They gave up pleading for release after a while and Joe even gave up crying. Rob couldn’t help himself, every time he heard her on the stairs he would begin to weep, praying she’d have a chance of heart and let the two of them go. It had been exactly nine days since they played trick or treat when she came down into the cellar without the stick in her hand. Instead she carried the tall jug from her kitchen, full to the brim with cloudy lemonade.
“I’m not drinking that,” Joe said when she held a glass towards his face.
“Oh yes you are,” she replied, punching him hard in the face. Still he fought until she had no choice but to sit behind his head, her knees clamped either side of his ears, holding him in place. He tried to keep his mouth shut but she pressed two fingers to his nostrils, holding them shut until he finally had to open his mouth and take a gasping breath. She poured the lemonade straight down his throat, leaving him choking and spluttering as she turned to Rob.
He took it meekly, seeing little point in trying to fight. “I’ve loved having you both as guests,” Mrs Jenkins said as she waited for the sedative to take effect. “And I think I could have taught you both how to be upstanding young gentlemen with a little more time. It’s unfortunate that the police have come back twice now and I’m afraid I can’t take the risk of them wanting to come inside and search someday soon. So I’m afraid our lessons must come to an end.” As she spoke Rob’s eyes began to sag and by the time she’d finished speaking the two brothers were sound asleep.
Rob woke up to the sensation of a lacerating pain in his arm. He looked around, trying to work out where he was as the sound of squealing filled the air. He could tell he was outside, the moon coming out from behind a cloud and shining down on a scene from hell. Beside him lay the remains of his brother, the pigs surrounding him busily tearing chunks from his flesh. Rob staggered upright, blood pouring from his arm where teeth had gouged into his flesh. He realised the pigs had torn through the ropes holding his wrists in place and he kicked them away from him as he reached down to untie the bonds around his ankles, a wave of dizziness washing over him.
He ran as best he could, never able to forgive himself for leaving the remains of his brother behind but terrified that Mrs Jenkins might appear to check on them at any moment. His legs fought against him, the enforced incarceration having wasted the muscles away so badly it took three attempts to make it over the garden lane to the lane beyond.
By the time he got home Mrs Jenkins was already gone and when the police turned up at the farm an hour later they found only an empty farmhouse and a sty filled with corpulent pigs sleeping off their last meal.
The present
“Look, who are you?”
“I thought you’d recognise me Mrs Jenkins. It’s Rob remember? I’ve spent twenty years tracking you down and you’re a hard woman to find. How are your pigs?”
“Listen dear, I think you’ve got the wrong person. My name’s Margaret Evans, I don’t know any Mrs Jenkins or a Rob whoever you are and I’ve never owned a pig in my life.”
He paused for a moment. Was it possible he’d got the wrong person? After all, he hadn’t done the searching, a collection of increasingly expensive private detectives had done the work for him. “Can you prove it?” he asked at last, staring intently at her, looking for any flicker of falsehood in her eyes.
“My driving licence, it’s in my handbag.”
He spent ten minutes looking through her things, leaving her sat on a chair in the kitchen and glancing at her every few seconds to ensure she didn’t try and make a run for it. Driving licence, utility bills, letters from loved ones, all of them were addressed to a Margaret Evans, all of them dating back years.
“I told you dear, I think you might have got the wrong house.”
He stood in silence. Should he go through with this if it was in any way possible it wasn’t her? He wasn’t a killer, he’d never seen himself as a killer, he just wanted revenge for what had happened to Joe. Had that blinded him to the chance that he’d made a mistake?
“Are you all right dear?” she asked, her face full of concern. That tipped him over the edge. Here she was, a prisoner in her own house, tied to a chair and at the mercy of a complete stranger and it wasn’t anger or hate in her face, it was compassion. He suddenly felt very young and very lost. Mrs Jenkins hadn’t shown an ounce of compassion towards either of them. This wasn’t her.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, bursting into tears as he dropped the letters in his hand onto the kitchen counter. “I was…I think I’ve made a mistake.”
“That’s all right love. Now would you mind undoing this only my bladder isn’t as strong as it used to be.”
“Yes, of course, God, forgive me.”
He untied the rope holding her in place and watched her shuffle through the door at the end of the kitchen. A minute later there was a flushing sound and then she came back out.
