Happy Ever After - Volume 1: A Novel of Horror and Suspense
Page 29
That’s the way out.
Go.
Quietly.
Leaning on the wall, I make my way down the hallway - looking back at the stairs as I go. Half expecting him to appear at the top of them. My heart is beating so hard I feel sick. I keep expecting to bump into Peter...
Impossible.
He’s dead.
“You killed me.”
Ignore him. I don’t need to hear him now. Now is not the time. Concentrate on getting out.
I get to the door and push it open - a clean kitchen on first impressions; no stacked up foods, no rotting flesh stench...
Everything appears to be normal.
It’s not.
Don’t even start to think otherwise.
Get out.
I leave the kitchen light off, worried that he’ll notice the illumination upstairs, if I flick the switch on. I don’t need it on anyway. The room is clear enough for me to be able to get to the back door without tripping - the back door window letting enough light in, through the window, for me to see.
Moonlight.
In Peter’s house, I didn’t think I’d see the moonlight again.
Forget it.
You’re out of there now.
And soon, you’ll be out of here.
I make my way to the back door and peer out.... Freedom.
“What are you doing?”
I jump and spin around. The old man is stood in the kitchen doorway.
He repeated himself as he flicked the light switch on, “What are you doing?”
11.
He isn’t smiling anymore.
If my ankle wasn’t hurting, I could turn and run through the back door - just keep going until I either lost him or bumped into someone else.
But is it hurting.
I wouldn’t even make it to the door before he’d catch up with me. And what if the door is locked anyway? Stupid idea.
“What are you doing?” he asked again.
“I was just seeing if you had anything to eat.”
The old man smiles, “You should have just called me down.”
A beat.
“I didn’t want to disturb you,” I said.
“Over here,” he walks to the other side of the kitchen, towards the fridge. I flash a glance to the back door before walking over to where he’s stood. “Did you want a sandwich?” he asks.
He pulls the fridge open and I’m relieved to see it’s stacked with food as opposed to body parts or suspicious looking slabs of meat.
“I expect I have some ham?” he offers.
Don’t trust the meat.
He turns his back on me and reaches into the fridge, no doubt to find some ham.
Now.
Seize my chance.
I lean across the kitchen counter and pull the largest knife, from the wooden block of knives that’s situated by the white kettle. The sound of the knife, being pulled from it’s space, is enough to make the old man spin around.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re his father!”
“What?”
“You are his FUCKING FATHER?!”
“Who?” he backed away from me, trapping himself in the corner of the room. No way out for him...
“Peter! You’re his father!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who is Peter?”
“You know who Peter is!”
“My son’s name is Daniel.”
Another lie. It’s true. Like Father, like Son.
“You’re lying! I know it’s you....”
“Whatever you think you know, you’re wrong. Please, look, put the knife down. I’ll take you where ever you want to go....”
He reached his hand out towards me.
“Don’t come any closer,” I hissed.
“Just put the knife down,” he said.
Peter whispered, “Don’t let him fool you. He isn’t as old and frail as he makes out.... He’s the true monster.”
Without really thinking it through, I find myself lunging forward with the knife and sticking it directly into his chest. A look of horror and shock on his wrinkly, treacherous face.
I pull the knife out and thrust it back into his chest - a funny gurgling noise coming from his mouth suggests I’ve sliced through one, or both, of his lungs.
So much blood.
From his chest.
From his mouth.
Pull the knife back out.
He’s still alive.
Why won’t you just fucking die.
Thrust it back - this time into his throat... not intentionally but that’s where the tip of the blade pierces as, by the time it reaches him again, he’s dropped to his knees.
It won’t be long now.
His hands automatically move to his throat, like that’s going to help him.
Fuck you.
“Another dead body down to you,” whispers Peter. I can’t tell by his tone whether he is pleased or annoyed. He’s the one who put the seed into my mind. He’s the one that made me take this path. He can’t be displeased with my actions. He can’t.
The old man is lying on the floor now, a pool of blood spilling out across the wooden laminated floor of the kitchen - the knife still sticking from his throat. A few bubbles of blood hanging from his lips but he’s dead.
I bend down and pat his trouser pockets, finding the one with the keys in by the jingling noise they make. Seconds later and the keys to my freedom are firmly in my grasp.
Stand up, survey the mess.
I didn’t have a choice.
“Always a choice.”
Don’t think about them. I’ve done what was needed. It was him or me. The same with Peter - him or me. The authorities will see that. They’ll see I had no choice.
Why can I hear Peter laughing in my head?
I leave the kitchen as quickly as my weakened ankle will allow me and stumble my way to the front door.
Use the keys.
Find the one.
Unlock the door.
Get out.
Find the car key.
Drive away from this nightmare.
“Fred?”
What?
“Fred, is that you?”
A female voice coming from upstairs.
No.
I’m imagining it.
Fuck off laughing Peter.
“Fred? Come here, will you?”
A frail female voice.
I leave the keys dangling from the front door’s lock and edge slowly towards the stairs. A quick glance down the hallway, into the kitchen, and I can see Fred’s foot - he isn’t getting up.
“Where are you?” calls the voice.
It’s in my head.
It has to be.
She’s dead.
The old lady who lived with him.
She’s dead.
Peter told me so.
It must be true.
It has to be.
She’s dead.
“Fred?”
I have to go upstairs - be sure.
I’ll go up the stairs and into the bedroom, where the voice is coming from, and she’ll be there.... this little old lady.... in bed.... dead. I’ll still hear her voice, though. It’s the stress of what I’ve been through.
Yes.
The stress.
She’ll be dead.
In one of the other rooms will be a computer with all the images from the CCTV in Peter’s house playing through.
“Fred?”
I could just go.... ignore the voice.
No.
I have to know.
