by Park, J. R.
They both watched, entranced, as the bat plummeted to the ground.
Kaspar regained consciousness in time to watch Punch’s bat hurtle towards him. It spun in the air as the blood soaked nails glinted in the moonlight, the sharp ends on course for his head. The boy closed his eyes tight as fear glued him to the floor.
Thud!
He opened his eyes to see the bat beside him, stood upright, the nails embedded into the decking of the pier only centimetres from his head. He turned to face away from his would be death and saw his mother running towards him. Grete looked at once concerned and relieved. She picked the boy up and cradled him in her arms.
Punch turned back to Pippa and continued his climb. He launched a hand at her foot again, grazing her ankle but just failing to get a fixed hold.
Shots fired out and the metal supports sparked between the hunter and hunted as bullets ricocheted off the wheel. Startled, Punch turned back to see four armed police kneeling on the ground with their rifles aimed at him. Beside them stood Sergeant Jack, his coat blowing in the wind.
‘Careful,’ the sergeant shouted, ‘you’ll hit the girl. No firing until she is completely out the picture.’
The armed officers looked through their sights and watched as Pippa climbed out along the wheel and onto the roof of one of the ride’s carriages.
Pippa stood on the roof of the carriage right near the top of the ride. It wobbled slightly in the wind and rain but she was able to keep her balance despite the weather conditions that made the daring escape even more hazardous.
She watched Punch crawl across the structure and slowly plant his feet on the roof, searching for assurance of grip. It was too high to jump and there was no path back onto the wheel, her only option was the carriage she stood on. Braving the risk of falling, Pippa crouched by the edge, swinging her legs out and lowering herself down. Carefully she began to guide herself into the safety of the carriage. As her feet landed on the solid metal flooring she felt a sense of relief, but that was only fleeting as Punch’s hand reached round from the roof and caught her arm. She screamed in fright and tried to claw it off her, but his grip was vice like and resisted all attempts of escape. With surprising strength he began to pull her towards him.
‘We can’t make the shot,’ one of the gunman complained. ‘The wind is too strong and they’re too close together. If we fire we might hit her.’
They watched from below, helpless, as Punch leant over the edge of the carriage and took hold of Pippa. He seemed to be trying to pull her out of the carriage window.
Sergeant Jack looked on in anger. There had been too many dead at the hands of this crazed psychopath, there had to be something they could do to save that poor girl.
‘We’ve got to separate them somehow,’ the gunman continued, shouting through the wind. ‘We’ve got to get her clear.’
The hapless audience could only watch as Punch pulled Pippa half out of the carriage. Her screams battled through the wind and met their ears in short bursts of stifled terror as Punch got back to his feet in order to pull the girl clear of the car and back onto the roof.
Knowing the girl would be dead in a matter of minutes if they didn’t do something Sergeant Jack ran to the bottom of the big wheel. He looked around at the controls and pulled a large lever. The engines started up and the attraction burst into life. Bright lights that ran up and down the ride flashed all colours of nauseating neon whilst queasy fairground music blurted its distorted pitch through funneled speakers and the wheel began its rotation.
The sudden flashes of light and noise startled Punch. He released Pippa and stumbled forwards. The momentum of the ride caused him to lose balance and he fell off the side. Pippa slid back into the carriage and onto the safety of the metal flooring, she turned to see Punch hanging on to the side by his fingertips. The carriage slowly continued its revolution and hung out over the pier, dangling Punch above the roaring, black sea.
His gloves began to slip on the wet, metal railing.
‘Don’t you think you’ve won,’ he spat his curse at her. ‘You gave me ten years of suffering and pain. I’ll give you the same and more. You will never sleep safely again.’
As he delivered his empty promise his grip began to weaken. Little by little he lost his hold until his fingers slipped from his gloves.
Cursing as he fell he never took his eyes off Pippa until he landed into the cold, wet blackness; the water slowly enveloped him as if removing his entire existence. Piece by piece he disappeared into the nighttime ocean until the last visible remnant was a fixed, unflinching grin. It appeared to float on the surface for a while before being rubbed out by the crashing coastal tides.
Wet, bruised and bloody, Martin Powell sat cuffed in the back of a police car. His mask had been confiscated for evidence so what remained was a sorrowful sight to behold. His grey, ashen face poking out of the bright, colourful costume made him look more like a dismal clown than a cold hearted killer. He looked towards the ground with sad eyes and rocked slightly in his seat.
Sergeant Jack and PC Andrews drove him back to the station whilst the rain lashed down against the windscreen. As Martin spoke with a faint smile across his face the two could sense a defeated, almost peaceful weariness about him.
‘Such a nice place,’ he muttered, ‘it was lovely to come back. So many things had stayed the same, but so many things have changed. Pippa had grown hadn’t she?’
Jack leant backwards, tilting his ear towards the wretched man to make out what he was saying.
Martin continued, ‘She was on my mind a lot when I was inside. Didn’t expect her to look so grown up when I came out. Silly really. She was on my mind a lot.’
