Fan Fears: A collection of fear based stories (21 page)

Thirty-three.

The number of times I stab him, hacking and slashing. Even the feeling of bone grinding against blade can’t stop me. It’s only when the filthy knife snaps that the frenzy ends.

Two.

Fifty.

One.

Thirty-Three.

Added together make eighty-six.

Eighty-six percent of all murders in England and Wales are committed by men.

I am a man.

I am a murderer.

I also have a gift. It’s been fifteen years since I last left this place because I killed my father when he raped my sister.

She was seven.

Thirty.

Thirty minutes it takes. My hands dance over the man’s body, closing wounds, repairing skin. Tears hot on my cheeks. I don’t want this. Don’t want any of it. I don’t know how it works, it just happens. It doesn’t put back what is gone. That’s not how my gift operates. The mess is still there. The blood all over my walls. All over the stacks of notebooks and yellowed newspapers which I have delivered weekly. The broken knife still has clumps of flesh attached to the edge of the blade. But my gift grows it back. Puts new blood back into his body. Repairs broken bones, seals flayed skin. No blood. No wounds. Good as new.

Two.

Two hands. Four fingers and one thumb on each. Ten appendages in total. They move with a life of their own. I have no control over them as they put back what I have broken. They find an undiagnosed brain tumour. The hands dance over the base of the skull.

The tumour is gone.

One.

One breath, a sharp intake of air, and Marcus is alive. He blinks from his place on the floor, chair on its side. I smile at him, knowing that surely now he must understand my gift. How I’m misunderstood. But all he sees is the blood all around him, blood which was in him but has not been replaced. He doesn’t understand. They never do. He sees the broken knife, discarded in the dusty fireplace, wet bobbles of claret dust clinging to it. Then he sees me. The scars. The blood. I see as he puts it all together. That look appears in his eyes again. The horror, the revulsion, and, in turn, it triggers the rage. I’m just trying to help. I’m just trying to use my gift for good. Why don’t they ever understand? Why are they so quick to judge? The fire in my belly reignites, and before I can stop myself I’m on him again. Undoing the work I had just done. Killing that which I had given life back to for the second time.

Four.

Four times the process repeats itself. Life, death, life, death.

On the fifth I decide I’m going to keep him. Nobody knows he’s here. Nobody would think to look. I know he’s aware. Aware of everything that happens to him. Unlike me, he can feel, and for that I’m envious. He gives me that look, that wide glare, that fearful haunted expression of absolute hopelessness.

Seven.

Seven words he says. Seven words to which I don’t have an answer.

When will you just let me die?

It’s a good question. And one that sets me to thinking about the response.

Fifteen, I tell him just before the rage takes over and I kill him again.

Fifteen years since I last left this place. Fifteen is a good number. Fifteen is a very, very important number.

Fifteen plus fifteen is thirty. Thirty is how old my sister would have been this year.

Fifteen.

Fifteen years since I last left this place. A hundred and thirty-one hours, four hundred and eighty-seven minutes since I last saw the outside world. That’s a long time. A long time to think. A long time to wonder. A long time for the human brain to create and invent scenarios. This flat is my sanctuary and my prison. My curse and my gift. But at least now I’m not alone. At last, now I have someone to share those years with.

Maybe the next fifteen won’t be so lonely after all.

BONUS STORY THREE

THE LIGHT THAT BROUGHT THE DARK

We set off when it was still dark in those magic hours, when most of the world is still asleep. It’s a cold day, and rain is in the air but it doesn’t matter. Nothing is going to spoil this trip. The kids are last to wake up. April and I have to almost usher them out of bed. David is seven, Edward is nine. Both of them are excited, and once they are fully awake tear around the house chattering and bickering as they prepare their things. Edward complained about the phone rule again, but not for long. He knows when a decision is made its final, and no amount of arguing will change it. We want this to be a family occasion free of things such as Facebook and Twitter or football scores of his beloved Leeds United. Begrudgingly, he leaves the overpriced smartphone on the kitchen table with the others.

April and I have already been awake for ages. Her making drinks and sandwiches for the trip, me giving our Ford Explorer one last look over, checking the oil and water, making sure the tire pressures are right. We somehow bundle the boys and supplies into the car without waking the neighbours and are on the road just as the first birds are singing in the new day. The morning air is bitter, and a light drizzle is falling, but it should clear up later. Lots of driving ahead of us anyway. We’re heading away from the city, getting some clean, country air. It will do us good, all of us.  We leave our house behind, and I notice we all look at it as we drive away. It sits like a dark shadow to our right, an empty shell without the lives that inhabit it. The road curves away and then it’s behind us as we pull out onto the open road.

