Happy Ever After - Volume 1: A Novel of Horror and Suspense

by Matt Shaw

What else did he say to me? He just wanted it to be... Just the two of us?

  The phrase doesn’t unlock the access to his computer. He also spoke about his...

  Mother? Again, the password is denied. He said that his mother was a... Whore? Nothing, again the password is spat back at me. Rejected. I hit the keyboard out of frustration and my ‘hit’ accidentally inputs a random series of letters. I doubt it’ll work but I press ‘return’ anyway.

  Access denied. No surprise there. I sit back, beaten again. No emails are getting sent today. Fuck. Wait. Perhaps the computer can unlock my freedom. I check the base unit and it’s not bolted down to the floor. The monitors, both for the CCTV and the computer itself, aren’t bolted either. He obviously thought there’d be no need to bolt it down as they were in a room that I wasn’t supposed to get into. If I throw them hard enough, at the bricks, perhaps the bricks would loosen a little? Even if they loosen a little, it might be enough to help me break through with some well-placed kicks.

  Anything is worth a try but I’m reluctant to use anything to do with the computer – if all else fails, I could always spend my time guessing his password. Failing that, maybe he’ll wake up and tell me? In his current state, I’m sure he’ll want me to get help for him.

  I look at the monitor to the main bedroom. He hasn’t moved. He isn’t going to move ever again. Part of me is relieved. Part of me feels even more isolated than before. At least he offered a bit of company.

  A tear trickles from my eye. I wipe it away. Don’t be stupid. He killed mum and dad. I pull the plug from the CCTV monitors, killing them instantly. Now I just need to get them down the stairs.

  *****

  I would have looked stupid to anyone watching me get down the stairs with each monitor, one at a time. I sat at the top, with my arm around the screen, my other hand steadying myself on the wall and carefully ‘bumped’ my way down the stairs, one step at a time.

  I wished someone were there to see how stupid I looked. At least they would have been able to take me away from this place, when they had finished laughing of course.

  It didn’t matter though, what did matter was that I managed to get the screens downstairs unbroken – unbroken and relatively strong. I stand at the blocked wall of the front door with the monitors lined up next to me. I’m hoping that they’ll be able to do enough damage. Even if they don’t break the wall down, maybe a passer-by will hear the crashing and come to investigate?

  Where is this house? I wonder whether there are even people to pass by ‘out there’? Forget about it. Concentrate on the task at hand.

  I take hold of the first monitor and struggle to lift it above my head. I’m wobbly on my feet but at least I managed to get it over my head. Arch my back. Bring the monitor back as far as I can without dropping it. Hold it. Take aim...

  Throw!

  I throw the monitor as hard as I can and it crashes against the wall before dropping to the floor in several pieces.

  Wall = one. Monitor = zero. Fuck. It’s not over yet. There’s seven monitors left yet. I pick the next monitor up and follow through with the same process, believing that the faster I accomplish it – the more damage is done to the wall. The second monitor falls to the floor and joins the rubble of the first.

  Don’t get deflated. Keep it going.

  The third monitor joins the first and second with its pieces scattered across the floor. With the way the monitors are smashing so easily, I’m glad I didn’t roll them down the stairs as I had originally planned to.

  I check the wall. He’s done a good job or cementing the bricks in place as there is hardly a mark. Maybe the next monitor will have more luck?

  ‘CRASH!’

  Evidently not!

  The broken pieces are getting in my way and putting me off so I kick them out of the way before picking up the next screen. The same process; above my head, tilt back and full force into the wall. I must have done it harder than before as the collision is a lot more violent than the others and some of the glass comes back into my face, cutting my cheek. It’s a cut that stings like a paper cut.

  Ignore it.

  There still isn’t a mark on the bricks and the last monitors don’t make any impact either. I drop to my knees. There’s nothing else I can use. I’m tired both physically and mentally. I can’t even cry.

  I try using the last of my strength to hit the walls down with my bare hands. Each open-palmed hit stinging sharply. Please fall down. Please.

  The bricks don’t budge.

  I realise I’m going nowhere fast and scream at the top of my lungs – a scream that echoes around the lifeless house, a scream that no-one hears.

  You’re tired. Try again in the morning. One more night won’t hurt.

  I can’t sleep.

  A Restless Night

  The bed in the spare bedroom is too uncomfortable. I should have dragged him from the main bedroom and slept there but I couldn’t bring myself to go in there and see him. What if he had moved?

  He hasn’t moved. He’s dead. You killed him.

  I wish I paid attention to how he used the syringe; I could have dosed myself up tonight. I could have made myself sleep so I could be fresh in the morning – full of energy; energy that I’m obviously going to need if I’m to break through the bricks.

  Stupid idea.

  Even if I did pay attention – I’d never know what dose to use. I’m not ready to give in yet and I certainly don’t want to kill myself even though I sometimes think that would be easier. An early death would let me be free. An early death would let me be with my mum and dad again.

  Stop it. Stop thinking like that. You’re going to get out of here. They wouldn’t want you

  thinking like that – and you know it. You’re just tired. Get some sleep. I can’t.