PC Comer straightened the towel draped over Pippa’s shoulders as they walked down the pathway to the young girl’s family home. As they stepped through the front door Pippa saw the house in ruin. Everything had been turned upside down and smashed to pieces as if a tornado had blitzed a destructive course through the house. A few police officers had arrived just before them and were taking photographs of the recently discovered carnage in Quick Lane.
‘I was at her house earlier today you know,’ Martin continued to babble, ‘now that hadn’t changed much. She wasn’t there when I called, but somebody was.’
His mind drifted back to earlier in the evening. He had burst into her house hunting for Pippa but found someone else instead. Punch had beaten the girl but she had escaped when the answer machine distracted him. He had toyed with some nails that had scattered across the floor whilst he listened to Pippa’s message that came through on loud speaker:
Hi it’s Pippa. Hope you’re okay, the carnival is going great. The burlesque idea was brilliant. The judges seem to be really going for it and we are set to win. The procession is about to head off round the streets so I have to go. It’s raining here but I’ll be okay. So how’s the baby doing? I hope Danny isn’t too grizzly. He’s been teething recently. Call me if you have any problems. Bye.
Shocked at the sight of devastation, Pippa began to shake her head in disbelief. PC Comer tried to hold her close, but the comforting officer was pushed aside as the nineteen year old rushed upstairs. All sense of pain disappeared from her wounds as her mind raced with thoughts of the worst possibilities. There were more officers upstairs, and as they turned to see Pippa running past them their faces contorted with horror.
The faint smile on Martin’s face began to grow.
‘She’ll never forget old Mr Punch,’ he said half laughing.
The officers tried to stop her but the more they tried the more her determination grew. Eventually she fought them off and ran into a small room beside the bathroom. The wallpaper was bright yellow with large murals of cartoon animals decorated around the middle.
‘Smack the baby.’
Bloodstains were sprayed across the child-like menagerie in contrast to the innocent smiles of the painted characters. In the centre of the room, suspended from the ceiling, fragments of a mobile s
pun in small circles.
‘Smack the baby.’
Broken shards of a wooden cot lay in a crumpled pile underneath the mobile remains, entwined with strewn bedding and blankets stained red.
‘Smack the baby.’
Pippa collapsed, overcome with grief.
Amongst the wreckage of splintered wood and blood soaked linen she caught sight of that she feared most. A sight no mother should see. Twisted and tangled in the timber and bedding lay the crushed and mangled corpse of her lifeless son.
‘Smack the baby.’
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
J. R. Park lives on the edge of Bristol, England in a shared house of seven. He is not married, has no children and no pets. In fact he often wonders what he has spent his adult life doing!
He started writing in 2013 after a long hiatus. Initially he wrote poetry, but soon gravitated a year later to his genre of choice after discovering the lurid delights found in the works of author Guy N Smith.
He has hyper extendable joints and a wish to visit Iceland one day.
Street tough Detective Norton is a broken man.
Still grieving the murder of his girlfriend he is called to investigate the daylight slaughter of an entire office amid rumours of a mysterious and lethal computer program.
As the conspiracy unfolds the technological killer has a new target.
Fighting for survival Norton must also battle his inner demons, the wrath of MI5 and a beautiful but deadly mercenary only known as Orchid.
Unseen, undetectable and unstoppable.
In the age of technology the most deadly weapon is a few lines of code.
“Truly a horror tale for the modern digital age.”
Duncan P Bradshaw, author of Class Three.
“Fast paced, action-packed, intricately plotted and filled with technological paranoia.”
Duncan Ralston, author of Gristle & Bone
“He manages to combine gore, sex, humour and suspense with a gripping story line.”
Love Horror Books
“J. R. Park’s new novella Terror Byte could be the story to bring horror back to technology based adventures.” UK Horror Scene
“Jesus. What the fuck is this?”
Vincent Hunt, creator of The Red Mask From Mars
What woke you from your sleep?
Was it the light coming through the curtains? The traffic from the street outside?
Or was it the scratching through the walls? The cries of tormented anguish from behind locked doors? The desperate clawing at the woodwork from a soul hell bent on escape?
Welcome to a place where the lucky ones die quickly.
Upon waking, the nightmare truly begins.
“It’s basically like John Doe’s murderous fantasies in Se7en with Clive Barker dancing naked on top of it.”
Daniel Marc Chant, author of Maldicion & Burning House
“Sick. Demands a re-read.”
Duncan P. Bradshaw, author of Class Three
“Such vivid images. J. R. Park is a sick man.” – Mistress Fi, fetish model
For up to date information on the work of J. R. Park visit:
JRPark.co.uk
Facebook.com/JRParkAuthor
Twitter @Mr_JRPark
For further information on the Sinister Horror Company visit:
SinisterHorrorCompany.com
Facebook.com/sinisterhorrorcompany
Twitter @SinisterHC