Traffic is sparse as it’s so early, and it’s easy to make headway. We flash by junction signs and exits leading to cities we have never been to. Nobody speaks for a while, but that’s understandable due to the early start we’ve all had. At least the drizzle has stopped. The sky is already a pale yellow gold where the sun is starting to rise, and although there are a few scrubs of cloud, it should clear up nicely.  A glance in the rear-view mirror to check on the boys and they seem content enough. They are staring out of the window, watching the secret world of the early morning slide on by as we head south.  They are quiet, but it’s understandable. Today is a big day for all of us. April is in the passenger seat, a frayed tissue clutched in her hands. She’s still crying, but silently now so as not to alarm the boys. She looks so frail, so fragile.  There is so much I want to say to her, then realise none of it will help. Even if it could, I don’t think I could force out the words, so I concentrate on the mechanical act of driving and try my best to ignore her plight. We’ve reached the motorway now, and like everywhere else, the endless line of concrete stretching ahead of us is almost empty. Lands’ End is still around an eight-hour drive away, but we ought to make good time with the roads so quiet, more so if I push over the speed limit a touch.

I’m partly looking forward to showing the boys Land’s End. I went there with my father when I was a similar age, and I still remember the spectacular views. Hopefully, it won’t be lost on them. This digital age means children are desensitised to the beauty of nature. At least with the phones left at home, they might appreciate what I’m trying to show them. It should be quite the view based on how the day is brightening up. I’ve always liked this time of year. October, with its barren trees reaching from a carpet of orange-brown leaves on the floor, always has a magical feel to me. I like the chill in the air, how you can taste the bitter cold with every breath, a firm warning that summer is done and winter is on its way.

We stopped at around eleven thirty at the services in Bristol just off the M5. Everything is closed of course. Shutters down, lights off, just like everywhere is now, but we counted for that. We pulled into the car park next to an eighteen-wheeler which looked to have been there for a few days. A few of those golden leaves from the surrounding trees had lodged in its huge chrome grill and left a carpet around its massive tires.

We got out and stretched our legs. The boys asked if they could go look at the truck, to which I agreed. Their excited yelps were the backdrop as April and I unpacked the picnic. Sandwiches, pork pies and miniature sausages, with Mr. Kipling cakes and biscuits for after.  We also had bottles of pop for the boys and a flask of coffee for April and I.

Even though it was chilly, we sat at one of the wooden tables outside Burger King, its steel shutters rattling in the breeze. April and I sat opposite each other, one of the boys beside each of us. Although she had stopped crying, her eyes were still raw and she ate without looking at me, taking uninterested mouthfuls of the ham salad sandwiches she had made. I watched for a while hoping to make eye contact, maybe just to let her know I was thinking about her, but she didn’t look at me. I took the hint and looked around the car park, still unable to get used to how silent it was. There was no sound of traffic, no drone of engines. If not for the song of the birds, their nests visible now in the skeletal trees, and the skittering of leaves on the ground, it would be easy to think we were in some kind of enormous vacuum.

Edward asked how long until we get there. I told him three hours, maybe less. It doesn’t escape me that April tenses up as I say this. She sets her sandwich down and looks away towards the deserted slip road. I can’t see her eyes, but I’m pretty sure she’s crying again. I look at my paper plate and the remains of my sandwich. There is nothing else to say.

Within thirty minutes, we are back on the road again. The traffic, or lack of, is still being kind to us, and our progress is smooth. As we set out, I wonder if we should have filled up on petrol, then realise it’s too late now to go back. The gauge reads just under half a tank, which should just about get us there.  There is a definite sense of purpose now as we get closer. This road trip has morphed into almost a pilgrimage. Our bellies are full and the heater is keeping us warm against the bluster. The cold cityscapes are starting to give way now to nature. Greens replace whites and greys, and the mood in the car changes. The boys are pointing out of the window at sheep and cows as we get nearer to our destination.

I’m tired from driving, but we’re close now and I’m glad we decided to do it.

I was worried that it would be crowded when we arrived, but there was nobody else in sight. The boys scrambled out of the car and looked around them, taking in the beauty of our surroundings. The furthest edge of England. A point of land atop crumbling cliffs, giving a glorious and panoramic view of the ocean. The boys asked if they could go take a closer look, and I told them they could, but not to stray too close to the edge. April made a sound at that. A whimper or a laugh, it was hard to tell which emotion from the single note.  I held out a hand to her, and at last, she looked at me. I saw fear and love, emotions that I didn’t realise until that instant were more closely linked than I imagined.  We walked hand in hand towards the edge, the boys a little way ahead of us. The boys did as they were told and stopped well short of the drop. April and I stood behind them, and as a family, we basked in the beauty of the scene.

