Forgive Me
Kateri Stanley
Copyright © 2021 by Kateri Stanley
Artwork: Adobe Stock: © kozerog2015
Design: Services for Authors
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat/darkstroke except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.
First Dark Edition, darkstroke. 2021
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For my beautiful sisters, Lindsay and Bethany
Acknowledgements
A writer wouldn’t be able to do what they do without their support team.
I want to thank my family, Mom, Dad, my sisters, my partner and my friends for all of their guidance, advice, love and patience. Thank you for listening to my endless speeches about my characters, their plots and confusing you on a daily basis about which project I’m working on. You have encouraged me in every single way to keep going and chase this creative dream. I’m very lucky to have you in my life.
Thank you to all the readers on Wattpad who provided me with valuable feedback and kind words when I used to post early drafts of this story. All of you were an incredible encouragement when my confidence was in the creativity dumps.
The biggest thank you are for my publishers, Laurence and Steph Patterson. Thank you taking a chance on me and giving this story an official greenlight. I’m very proud to be in the darkstroke team!
About the Author
Kateri Stanley graduated from The Open University with a degree in Arts and Humanities and worked for the National Health Service for eight years. When she’s not writing stories, you can find her binge watching films and TV shows, making tons of playlists and dabbling in video games. She currently resides in the West Midlands, United Kingdom with her partner, they are hoping to be cat parents in the new year.
You can find Kateri on Twitter (www.twitter.com/sal_writes), Instagram (www.instagram.com/sal_writes) and her website: www.kateristanley.com
Forgive Me
Part One
The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words
left unsaid and deeds left undone.
-Harriet Beecher Stowe
Chapter One
Summer 2017
I see the click and switch when you turn off the television. I hear your heartbeat when you climb up the stairs. I can feel your soft bare feet on the carpet as you walk into your bedroom.
The night is peculiarly tranquil when I come to visit you. I try to keep my tread light as I step across the arms of the branches. The closer you are to me, the more I want to see you. I should know better. I shouldn’t be here, but I guess I’m just like any hot-blooded man. I’m weak. I’m drawn to you. I can’t stay away.
I hold on to the branches, easing my way across so I can see you. I smell the perfume you wore today, the wine you drank lingers on your lips. My heart pounds in my chest. One single snag and I’m done for. You’d know I was here, creeping around, spying on you.
I wouldn’t visit during the day because you of all people should know that I was made to be hidden, to pounce when the moment is right. I’m not here tonight to track and trace. Remember, I wouldn’t ever... ever harm you.
You waft out from the darkness, staring from your bedroom window. You tap your finger against your chest, you’re worried about something and I know why.
The authorities are hunting for me.
I know you've been tracking my every move. You’ve been searching and reading and ringing people. You’ve kept a keen eye on the news. The stories are rife. I know what they call me. But they don’t know the true tale or what my makers did.
I know about the urban legend. Some say I’m as tall as a tree, others say I wear a gas mask when I mutilate my victims. Some of the details make me laugh and frankly, some of them make me sad.
If I were to rewind the clock and undo the past, then I wouldn't have met you. You wouldn't know what you know and we wouldn’t have...
I tremble as I think about it.
That kiss…
Your words, your skin...
Do you remember it? Do you ever think about it?
Hang on, forget what I said. Look, I took something precious from you many years ago. I stole it, ripped it from your heart. If things were different, I’d be inside this house, beside you, loving you - but you probably hate me. I don’t blame you at all if you do - and if you don’t, you should. I wish I could leave this alone, but I have something to do and I can’t ignore it, not this time. Neglecting the wounds will just make the infection worse.
Something screams from inside the house and you move from the window, disappearing into the darkness. Worry bubbles up from my core. I hope it’s not anything insidious or I’ll slash it to shreds.
Minutes trickle by and you haven’t returned. Where have you gone?
Scream or make a gesture and I’ll help you. If something bad is there, tell me and I’ll get rid of it. Where are you?
My heart slows when I feel your presence. Your heartbeat echoes in my ears. You’re calm, but there’s another beat. You emerge from the darkness again and I can’t breathe as I see it.
Perched against your chest, nuzzled by your shoulder. You cradle it so dearly. I want to cry at the sight of it.
No...
No, don’t.
Pull yourself together.
But there it is, there she is…
The little life clings to your robe.
She has a crown of dark hair and ice blue eyes. I wish she didn't have those features. I’ve never been so... scared of anything before. I can imagine you laughing right now. When it comes to something like me – I’m what people are frightened of. I’m the entity teenagers tell, at sleepovers, to scare their friends. I’m the one bereaved family members try to summon with their Ouija boards.