  As I lay awake frantically trying to think of a way out of the house I remember the cutlery. It’s only plastic but I could use it to scrape the concrete away from between the bricks – a long task but a task that could reward me with freedom.

  Why wait until the morning? Try it now. It might be a lot easier than you think. You won’t know until you try it. I wait a couple more sleepless minutes before coming to terms with the fact that I won’t get any sleep tonight. I may as well get up and carry on trying to break free.

  I sit up and swing my legs off the bed, putting my feet onto the floor. My joints scream at me to stop and rest up but I’m not going to. I have to try the plastic cutlery. I stand up and limp out of the door and down the stairs, heading for the kitchen.

  The cutlery is stored in a large, aluminium bin in the corner of the kitchen. Plastic knives and plastic forks, stored as a pair in a clear wrapping. I’d take the bin, to save going backwards and forwards, to get more cutlery when the ones that I use give in to the strength of the bricks and snap, but it’s bolted to the floor – the same as everything else. I take an armful, holding them close to my chest as I limp back out of the kitchen towards the front door, only dropping a few. Let them drop. I can come back for them if I need them.

  I drop the rest by the brick wall and drop to my knees, once again. I can scrape at the concrete at this level. I don’t need to stand. After all, if I can get some bricks out, it will be easier to crawl out if the gap is on the floor.

  I don’t know where to start. Do I start two rows from the bottom? Perhaps three rows would be better? Wait. Think. You’ll need to take enough bricks out to be able to crawl through the hole afterwards.

  I lie down next to the bricks and measure my chest up against them. Four rows should be enough. I could put my arms out first and then allow the rest of my body to follow. Four rows will be fine.

  Don’t get ahead of yourself. Try the cutlery first.

  I tear a packet open and pull out the knife. Pressing the knife against the bricks with any amount of force, no matter how slight, sees the knife bend slightly. I scrape the knife across the cement. It gouges out a tiny amount, a small amount of dust and debris. Crumbs.

/>   It’s working. It’s going to take ages but it’s working. Keep going. More scraping. More dust. I can’t help but laugh. More scraping. More dust. More laughter. I press harder and the knife snaps. Fuck.

  Don’t panic. There’s plenty more. I take another packet and tear it open, the cutlery drops into my lap. Ignore the fork. Grab the knife. Get back to it. Scrape like your life depends on it.

  Your life does depend on it. More scraping. “Where are you going?” he asks making me jump and snap another knife. Ignore him. He isn’t there. He’s upstairs. You killed him. I killed him. “You said that you loved me.” I lied that I loved him. I never loved him. “You said that you wanted me to meet your parents.” He did meet my parents. He killed my parents. Ignore him.

  He’s not real. He’s just a figment of my imagination. I pick up another cutlery set and pull the knife from within the wrapping.

  “I miss you. Come upstairs.”

  In a weird sort of way, I miss him too. In his own weird way, he wanted what was best for me. He wanted to love me. He just didn’t go about it in the more conventional way of ‘dating’ and ‘getting to know me’. His heart was in the right place though.

  What are you doing?

  This is the man that kidnapped you. He killed your mum and dad. Get him out of your head. Concentrate on the bricks. I frantically start scraping again. Get out of the house. Forget about him. Move on with your life.

  More dust sprinkles to the floor as I scrape harder than before, careful not to snap the knife. Another knife.

  “Please stop trying to get away from me,” I hear him approach me cautiously from behind. His hand falls on my shoulder as a form of comfort. No it doesn’t. His hand is not there. He is not there. He is upstairs where you left him.

  I laugh at how stupid I’m being. “Admit it; you were getting feelings for me.” I wasn’t getting feelings for him. There’s no way that I’d get feelings for him – my kidnapper.

  The murderer.

  “They might not have been as strong as my feelings for you but they were there. On some level.”

  I turn to the thin air behind me, swipe at it with the knife and scream, “Fuck off!”

  Don’t let him get to you. Don’t forget the wall. More scraping. I stop, temporarily, and start kicking the wall with my good foot, hoping that I’ve loosened the brick enough to make it drop to the outside world that it hides from me. It doesn’t move. Some more crumbs fall to the floor and that’s about it.

  Fuck. “Please. Stop,” he begs me. I stop long enough to spin around and lash out with the

  plastic knife. There’s nothing there. He’s not there. Why do I keep thinking that he is? I know where he is. He’s where I left him.

  Stop it.

  I turn around again and, again, scrape the cement away. I look to the floor and see that I’m making a nice mess of cement crumbs and dust, but that’s it. I blow hard on the area that I’ve been scraping and look at my handiwork.

  My lack of handiwork... I don’t think this is working. “You’re being silly,” he doesn’t say to me, “come upstairs and lay with me – everything will feel better in the morning.” Perhaps he’s right. Maybe everything will be better in the morning. I drop the knife to the floor and sit back. I’m so very tired. My arm is especially tired. I regret killing him. I’m so tired he could have given me a massage. Give up Vanessa; you aren’t going anywhere tonight. “Come upstairs, you look tired. If you still want to leave in the morning, I promise I won’t try and stop you.”