Waves lapped and crashed against the rocks at the bottom of the dizzying drop beneath us, and seagulls chirped and squawked overhead. We stood there for a moment, just taking it in.

“It really is beautiful, in a way.”

I glanced at April. It felt like such a long time since I had heard her speak. I didn’t feel any need to answer. The view spoke for itself. Beyond the green scrub of land, the ocean stretched to the horizon where it met the sky, itself a lighter shade of the same colour. The twin white smudges in the sky looked like the unfinished work of a master painter, the bare canvas beneath his greatest and most beautiful work. One larger than the other, a pair of blemishes on a perfect scene. Closer inspection showed a mottled streak trailed them both as they neared the atmosphere, the twin harbingers of the destruction of all mankind.

Edward said it didn’t looks as big as I had said it would be. He seemed almost disappointed, although that could have just been his childlike reaction to such a monumental situation. I reminded him that the larger of the two asteroids was as big as the state of Texas, the smaller the same size as Mount Everest. I told him that although it didn’t seem like it, both of them were hurtling towards the earth at almost fifty thousand miles an hour, and in just a few hours would impact and destroy all life on Earth.  I reminded him that there was nothing that could be done to avoid or stop it, and nowhere to hide from it when it came. He nodded and said nothing.  We all knew why we were there, what we had to do. I squeezed April’s hand, and she looked at me, lips pursed together, eyes streaked with makeup. I reminded her that this was better. This way we would decide our own fate. We pushed between the boys, each of us taking one of their hands. In a line we stood, watching the instrument of our destruction as it made its unstoppable and relentless journey. We were in tears now, all of us. I asked them if they were ready, that they could take as long as they needed. Nobody objected, nobody backed out. As a family we walked to the edge of the crumbling cliff top, staring straight ahead like we had practiced. We didn’t say we loved each other. We didn’t have to. We looked at the light in the sky that would bring the dark, then as one closed our eyes and stepped over the edge. 

BONUS STORY FOUR

THE VISIT

Arnie Jones never liked his grandmother’s house. He stood at the threshold, glorious June sun at his back, his shadow already thrown inside the gloomy property.  It smelled of age and dust, which suited the ugly three storey townhouse to perfection. He heard his mother following him from the car, heels of her shoes clicking on the paving slabs. He imagined the overgrown weeds from the garden reaching for her and tickling her ankles as she approached the cavernous space.

“Go on inside, don’t just stand there,” she said as she joined him, her arrival heralded by the overpowering stench of perfume which still wasn’t quite enough to banish the musty house smell. He didn’t move. He stood there as her shadow merged with his in the grid of sunlight on the threadbare hall carpet. “What are you waiting for?”

He looked up at her and wanted to tell her how much he hated coming, how even though he was almost eleven and more than old enough to know better, he was still scared. As much as he wanted to, he knew he couldn’t. The expression on his mother’s face told him that she was already frustrated with him. She was clutching her bag to her skinny body, brow furrowed as she stared at him.

"Oh, suit yourself," she said as she pushed past him, the echo of her shoes taking on a different tone as she disappeared into the house. "And don't forget to shut that door behind you," she called over her shoulder as she made a right at the end of the hall and went into the kitchen.

Arnie stood for a moment, breath held. He imagined he could almost hear the house breathing. It dawned on him then that there was absolute silence. No children played in the street, no birds sang. He wondered if perhaps they too were wary of this big old place. Keen to avoid another telling off from his mother, he went inside and closed the door.

TWO

The silence felt even heavier with the door closed. Arnie stood there, watching dust drift in lazy waves in the diffused light coming from the upper landing window. For a house that was so large, the hall was narrow and filled with a lifetime's worth of clutter. There were black and white photographs of people he didn’t know and cared nothing to find out about. He glanced at the staircase which angled out of sight into the gloom. He definitely didn’t want to be up there. Not where
she
was. He hurried along to the kitchen, ignoring the thick taste in the air.

His mother was making tea. He stood by the door, watching her as she placed a cup on a tray and added a splash of milk. She glanced at him, and for a moment, she looked like a stranger. She had worn too much makeup to go with the excess of perfume. She was trying too hard to make a good impression which was having the opposite effect.

“Do you want to take it up for her?” she asked as she turned back towards the tray and spooned sugar into the cup.

"I don't want to," he mumbled. He leaned on the wall, then stood straight. He didn't like the horrible greasy sheen of the sick yellow wallpaper against his skin.

