by Michael Bray
“I wish you hadn’t done that.”
She spun around, pressing her back against the counter. Anthony was there. His eyes were ringed from lack of sleep, his stubble and mess of hair giving him a sinister appearance.
“You shouldn’t have looked, old lady. I was ready to move on. Now you’ve put me in a position where I have to do something.”
“Please,” She said, holding her hands up, “Just go. We won’t say anything. You have our word.”
“They all say that. They all lie.”
“We won’t, we just want to be left alone in peace.”
Anthony nodded. “Don’t we all. Thing is, it never works out that way, does it?”
“We took you in, we helped you. You can just go, nobody will say a word.”
He hesitated, blinking away some of the fog in his brain. “You promise you’d do that?”
“Yes,” she said, nodding for emphasis. “Edward and I don’t want any trouble; we just want to enjoy our retirement. We already told you, the village is too far away for us to walk to, we have no phone. How can we tell anyone before you’re well away from here?”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right. Maybe, just this once, I can let you go.”
The wind picked up, rattling the house, skittering the dry leaves across the windows. Joan ignored it, Anthony cocked his head as if listening.
“Or maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I need to trust my gut and play it safe. That’s how I’ve survived so long.”
“Please, if it’s money you want…”
He took a step towards her. “No. I have money. This isn’t about that.”
“Please, we won’t tell anyone about you.”
“I know,” he said, further closing the distance. “Unfortunately, I have to make sure.”
SIX
Edward had enjoyed a good day. Although he had narrowly missed a deer, he had managed to bag himself a couple of rabbits, which he had tied at the feet and was carrying over his shoulder. It was good to get outside, away from the house, to get some fresh air. He was hoping Joan might make a pie or a stew with his catch. He could see the house through the gaps in the skeletal trees. He crunched through the carpet of golden leaves towards it. He was looking forward to getting home, maybe putting his feet up in front of the fire. Joan had said she was making bread, and he was looking forward to that smell greeting him as he went into the house.
He crossed the bridge, across the gurgling dark waters of the river, and strode up the hill towards his home. He opened the door, and for a moment, was unsure what he was looking at. His brain simply wouldn’t compute what he was seeing.
It was everywhere. Blood. Lumps of things that might have been a person. He blinked, and realised he was holding his breath. He exhaled, his brain finally acknowledging what he was seeing. It was Joan, or what was left of her. She was face down by the table, the chairs overturned. Blood was splashed across the wall. He knew she was dead, her open eyes stared through him. He dropped the rabbits and the gun.
Anthony stepped out from behind the door. He was covered in blood, his eyes wild and devoid of humanity. The voices in his head whispered to him and told him what to do. Edward never even saw it coming.
SEVEN
Anthony ignored his natural instinct to flee. The house was safe, it was isolated, and he knew he needed more time to rest up. More than that, something was compelling him to stay. It had been two days since he killed the old couple, yet he hadn’t bothered to move the bodies. Instead, he existed around them. Stepping over and around the mess as he needed to.
He needed some time to think about his next move. He had been living on the run for what felt like forever and always felt like he was a step ahead. Now, though, he was afraid. The last job had gone horribly wrong and he had lost his self-control. The men he had killed he had no issue with, but at the last job he had shot a woman, the bullet tearing through her and killing her daughter, who was walking alongside, holding her mother’s hand. The image of it had stayed with him and was the last thing he had remembered after the car he had stolen ran out of gas just outside of Oakwell. He had pushed it off the road, bullet wound in his side screaming in protest, then he had set off aimlessly, planning to camp in the forest for a couple of days until he figured out what to do. He wasn’t sure what happened after that and remembered nothing until he woke up in the house after being taken in by the old couple. He looked at them, still on the ground where they had fallen, and a pang of guilt hit him.
In immediate response, the house creaked, and a gust of wind howled down the chimney, flickering the flames of the fire in the hearth.
Just like that, the guilt was gone.
He felt a calm reassurance. The house made him feel safe, comfortable, although he couldn’t explain why. The house creaked again, a door pushed by the breeze.
“What else am I supposed to do?” he muttered in response, then realising he was talking to himself, looked around the room, heart drumming. He was sure somebody had spoken. Not just imagination, but an actual person saying actual words. He stared at the bodies on the floor, the man face down in a pool of congealed blood, the woman still staring at the door, flies walking across her eyes as if exploring the surface of a new planet. He looked away, out of the window to the steady rain of autumn leaves.
There was a nervous excitement in him, a restlessness that he couldn’t explain. Part of him wanted to go, knowing that if someone happened to find him in the house there would be no escape. He was sitting in his crime scene, the bodies of those he had killed starting to smell, the steady drone of the flies starting to irritate him. Despite it all, he felt compelled to stay. Something was attached to him, some invisible cord connecting him to the house and making the idea of leaving more horrifying than of being caught.