  “Okay. I am tired.”

  I stand up and limp up the stairs to the main bedroom. I open the door and smile at him. He smiles back and pats the bed next to him, inviting me to rest with him.

  “I missed you,” he says.

  “I’m sorry,” I say as I limp into the room with my thoughts fuzzy and my head heavy. I climb onto the bed with Peter and cuddle into him, resting my head on his lap – letting him stroke my hair.

  “You’ll feel better in the morning,” he comforts me. “I hope so.” Tomorrow will be another day. We’ll wake up together; I’ll make us some breakfast and then carry on scraping at the bricks with the cutlery. I doubt he’ll help me but at least he’ll talk to me as I work. At least he’ll keep me company and who knows – maybe, one day, I’ll manage to ease enough bricks from the wall to climb out. Failing that, part of me hopes that maybe some squatters will stumble across the house and break in – looking for a new home.

  Someone, one day, has to find us. “Good night, Peter.”

  “Good night, Vanessa.”

  I close my eyes.

  G.S.O.H ESSENTIAL

  INTRODUCTION:

  My hair is still wet but not enough to cause it to drip down my neck; good enough for me. It’s combed back but will flop forward when it dries. Both styles suit me.

  I think the wet look goes better with my suit; black Armani. Class. Expensive. Obviously expensive.

  Sort of.

  A cheap Armani knock off purchased from a dodgy backstreet market years ago.

  Looks genuine though.

  Most people can’t tell the difference.

  A slight shave earlier - barely touched the surface of my facial hair; a nice amount of stubble I reckon. Rugged. Not too tatty. Manly. I couldn’t do a full shave; I always seem to get a rash and, even so, I don’t want to look too try-hard.

  Nothing screams desperation more than a perfect shave.

  Desperate for the job.

  Desperate for the look of approval on the First Date.

  Desperate to impress the in-laws.

  Desperate to look good in the eyes of our Lord...

  Besides, my razor is blunt.

  Mental note to self - pick up new razor blades.

  Scratch that - get new razor.

  Normally it is cheaper to get a new razor than to buy the blades and you normally get a handful of blades free with a new razor too. A bargain.

  Look after the pennies and the pounds look after themselves. I can’t remember who said that to me years ago but it stuck in my mind.

  Aftershave. Hugo Boss. Soul. My favourite. One of them at least. There’s a few scents that suit me. This is the one for tonight, though. A bit on my wrists and a bit lightly misted onto my stubble. Not too much, just a couple of squirts.

  Aftershave can give a good first impression but too much can give the opposite effect.

  Two squirts.

  Just right.

  A quick swirl around my mouth with the Listerine before I step into my polished shoes that wait for me in the bedroom.

  Good dress sense, clean hair, nice aroma and fresh breath. Clearly a guy who knows how to look after himself.

  A final check in the bedroom mirror confirms I’m ready.

  In record time too.

  Good going but I can still beat that time. I can still get ready faster.

  Regardless, I’m ready.

  Ready for my monthly food shop.

  G.S.O.H

  ESSENTIAL

  1

  BEFORE YOU CAN HAVE YOUR HAPPY EVER AFTER you need to find true love; easier said than done. I know the rules for finding this true love but I struggle to use them to my advantage.

  A lot of singles use the internet to find their perfect partner but the idea turns me off. It’s still early days but I’ve never been desperate enough to go to the hassle of filling in a profile in the vain hope that Miss Right will pick me out of all the other thousands looking for love (or just a fuck).

  Even if it did come down to it – I’d worry that the person I was meeting wasn’t who they said they were; the whole exchange of messages as we bond with each other being nothing more than a long series of lies hiding the ‘ugly’, ‘fat’ truth. The internet is nothing more than a smoke shield for paedophiles and monsters. I am not a monster. Nor do children ‘float my boat’.

  Meanwhile, other people go from nightclub to nightclub hoping to find their perfect partner. I’ve never agreed with finding love in
a nightclub. Experience tells me, well – my friends tell me at least, that it’s more about finding a quick bunk up in the dirty toilets or back alleys with strangers who have consumed too much alcohol. Fun, for a while, but would you really want that person to be in your life on a daily basis?

  Not me.

  They’re impure.

  They’re ruined before they’ve started.

  For me, it’s all about the supermarkets.

  You walk around the stores and they’re crammed with ladies. More ladies than men and that is a fact. As they pass, holding onto their trolleys, you can clearly see any rings that may or may not be on their fingers too – saving you the embarrassment of discovering they are engaged or married after you’ve gone to the hassle of speaking to them.

  And don’t forget the trolleys they are pushing. A quick glance in the trolley clearly shows whether they are shopping for one or a family – helping you rule out the possibility of wasting your time again. When you do find a lady you like the look of, you just need to follow her around for a bit. It’s never long before they need help fetching something from a shelf that’s too high for their dainty little frames and, if they don’t need help with anything, you can ensure you’re standing behind them at the check-out – giving you plenty more opportunities to initiate a conversation before you part ways.