“She’s not a monster, she’s your grandmother.”

“I don’t like going up there."

She turned to face him, her expression a mix of frustration and understanding. “Look, I understand it’s not the nicest situation. The fact is, she’s bed ridden and needs our help.”

“I don’t like this house. It smells.”

“It’s a big old house Arnie. There are mice. Even with the traps and the poison, they still get in.”

“In where?” he said, making sure to lock eyes with her so she couldn’t lie.

“I don’t know, in the floor, in the walls. That’s not the point. The point is she’s family.”

“She scares me,” he muttered.

“She’s old,” his mother countered. “Believe me, as you grow up, you’ll start appreciating those around you more. She’s not a monster, she’s family. My mother, your grandmother.”

“Do I have to go up there?” he asked, hoping his mother would spare him.

“She’ll want to see you, Arnold.”

There it was. Usually, it was just Arnie. By giving him the full name treatment, he knew he was slipping into the bad books. He looked at his feet, then at the garish lino on the floor. He let his eyes trace patterns around the floral shapes of the design.

"Fine, I don't have time for this," she said as she picked up the tray of tea and walked towards him. “Wait down here if you want to. I’m really disappointed in you Arnold.”

The use of his full name didn’t go unnoticed, but he said nothing. Guilt gnawed at him as she passed, but not as much of the fear of that old woman who lived in her bed in the attic like some kind of ancient witch. He listened to his mother’s shoes echo their way upstairs, then he sat at the kitchen table, enjoying the feeling of relief. He thought that perhaps it might not be such a bad day after all.

THREE

“It will only be for half an hour.”

For once, Arnie was too stunned to say anything. He blinked and replayed what she had said, hoping he had made a mistake. “You want me to stay here by myself?”

“It’s only for a little while. Grandma is sick, I need to go get her some medicine, then make her some soup when I get back. I could use your help.”

“There are a ton of pills there," Arnie whined, pointing to the chemist's worth of bottles on top of the fridge.

“Not the ones she needs. She’s sick, Arnie.”

He grunted. How roles had reversed. Now that she needed something from him, it was Arnie again. "I don't know how to look after her. I'm just a kid."

“She can’t get out of bed, plus she’s sleeping now. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“What if she wakes up and you’re not here?” he asked.

“She won’t.”

“But what if she does?” He wasn’t usually so insistent, but in this instance refused to let it go.

“Just poke your head into her room and check if she's alright. I promise you, you won’t need to do that. I’ll be back before you know it.”

"This isn't fair," he muttered.

“Life isn’t fair. You’ll learn that as you grow up. Sit there at the table and wait for me to get back. She’s had her tea, and I’ve put her on the toilet and changed her bedding. She should be fine for a while.”

"Looks like I don't have a choice, do I?"

She leaned forward and kissed him on the head. A quick peck heralded by another whiff of eye-watering perfume. "Thanks, Arnie, I owe you one. I’ll be back as quick as I can.”

He didn’t answer her, hoping to let her know that he wasn’t at all happy about this latest development. He watched as she disappeared out of the kitchen and down the hall, displacing the lazy, swirling dust. He wanted to call out, maybe tell her to hurry back, but she was already gone, the door opened and gently closed again.

This is where it will come.

He knew it to be true. She would have been pretending to be asleep and call out to him; the shrill whine from her toothless mouth would sound awful. He knew that without question. He stood at the door, holding his breath, head tilted towards the ceiling as if it might help him hear something.

He strained, listening to the house, trying to make his senses stretch into the dark where he didn’t want to physically go.

Silence.

He exhaled, and went back to the kitchen. He sat at the table and waited for his mother, hoping she would be back soon.

Fifteen minutes had passed, and Arnie could put it off no longer. He needed to use the toilet. He looked outside into the back garden but dismissed that idea. The garden was overlooked, and anyone could see him. He would have to go upstairs.

The hallway seemed darker somehow, the shadows heavier. He stood at the entrance to the kitchen and gripped the grubby doorframe. As before, he held his breath and listened. No sound came from upstairs. He half expected to hear the steady rhythm of his grandmother’s breathing, but could hear only the heavy silence which in itself was deafening.

Stop it. You’re being stupid. Grow up.