“Listen,” he said, perched on the edge of a chair, a tear rolling down his cheek. “I’m so sorry I did this to you.”
“Oh don’t mention it,” she replied, pressing her hand to his shoulder. “You look like you’re punishing yourself enough. Why don’t we have a cup of tea and you can tell me who this Mrs Jenkins is, how’s that sound?”
He nodded, a tiny smile forming on his lips as she turned and flicked on the kettle. Two minutes later the two of them were sat on the sofa in the lounge, a tray of porcelain and biscuits laid out on the coffee table in front of them. As he sipped his tea he told her, in the politest possible way, the story of his childhood, his hunt for his brother’s killer, his guilt and shame at leaving his body behind, the empty coffin at the funeral whilst he sat at the back and wept incessantly.
“I’m so sorry you went through that,” she said when he finished, putting her hand on top of his and squeezing it lightly. “Let me get you a tissue.”
She stood up and left him alone. He turned and looked around the room, his stomach churning as he thought about what he’d been about to do to an innocent woman. He felt a light thud on his leg and looked down to see he’d dropped his teacup. Frowning he went to pick it up but it again slipped through his fingers. Trying once more, he got hold of it and set it down on the tray, brushing the spilled drops from his trousers as he spotted something on the far wall, a line of rosettes in varying colours. Standing up he walked over and scanned along them. The last one caught his attention and a wave of dizziness washed over him as he read the embroidered words, “Best Pig – Mrs Jenkins 1995.”
He woke up with a pounding headache and looked around almost feeling as if he’d gone back in time. His wrists were tied together as were his ankles. His head wouldn’t move either, more lengths of rope binding him tightly in place. All he could see was bare walls and nothing else. “I wondered, are you hungry at all?” Mrs Jenkins asked, coming to stand over him with a paper bag in one hand and a pair of pliers in the other. “I had to hunt these up out of the compost bin but I thought you might like them for old time’s sake.” She brought out a handful of putrid apples and let them fall onto Rob’s face. “Although I know you might find them hard to eat with no tongue.”
She reached down with the pliers, clamping her fingers over Rob’s nostrils until his mouth opened, grabbing the end of his tongue with the pliers and stretching it upwards. “Do you know,” she said, pulling a pair of wickedly sharp scissors from her pocket. “I could have forgiven you for scrumping, I could have forgiven you for ruining my flowerbeds week after week, even for smashing my greenhouse windows, “she moved the scissors towards Rob’s tongue, pressing the two ends together as he began to scream, “but I could never forgive you for beheading my cat and feeding the poor thing to the pigs.” She snapped the scissors shut, severing his tongue and sending a gouging arc of blood spurting into the air. “I saw you do it you know?” She tossed the still twitching lump of muscle behind her and knelt down beside him. “I watched you slice through Mr Tiddle’s neck like it was butter.” She pressed the edge of th
e scissors to his jugular, “I wonder if it’ll be as easy to cut through yours.”
When the doorbell rang an hour later, Mrs Jenkins was washing the blood from her hands. She walked along the hall, pliers back in her pocket and a smile on her face. She pulled open the door to find two figures in skeleton masks standing with pumpkin baskets outstretched before them.
“Trick or treat,” they said in unison.
“Why if it isn’t little Billy and Ted,” she replied, stepping aside to welcome them in. whilst the memory of them kicking her cat in the street the day before flashed through her mind. “Come on through and let’s see if we can’t find you two some treats.”
About the Author
Valentine King is the author of two horror collections, Night Terrors and After Dark. In addition he has written a guide to the best fiction books for 8-12 year olds. Growing up on a diet of late night radio plays, dark horror novels and strange local legends, Valentine discovered the writing of Stephen King as a teenager, leading him onwards to James Herbert and Edgar Allen Poe alongside an unhealthy diet of Hammer horrors and 80s slasher flicks which all helped shape his horror writing. Valentine lives in rural Yorkshire with a dog and cat.
Find his books: Amazon author page
Also by the Same Author
Night Terrors – 16 Horror Stories
After Dark – 21 Horror Stories
The Top 25 Books for 8 – 12 Year Olds
Night Terrors: 16 Horror Stories Page 22
