He knew well enough that he didn’t feel brave at all.

  ‘Maybe...maybe we should be armed, or something.’

  David shrugged again. ‘We could get a knife, something...I don’t know. I mean, if it’s some kind of stalker and that’s all it is...then we accidently kill him...we could go to jail.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of killing anyone...just scaring him off.’

  ‘Might work...’

  ‘I’ll get a knife.’

  ‘Get me one. A big one. If it’s for scaring, a big one would be best, you think?’

  Marc nodded. ‘I guess that makes sense.’

  Marc wandered into the kitchen and rifled through the drawers.

  He turned round and David was in the doorway.

  ‘Got a couple of knives,’ he said.

  David smiled. ‘Here, I’ll take the big one,’ he winked.


  Marc shook his head. ‘Boys and their rulers,’ he said, but he smiled, too.

  *

  The evening passed slowly, David waiting impatiently for Marc to go to bed.

  He could feel the change coming over him, burning his insides. He tried to keep the wind in, as his stomach, his intestines, his blood, turned rotten. He was decomposing and this far from the focus of his reanimation, the mannequin, there was nothing he could do about it. The decomposition slowed though it couldn’t be stopped when he was kept the mannequin close.

  Now he was falling apart.

  ‘Let’s turn the lights low,’ he said, trying for darkness to hide the change coming over him. If Marc screamed, if he made a fuss...

  Then Irene might wake. The baby might wake. She might run, and keep on running, and he only had one chance at keeping alive for longer, so he didn’t have to keep doing this, putting himself into a vessel that just couldn’t hold him.

  He needed Sam, and he was falling to pieces. Literally. He’d already swallowed down three teeth, and he could feel others coming loose.

  His skin was starting to loosen, too. It wouldn’t be long before Marc noticed. Already he was looking at him with some kind of worry in his eyes. That worry would soon turn to suspicion, then screaming, then everything would be fucked. It was hard enough trying to be his husband, his lover. It would be harder still to silence him without killing him before the screaming began.

  *

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ said Marc, and David, a straight man in a gay man’s body, could have kissed him, or more likely stabbed the stupid fucking queer through the eye.

  But that wouldn’t work. Stab a man through the eye and he’d scream his fucking head off...unless you got through to the brain, but even then it was no sure thing. Go for someone’s eye and it’s a natural reflex to turn the head. Most times, trying to take an eye out, the best you got was a glancing blow.

  The only sure way to get a clean, silent, death – not something that usually bothered Franklin – was to make sure your victim was incapacitated first.