He knew what it would mean if they did happen to catch him. There was no doubt about it. He would go to the electric chair. It was something he had never really thought about before. Always he had been certain that he would get away with it, that he would one day have enough money and be able to flee overseas and retire, living a quiet life near a beach somewhere. Something simple. First, though, he had the current situation to deal with.
“Screw this,” he muttered, then went to the kitchen, stepping over the body of the old woman. He stuffed his things in his bag and tossed it over his shoulder. It was mad to stay there. He had never stayed in any one place for long enough for them to get him; that was the key to his continued survival. All it would take was for someone to find the car. He couldn’t recall how well he had tried to hide it, if at all. He thought about where he was. There couldn’t be many if any other houses in the forest. Finding him would be easy. There would be no escape. He went to the door and opened it, standing at the threshold.
He froze.
The outside world was right there, yet he couldn’t step over the threshold. He breathed, eyes wide as he stared into the trees, unable to shake the feeling that he was being watched. The wind ruffled his hair, and leaves blew beyond him into the house, the tiny scratching sound as they scraped on the floor speaking to him.
“Maybe you’re right,” he mumbled.
A large gust of wind rocked the surrounding trees, and a door inside the house slammed shut.
“Good idea. Maybe I should sleep on it.”
He closed the door and walked back through the house. Upstairs, he went into the room that used to be occupied by the old couple, the circular structure with its large windows giving a spectacular view of the surrounding forest. He stood there, staring out over the undulating ocean of green and waited for the morning to come, the whispers of the dead echoing in his brain.
EIGHT
He blinked as dawn broke.
He had been standing in the same spot, staring out of the window for almost twenty hours. He had soiled himself, and stood in his own mess, but he didn’t care. He was detached from things such as hunger, and thirst. Even the explosive ache in his legs was somehow distant as if belonging to
someone else. It felt to him as if someone was holding him there, upright like some kind of full sized marionette, strings taut as he let his weight relax on them. Flies buzzed around the mess at his feet and the wound on his side, the dressing now bloody and starting to smell. None of that mattered. All that mattered to him were the voices in his head.
It was the sound of someone talking downstairs that snapped him from his trance. Whispered voices, sly and devious filled him with a panic, unlike anything he had ever experienced before.
They had found him.
The hazy voices in his head melted away, and with it whatever he had imagined was holding him upright. He crumpled to the ground, legs, and body way beyond tired. A grid of golden sunlight was thrown across the floor, and he lay there for a moment, basking in the heat, giving his body the respite it badly needed from the torture it had been put through.
He heard it again.
Someone downstairs, someone moving stealthily as they whispered to each other.
He suspected it was the police, getting in position ready to take him. He wasn’t prepared to let that happen.
He dragged himself to his feet, using the bed to help him. The gun was on the table beside it. He checked it was loaded, and walked out to the hall, listening to the noises from downstairs. He could definitely hear it, a stealthy bump, and a whispered instruction. He was angry with himself, and couldn’t figure out why he hadn’t left when he had been so determined to do so. He adjusted his grip on the gun and inched towards the steps, every creak of floorboard as he slowly made his way down making him grit his teeth. He was aware now of how badly he smelled, how exhausted he was. He promised himself that if he survived whoever was downstairs, he would go, he didn’t even care what happened to him. All he knew was that he had to leave before he lost his mind. He reached the corner of the landing area. As soon as he went around it, he knew he would be face to face with whoever was in the house. Adjusting his grip on the gun, he peeked around the corner.
The house was empty.
The bodies were still where he had left them, the corpses covered in a carpet of flies, but the door was still closed. He went the rest of the way down, peeking into the kitchen, but it too was deserted.
He heard it again. The same stealthy movement and whispered conversation. Only, this time, he knew it was impossible, as it was coming from upstairs where he had just been. He walked to the bottom of the steps, craning his neck to see into the shadowy recesses.
The noise was coming from the room he had just been in. He could hear something moving and imagined dead things dragging themselves across the floor, through the grid of sunlight he had been sprawled in just a few moments earlier.
“Who is that?” he said, his voice shrill.
There was no answer, and the sounds carried on regardless.
“I have a gun, I’ll use it if I have to.”
Still the sounds went on, the maddening thump, slide of something heavy dragging itself along, the whispers now almost mocking him.
Anger, something to which he had always been a slave, exploded in him, radiating from the inside out. He lunged for the steps, taking them two at a time, determined to catch whatever was making the sound in the act. He lurched through the bedroom door, pointing the gun at the floor.
The room was empty. The sun still fell across the ground, the unmade bed was exactly was he had left it. He stood, panting, confused, and now most definitely afraid.
He heard it again, giggling this time, followed by the same thump slide.
“What is this?” he muttered to himself. He knew it was impossible, as the sound was once again coming from downstairs.
He needed to get out. There was something in the house that wasn’t natural, and he feared whatever it was more than being captured or even the electric chair. He ran for the steps, fear grasping him fully. His mind was on freedom, on escape. He wanted badly to be out of the house. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think for those maddening voices in his head.