Slowly I continue to edge my way up the stairs. Slowly.
“Did you get my medicine?”
All in my head...
At the top of the stairs now and I turn to face the room where the voice is coming from. I need to prepare myself - the sight of yet another dead body.
“Can you hear me, dear?”
I creep across the landing and a few floorboards
creak underneath my footing but I’m soon at the room. Gently, I push the door open.... waiting to reveal the dead body hiding within.
The door opens...
“Fred?”
I stop.
Freeze.
This little old lady.
“Who are you?”
This little old lady looking at me.
Peter laughing.
“Where’s Fred?”
I pause for a second, “He’s downstairs, napping...”
“Again? He’s a good man but so tired. I told him to put me in a home so he can rest up but he refuses.... refuses to be away from me.... doesn’t want to leave my side... Come closer, dear. Let me see you.”
My feet edge me forward - my subconscious willing me to be seen for what I am.
A murderer.
Stood here, in this old ladies bedroom, covered in her loving husband’s blood.
Peter laughing.
“Did he get my medicine?” she asked.
I nodded.
I should just leave her. Leave the house and go.
I can’t.
She’s trapped.
Like I was.
No one will find her.
She’ll die.
I need to do it.
I smile at her and move over to her side, she’s so delirious she doesn’t even notice the blood that sticks to my skin. The blood that’s soaked my clothes. Her husband’s blood.
“It’s been too long, Jema, you never visit us anymore.”
“I’m sorry, I’ve been busy.” I replied. The words escaping my mouth without any thinking required.
I can’t leave her here.
I can’t stay.
“How have you been?”
I look down to the bedside cabinet, my eyes drawn there by a framed photo - it’s old. A good number of years, at least. A picture of the old lady, Fred and two children.... I’m guessing one is this girl Jema and the other is.... I guess it’s Daniel. The old man was telling the truth?
No.
He can’t have been.
Peter wouldn’t lie to me.
Peter tried to imprison me. Keep me there to be his perfect woman....
Of course he’d lie to me.
Laughing. I can hear him laughing.
“Two bodies,” he hisses. “See you in Hell.”
Fuck you.
“Lift your head,” I whisper. “Your pillow is flat....”
The old lady lifts her head - a great deal of effort on her part by the looks of it. This will be doing her a favour. I can’t leave her here.
I take the pillow from underneath her and close my eyes as I lower it over face - smothering her. I rest all of my weight against it. There’s hardly any struggle. She’s either too old and frail or she’s grateful.
I can’t tell which.
I feel my eyes well up.
What have I become.
“You’re the true monster.”
Fuck you.
It doesn’t take long for her arms to go limp. I wait a few seconds longer than entirely necessary, looking at the picture of the happy family. At least she is with him again.
At least they’re together.
I shake my head.
It doesn’t mean he wasn’t part of what Peter was doing. I know, if I go into the other room there’ll be a computer - with the images.
I know it.
I push myself off the bed, back onto my feet and edge out of the room to check the other rooms out before I leave.
I need to know.
The first room is the bathroom. Toothpaste, toothbrushes, various bottles of pills. Nothing out of the ordinary. Doesn’t matter, doesn’t mean he was perfect.
The second room is a study but there’s no computer. Just shelves and shelves of dusty books. The room that time forgot.
What have I done?
One more room.
I hobble across the landing to the furthest room from the top of the stairs. The door’s closed but I already know what’s going to be on the other side. In fact, do I really need to look? Just leave knowing what I’ve done is a good thing - helped an innocent old lady end her pain and killed another evil man.
I can’t leave.
Yet.
I need to know.
I push the door open.
A large train set.
Again, covered in dust. In one corner of the room is a rocking chair with various balls of wool next to it. Knitting needles resting on the chair, halfway through a pattern which was destined never to be finished.
Innocent.
Both of them.
“Murderer.”
You made me do it. You MADE me.
“You wanted to. You enjoyed it.”
No, I didn’t.
I can’t undo it. Forget about it. Just get it out of my head.
I close the door on the room and carry myself across the landing and down the stairs again, towards the front door.
Twist the key.
‘CLICK’
A twist of the handle and the door opens allowing the cold night air to invade the property.
Freedom.
12.
Nothing feels real anymore as I sit in the driver’s seat of what was the old man’s car. A quick glance into the rear-view mirror to see the state of myself, reveals Peter in the backseat - smiling at me.
Fuck you.
Unsure of where to drive, I turn the car’s engine off.
“Well?” asked Peter.
“Well what?”
“What next?”
Silence.
I’m not sure. What happened with Peter, I believe I could have been let off for - after all, I had been raped, drugged, imprisoned... I was lucky to get out of there with my life.
“I wouldn’t have killed you. I loved you.”
Ignore him.
There’s no getting away with what I’ve done now, though.
“True.”
Ignore him.
“A lifetime in prison and then an eternity in Hell. Isn’t that the same outcome as if you had stayed with me?” he laughed.
Fuc.....
No.
Ignore him.
“With that in mind - would it have been so bad as to spend your life with me? At least you wouldn’t have gone to Hell, afterwards - if you really believe in Hell.”
I have to believe in Hell. The thought of Peter being in Eternal Bliss, after what he put me through doesn’t bear thinking about.
But - that means I’m heading for the same place.
Maybe I should have stayed put with him - lived with what he offered. He said he loved me. In his own broken mind, he probably did love me. He only hurt me because I tried to escape. What if I hadn’t tried? Would he have ever hurt me?
“Of course I wouldn’t have. I love you.”
“Stop saying that.”
“Why? Because you know I’m right? I LOVE you, Vanessa.”
“People like you... people like you don’t know what love is.”
“Oh but we do. More so than people like you would ever know.”
He isn’t real.
Stop talking to him.