by Willow Rose
“That’s splendid. You’re getting wet.”
The girl giggled again, then made her final decision. She ran to the door and got in the passenger seat. Thomas smiled and drove off, thinking, finally, he would be able to write again.
But he was wrong. Even though he had tied her down like he believed he had done to his ex-girlfriend six years ago, and even though he had beat her up in anger and hurt, feeling the frustration of being rejected all over again, he hadn’t been able to write a word yet. Not one single word.
And it was all her fault.
Maybe she needed to hurt a little more. Seeing her in pain made him feel better. With Rikke, his ex-girlfriend, he had written the poems first, while she was still in pain. And then he had killed her. First, he had imagined what it would be like to kill her with her father’s axe; he had imagined every little detail of how it would be and written it down in his poems. Then, he read them to her. He read every poem, every word of it out loud and watched how her eyes pleaded for him to let her go.
Then he had killed her. It had been a thing of beauty. Like fireworks in his mind. The girl he had known since they were nine year’s old. The girl he had dated for three years before she tore his heart to pieces. Before he responded by chopping her into pieces. At least he thought he had. He wasn’t sure. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t sure about anything lately. He had a way of getting lost in his daydreams. He could imagine the strangest things simply while walking down the street. Suddenly, people’s faces passing him would turn bloody and arms and limbs would fall off. Then he would blink his eyes and everything would turn back to normal. And it could happen out of the blue. Thomas could be talking to someone, then start imagining that he stabbed the person with a knife, cut him or her open, and watched the blood spurt out. Then, a second later, it would be gone and the person was still talking.
Once his ex-girlfriend went missing, the police had, of course, asked questions afterwards. Who could blame them after the poems were published? But no one in their right mind believed that the most famous poet in the country could really be a killer. A little disturbed, maybe, but he was an artist. Artists were allowed to be quirky, even a little mad. They had to be. And there was never a body. Only a missing person’s report. Her own father ended up taking the fall when they found the bloody axe in his garage with his fingerprints on it and the DNA that determined that the blood belonged to Rikke. Thomas wasn’t sure if he had dreamt it, but he thought he remembered placing the axe back in the garage. It could have been a dream. It might have been. He would never know. But he thought Rikke would be happy that her dad finally got what he deserved for treating Rikke like he did, the drunk.
“It was all for you, my love,” he whispered out in the darkness of his room with the heavy curtains pulled to keep the world out. He had bought the house on the quiet street outside of Viborg to get some peace for his writing. And to get away from people and his many strange images.
Thomas looked at the girl on the bed. She seemed to be real. He couldn’t remember her name. But it didn’t matter. He slapped her across the face. The girl cried. Thomas slapped her again. She was definitely real. But, then again, maybe not. He had been tricked before. It was right after Rikke had broken up with him, telling him she was now with Jon, a super pumped guy who worked out at her gym. That was when the many visions started. It began with him imagining all the things he would like to do to Rikke. Once she was gone, he started seeing many other bloody girls in his house. Some would fall out of his closet when he opened it, others would be in his bathtub when he went in the bathroom, soaking in bloody water. He never knew if they were really there or not. Sometimes, he remembered hurting them; other times, he didn’t.
The girl whimpered again, and Thomas stared at her. Blood was running from her nose. Thomas wiped it off and smelled the napkin afterwards. Then he slapped her again. He still wasn’t sure if she was real or if he had imagined picking her up. The girl tried to scream.
This first Monday in October got off to a bad start for many of the people in the small neighborhood on Blegevej, but only few had it as awful as this girl.
7
MALENE PEDERSEN WAS screaming behind her gag, but nothing but muffled sounds came out into the dark room.
He’s crazy. I gotta get out of here somehow before he kills me.
The man she knew as the famous poet had that look in his eyes again. Those black eyes were flooding with fury. He was biting his lip while watching her between slaps. When he stopped biting himself, his teeth left a mark. Malene’s body was hurting from all the beating.
How had she gotten herself into this? How could she have been so stupid to get into a car with this guy? Wasn’t this what her mother had always warned her about? How could she have been so stupid? Stupid!
Malene sobbed, feeling sorry for herself, while the poet stared at her and kept talking to her like she was someone else.
“Why did you do it?” he asked. “Why did you have to hurt me like that?”
Malene didn’t understand. She tried to talk, but couldn’t because of the gag. What did he want from her? He hadn’t raped her as she thought he would. What was he going to do to her? She had been asking herself that question all night, while waiting for him to make his move. Was there any way she could get out of here alive? She didn’t even know where she was. As soon as she had gotten into the car last night, he had slammed his fist into her face and she hadn’t seen anything until she opened her eyes and found herself tied to this bed. He had beaten her, then sat by the computer staring at the blank page for hours. That scared her even more than the beating. His silence. The staring at the screen. He hadn’t even written anything. Not a word.
“Why did you do it, you bitch!?” He now yelled at her and punched her in the stomach.
It blew the air out of Malene and she gasped behind the gag. She moaned in pain and cried heavily. Who could have thought that the country’s most highly regarded writer was this insane?
Please, stop this. Please, someone stop this. Oh, God. Please. Don’t let him hit me again. Don’t let him kill me. I have so much to live for. I want to go home to my family. I want to see my mom again. I want to hold my baby brother. Please, do something. I don’t care what it is. Just do something.
“I’m gonna teach you to never cheat on anyone again!” he yelled, then slammed his fist into her face once again.
Malene cried in pain. But as she was almost about to give up all hope, she felt something. The poet had tied her hands to the bed with a piece of rope, and now it seemed that she was able to move them a little more. She looked at the poet while he was yelling at her, telling her what a liar she was, what a cheating bitch, she was. A whore! Meanwhile, Malene was able to twist and squirm her wrists just enough to feel the rope loosen. The poet didn’t seem to notice, and soon her arms were free. She was free. Quicker than he was able to react, she sat up and swung her fist into his face. He fell backwards from the blow, and Malene untied the belt that he had used to hold her feet together. While removing the gag, she jumped off the bed and started running, but the poet managed to grab her leg and pull her down. She screamed and landed face down on the wooden floor. She kicked him in the face, and he yelled and let go of her leg. Malene climbed to her knees, her body aching from the beating, and reached out for the door handle. She managed to open it and rush out into the kitchen, where suddenly she was grabbed around the waist and lifted into the air. She struggled and screamed. The poet laughed and threw her against the counter, knocking the air out of her. Then he laughed and picked her up again. She kicked him in the stomach, and he bent over with a moan. Then he dropped her to the floor. She got up and tried to run, but he kicked her in the back, and she flew across the floor and landed head first into the stove.
Please, God, let me get out of here before he kills me. Please, help me!
In the distance, the ground underneath the entire neighborhood was moaning, some called it weeping. But Malene never heard it. All she
heard was the poet’s scream as he grabbed her hair and pulled till her head slammed into the counter and she could taste blood.
He laughed again, and she could tell that he enjoyed it, the sick bastard. Malene moaned and blinked her eyes to better focus. Just as she was about to lose all hope again, just as the poet grabbed her by the hair and was about to hit her once again, the ground beneath them—oh the horror—opened up and they were sucked into its infinite obscurity.
Just as Malene thought the day couldn’t get any worse, it did.
END OF EXCERPT
Get ELEVEN TWELVE ... DIG AND DELVE here:
HTTP://WWW.AMAZON.COM/ELEVEN TWELVE ... DIG AND DELVE
Table of Contents
EASY AS
ONE
TWO
THREE
THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE
HOME
SLENDERMAN
Books by the author
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Eleven Twelve
Dig and Delve(excerpt)