Her cry is sickly. She has a fever. She’s been having nightmares, I can tell. I hope she doesn't dream about me. That’s the last thing I want.
You sway slightly, moving from left to right. You hum under your breath, a melody I remember from years ago when you first found me. You cup her tiny head in your palm, breathing tentatively as you sing. You’re a wonderful mother.
You cradle your daughter. Our daughter.
Her little cry begins to simmer. She’s falling asleep again, she feels safe. She’s in the best place. You rock her and stare out of the window.
I’m here, but you can't see me. I wonder how you’d react if you knew I was here. Would you be repulsed?
I want to be able to knock on your door like any civilian and have the courage to do it. But we don’t live in that world. If it existed, it wouldn't be full of monsters like me or others we have come across together. You know what I’m talking about.
If she ever asks who her father is, or where he might be, make something up. Say I was a soldier who died serving his country, or I passed away from some natural disaster. Please, don’t tell her what I am or what I’ve done. I don’t want our child growing up hating me, and I don’t want her childhood wrecked like mine was.
She may grow curious in the future. If she ever starts to ask questions, you’ve got to promise you will stop her. Don’t let her investigate.
I can tell you know new things because your face shivers with concern. You must understand, not everything written about me is true. Some of the details in the news must
make you sick, but I’m not responsible for its entirety.
As our baby girl falls asleep on your shoulder, a flame of a smile dances across your lips. You look out to the trees where I’m hiding and for a flash, your gaze locks with mine. You know I’m here, don’t you?
You stare at me for just a second, then your eyes dart down to our child. The innocent beauty is consumed by her dreams. She won’t be having anymore nightmares, not for tonight anyway. I’m just sorry for you and our little one.
Your eyelids start to hover. You must go to sleep. I’ll be back, sometime. I’m not going anywhere. I wouldn’t leave you but... if things do come to desperate measures, I just hope I won’t need your help. You’re the only one who understands what happened to me.
You still stand there, watching, on guard. The way you’re stationed reminds me of a time when things were different, when you stood before me, your expression wild and curious, when the innocent girl revealed she wasn’t scared of a monster. When she...
No, I won’t go there. That time is long gone now. Those moments are in the stars, unreachable and distant.
I remember waking up and finding you gone, your scent all over me like droplets of morning dew. Now I know why you ran, but I don’t understand why you’d keep digging for answers.
You move to the side of the window and pull the blind. All I can see is your silhouette.
I feel your footsteps as you put our daughter to sleep. I hear the switch of the baby monitor and her little whimper. I sense the sweep of your gown falling against your legs when you wrap your limbs into the bed covers. I close my eyes for a second, I wish your arms were around me.
My hunger and desire grow like the sun in the dawn. I can taste your skin all over again, hearing you gasp and pant against my neck. But I can’t stay in the past anymore. I’d willingly drown in that memory if I could.
I feel you falling into your dreams. You do it so easily.
I wait for a while until I’m certain you’re both at peace. I climb down quietly from the trees and focus on the house. Please, stay out of this from now on. I know how your mind works. Once you grab a theory hot in your blood, you will hunt and seek it out until you get answers. Maybe, the news will churn out viler content and you will stay away, for good.
I walk across the front garden, fleeing from the house. I say a prayer for you and our child. I love the both of you so much.
Forget about me, please. But, now and then, maybe when you’re alone.
Remember me.
Chapter Two
Winter 2015
Stripe McLachlan strode out of the meeting room feeling like she could soar. She nailed her assignment before the deadline and it was the correct length. After the editing team worked their magic, it had been live for a couple of days and the readers were lapping it up.
She skipped back to her cubicle, carrying a steaming mug of coffee, and found an email from her boss blinking unread.
Another scoop!
Hi Stripe,
I’ve got something different for you this time. Please find the necessary info attached.
See what you can make of it.
Well done on the Charles Libby project. You should check our Facebook page, the comments and likes are reeling in, not all of them are encouraging but you know the drill. Keep putting your stripes on.
By the way, you were personally asked by the CEO to scope this out. One thing about journalism is getting your name out there.
Have fun!
Kind regards,
Carla Dixon
Lead Editor
Titan News
She smiled, thinking the stripe line was pretty cheesy, but she’d managed to impress the ice queen, an unofficial nickname for the boss of the floor. Stripe clicked on the link embedded in the email and her screen flooded with the pleasant face of Isaac Payne.
Dishy, she thought as she read his biography.
He was the founder of a website called Virtisan. It had gotten some intrigued hearts beating, not as big as Facebook, MySpace or YouTube, but it was doing well from a statistical point of view. The request was to write an article to advertise his business.