He often told himself to grow up. He knew there was no reason at all for him to be afraid. It was nothing more than an ugly old house and an even uglier old woman. He was old enough to know better, and yet, he had seen horror films, ones he was by rights too young to watch, but thanks to Netflix and the internet were easy to find. He knew all about haunted houses and demonic old hags who transformed into awful things as dumb, horny teenagers stumbled around in the dark. He always laughed at them, at their stupidity, telling himself he would never get himself into those situations, and yet here he was. Replicating in real life the celluloid horrors he had watched without his mother’s knowledge. He walked to the foot of the steps and paused again, trying to keep as quiet as possible. Fourteen steps, a small landing area where the sunlight struggled to penetrate the grimy white net curtain, then a right angle turn and more steps. He couldn't see them to count, but knew it would be dark up there. Worse, he knew she was up there. In the dark, waiting for him.

No, she isn't. She’s just a sick old woman.

He hated that inner voice. Always so smug, always so reassured. Unlike the outer him who was frightened, his stomach a tight ball of irrational terror. He put a foot on the bottom step, the old wood creaking under his weight. In the silence of the house, it was incredibly loud, and he was sure she would hear it and wake up. He held his breath and listened. Straining every sense. Satisfied there was no noise coming from the other rooms, he made his way  upstairs, trying to keep his feet to the outer edge of the steps where the wood was less worn and so made less noise. He counted each step as he ascended, trying to ignore the cold terror which was filling him, radiating out from his gut. He reached the small landing area, and like a mountaineer assessed his next move. Another ten steps awaited him, but the hallway above was incredibly dark. All the doors were closed, meaning that after he had left the warmth of the light at his back from the small window, he was going to be in the gloom. He looked back the way he had come. The hallway and carpet seemed incredibly far away, a vertigo-inducing drop into oblivion. The temptation to go back was high, but he knew his bladder would never allow that to happen. Unlike him, it had no fear or feelings, just a need to be emptied no matter how old and creaking the house or as frightening its inhabitant. Against every screaming instinct inside him, he ascended to the upper hallway. Leaving the light behind. He stood there at the top of the steps, trying not to breathe too loudly or react to the overwhelming desire to run out of the house and wait in the sun on the pavement for his mother to return, even if it meant he would get into trouble. As before, he held his breath and assessed. The hall was gloomy and long. Brownish yellow wallpaper, faded with age was intercut with four doors down the length of the hall, each one stained dark and solid. At the end of the hall would be another window, but the heavy curtains were closed, blocking out any light which may have spilled though and made the whole place a lot less intimidating. To the right of the window was another staircase which led into the upper reaches of the house.  He knew that there was nothing up there.  The house was too big for one person as is, and because of that, much of the third floor was reserved for storage. He imagined mouldy boxes stacked floor to ceiling, filled with forgotten memories of a life long gone, a network of skyscrapers for spiders to make their webs and catch their prey, a self-contained ecosystem going on in the pitch black upper confines of the house. His mind played images of rats nesting and making warrens from the boxes of old clothes, perhaps outfits and gowns from the days when ladies dressed to impress. His bladder pinched and reminded him of the urgency of his situation. He knew which room was his grandmothers. It was the third on the right. The bathroom was on the other side of the hallway and a door further down. He would have to pass her room to get to the bathroom, then again on his way back. Even though he was alone, he had never felt so observed. He inched down the musty smelling hall, every step tentative should it make the floorboards creak. The dust was in his nose, in his throat as he came to his grandmother’s room on his right. He paused outside the door and listened. He expected to be able to hear her breathing, but even standing so close, there was silence.

Maybe she’s dead.

The idea was both awful and glorious. He could imagine her lying there, a withered skeletal thing in her bed, toothless maw agape, unseeing eyes glaring at the ceiling. He wondered if she too would become a nest for the skittering things in the attic. An awful image of a thick, hairy rat climbing into her mouth and down into her gut came to him. It was incredibly sharp and vivid. He saw it moving around in her stomach, making her cold dead skin ripple as it settled in her carcass. It would certainly solve all his problems. At least then he wouldn’t have to come here with his mother every other week and suffer the fear of a stubborn old woman as she continued to cling on to life. Satisfied that she wasn’t able to hear him, he moved on to the bathroom. When he was finished, he flushed, wincing at the noise as the toilet purged. Walking back down the hallway, he paused again outside his grandmother’s bedroom. Surely now she was awake, and would call out demanding help from someone, from him in her cracked, wet, throaty voice. He didn’t think he could handle that. Not when he was already so close to the edge. He half imagined he heard something. Maybe bare feet padding across carpet from an old woman in better health than people understood. He imagined her on the other side of the door, ear pressed to the wood, belly moving as the rats inside were disturbed by the unexpected movements. He imagined her whispering to him, beckoning him in so that she could give him a hug, to touch him with her cold, leathery hands, her breath ripe with rat droppings.