He tripped, heart lurching as he lost his balance. He pitched forward, falling down the last half dozen steps. He screamed as he hit the floor, the wound in his side opening as he landed. He tried to stand, but the pain was too much. A heavy wave of nausea overcame him.
As he passed out, he heard that stead thump-slide sound again. It sounded as if it was right next to him.
NINE
The dead woman was staring at him.
He opened his eyes and screamed, then realised where he was. He was face down on the floor where he had passed out. His side was in agony, and he was cold. The best of the day had gone, throwing the room into an ominous, shadow draped space. He blinked and looked at the dead woman. Her open mouth was stuffed with maggots, the writhing mass packed into the space. Others crawled over her discoloured face and through her hair. Anthony groaned and scrambled away from her. The wound in his side was bleeding freely, the bandages soaked through with blood.
“Stay.”
He shrieked. The word had been whispered in his ear, but he was completely alone. He spun around where he sat, staring bug-eyed into the shadows. He stared again at the bodies of the old couple.
“Leave me alone.” He stared at them as he screamed, waiting for a response which didn’t come.
Thump slide
Thump slide
Thump slide.
It was upstairs, the sound coming towards where he sat at the floor of the steps. He pressed his back against the table leg, staring up into the dark.
Thump slide
Thump slide
Thump slide
“What is that? Where are you?” he glared at the dead couple, their milky eyes betraying no secrets of Hope House.
Thump slide bump
Thump slide bump
Thump slide bump
The sound was coming down the steps towards him. A breeze pressed against him, a putrid, rotten smell of decayed flesh.
A cackle
A whisper.
Words projected into his mind. Ideas and images of shadowy beasts coming to him from the corners of the house.
“This is all your fault,” He said, glaring at the old couple. “This is all because of you.”
Thump slide bump.
Thump slide bump.
Louder now. Loud enough that he should, at least, be able to see what was causing it, but the steps were still devoid of people. He didn’t know why he was so surprised, he was the only living thing in the house.
He glanced at the bodies of the old couple and screamed. The woman looked to be smiling at him. Her writhing, maggoty grin the most horrific thing he had ever seen. He wondered how many of them were in there, how many were packed into her mouth and throat.
The wind was starting to increase, whipping dry leaves against the windows. The shadows of the forest danced across the walls of the room, giving the illusion that the walls were alive with gnarled, grasping hands reaching for him. He imagined he could feel them, thin fingers digging into his flesh.
The voices were in his head again, saying terrible things. He started to cry, great lurching sobs the likes of which he hadn’t let out since he was a child. He was completely broken.
“Where are you? What do you want?” he screamed into the empty house.
A creak of floorboard, a skitter of leaves gave him his answer.
He looked at the old couple still on the floor where he had left them. The old woman’s imagined grin was gone. Now she just stared accusingly.
He crawled over to her, still sobbing, a steady patter of blood pouring out of his wound and onto the floor. The voices in his head told him what to do. He rolled her over onto her back, disturbing the writing, feeding mass. He didn’t care. The body was bloated and starting to discolour, the smell was already repulsive. He retched, but the voices in his head drove him on. They told him what to do, where to look. Too afraid to disobey, he tore open her blouse and plunged his hands into the bloated flesh of her stomach. It gave with ease. The blood appeare
d almost black as it welled up around his hands. He was gibbering and screaming, blinking through the sting of his tears as he tore out the innards, searching for what the voices said was in there. They told him to dig deep, and he would find his answer.
TEN
It was fully dark when he was done.
The old man and woman were spread all around the room, he sat cross-legged between them, drenched in blood, covered in maggots and viscera. He was trembling, the man he was before gone forever. In its place was a broken thing, a man with a mind shattered by the things he had been compelled to do.
They had lied.
The voices in his head had deceived him. He had searched the woman first, tearing everything out of her. The organs cold and slippery. After that, they made him do the same to the man. He repeated the process, willed on by the voices, cheered on by the army of shadows which flitted and danced across the walls. They even made him pluck out their eyes.
When it was done, they fell silent.
The trees stopped swaying, the winds died, and those awful voices left him.
He was a trembling wreck, looking at his hands, unable to believe what he had done. He had killed before, but that was through what he deemed to be necessity. This was different. He had been compelled to do terrible things that he knew he would never be able to forget.
He tilted his head, listening to the house, waiting for instruction.
There was nothing behind the silence. No creaking, no whispers. Just a sense of smug satisfaction from whatever had manipulated him so easily.
His eyes went to the gun which he had dropped during his fall down the steps. It glimmered in the pale light of the moon which fell through the open curtains. He crawled towards it, ignoring the cold wetness of the things he crawled through or had to put his hands in. He picked it up, staring at it.
It, at least, told no lies. It was a very honest instrument. He turned the barrel towards his face, staring into the dark eye at the other end of which was his escape, his way out.