Yawn. This isn’t my field at all. I’m not into marketing. She usually wrote meatier, darker stories with interesting backgrounds and peculiar lead characters. Just like her last assignment, the tragic life of Charles Libby. The project had taken three months to complete and she was travelling back and forth to New York, and conducting research and interviewing in Los Angeles. Charles Libby had survived an abusive family who also happened to be practicing Satanists. His story was a chronicle of good morals. He’d pulled through some pretty horrific events.
She scanned the Titan News Facebook page, scrolling through as she sipped her coffee, laughing under her breath at some of the comments. There was the occasional ‘bitch’ swirled into the mix with people participating in virtual punch-ups about her work.
Stripe picked up her phone and dialled the number on the Virtisan website. “Hello, can I speak to Isaac Payne?” A young kid of eighteen or so answered on the other end. “Yes, I’ll hold. I’m Stripe McLachlan.” She laughed when she heard their judgement. “Yeah, it’s a weird name. You should ask my parents why they gave it to me. I’m an investigative journalist from Titan News. Mr Payne asked for me personally. Thank you.”
As she waited, she tapped her mini Batman figure with the foot of her pen. Even though she didn’t find the subject of Isaac Payne particularly lip-biting, it was a merit. She’d been requested by an outsider because of the texture of her articles, following what Carla had said, she was getting her name and services out there in the big wide world.
Her call filtered through to the CEO, and their conversation exchange seemed pretty rudimentary. Isaac Payne was polite, and appeared to be nervous which she found a little odd especially as he’d requested her help. They’d agreed to meet up at his home in Washington as he wasn’t working at the main office. It would be an hour’s drive, but Stripe could handle long journeys. She was trained for it. Not a juicy story, but it’ll pay the bills.
Another email flooded through to her screen, and her heart sunk when she saw it.
Interview request – Night Scrawler documentary
Dear Miss McLachlan,
I hope this email finds you well.
My name is Max Lewis. I’m a writer and an independent film maker. I’m currently shooting a documentary about the infamous murders back in 1996 and 1997. I was wondering if I could interview you-
Stripe stopped reading and flipped back to the main menu. It’s been years but it still hurts. She clicked on the bin icon hovering over the email and watched it disappear from her screen. She logged out of her computer and texted Carla that she was off on the job. If she needed her, she was available by phone. Then she disappointed her mother, sending an apology text that she wouldn’t be able to attend her tea party and unfortunately couldn’t meet the attractive doctor who was going to make an appearance.
She jabbed Isaac Payne’s address into Google Maps and switched on her audio book. She liked to drive to the sound of a warm voice. A nice story usually made the journeys fly by. It was imperative to be surrounded by language, crafting and moulding her linguistic skills was a constant fixation in the world of a journalist.
She arrived at Isaac Payne’s home. He lived on the heel of the Washington State Park reservation. As she parked up, she gazed at the endless sea of trees which stood towering and intimidating. The sight before her was breath-taking. This place feels lonely. Why would anybody want to live here?
She understood its therapeutic attraction. It was an ideal place for a weekend retreat, for a company to participate in team building. She couldn’t live in a place like this full-time. It reminded her too much of the cabin she used to stay in with her parents when she was a kid. Stripe lugged her equipment out of her car. Don’t go down there. You don’t want to roam, not now.
“St-Stripe McLachlan?” a voice drifted from behind her.
She turned, gazing up at Isaac Payne, the person who’d asked for her.
Isaac was tall, statuesque even. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he worked out or took part in athletics. She could see the light touch of muscle under his crisp blue shirt, it matched the colour of his eyes. His dark brown hair was short and shiny. He clearly took pride in his appearance. She observed him, a wave of familiarity washed over her for a moment. She wasn’t sure where it had come from.
“Hi there, I’m Stripe. It’s nice to meet you.” She walked up to him, holding her palm out. It was always good to make the first gesture when meeting clients. “Sorry, I was just surveying the beautiful surroundings. How come you live so far from your office?”
“This place helps me think,” Isaac replied. “I don't want to be constantly reminded of computers and a concrete jungle when I want to relax.”
“I agree. What made you want to live here particularly?”
“I like nature.”
“You must be drowning in house bills.”
“It’s worth it for the view.” Isaac smiled. “Please, come in. Do you need help with carrying your equipment?”
“No, I’m fine, thanks.”
Isaac welcomed her inside, graciously taking her jacket. He was making a good impression, most CEOs were old, with life experience etched around their eyes, especially the people Stripe had encountered.
He offered her a coffee and she asked where she could set up her recording materials. He moved to the kitchen and Stripe was taken back at the interior layout. It matched the pristine representation of perfection, like the inside of a home furniture catalogue. The place was immaculate, and she saw the laptop on the work surface.
Forgive Me Page 1