At The Edge of Night - 28 book horror box set - also contains a link to an additional FREE book

by Bray, Michael

  “So you don’t deny it?”

  “What’s the point, we both know it happened.”

  “Yes, indeed we do.”

  “So what now?”

  “Ah, I'm glad you asked,” Dillon said as he walked towards the sandstone compound wall.

  “As I asked you earlier, you like to play games, correct?”

  “Depends on the game.” Brad shot back, determined not to let Dillon see how afraid he was.

  “Ah, well this is a game that everyone knows Mr. Jackson. However, first, I wonder if you would mind answering my previous question?”

  Brad swallowed and shifted his weight, more aware now of his burning calves as they supported his body just a few inches from death.

  “It wasn’t about you. It was just one of those things that happened.”

  “Indeed,” Dillon said, folding his arms and watching Brad with a wide sneer. “But nevertheless, it did happen. And now we have come to this.”

  Dillon sighed and took a handkerchief from his pocket. As he wiped his brow, he looked at Brad and flashed another grin.

  “You understand why this has to happen, don’t you?”

  “It doesn't. I already told you I was sorry.”

  “I believe you, but I have a reputation to consider. I cannot be seen to be weak.”

  “Then I'll leave the country. You'll never see me again.”

  Dillon laughed and shook his head. “I might believe you if I didn’t know you couldn’t afford it. And besides, how would I look if you turned up like a bad penny one day? No, it has to be this way.”

  “Then do it. Get it over with.”

  “You think I could be so barbaric?”

  “Considering my position, yeah. I do.”

  Dillon smiled and approached the wall. He leaned on it, resting one foot against the stone.

  “I’m going to give you a chance to earn your freedom, and your life.”

  “Why bother, we both know the outcome.”

  “Ah, is that not a defeatist attitude? Do you not even want to live?” Dillon strode towards the ladder. “Should I kick this from under you, so that you die like a dog in the burning sun?”

  “No, please,” Brad said, squirming as he tried to both get away and retain his balance at the same time. “I’ll play along with your game, whatever it is.”

  “Very good.” Beamed Dillon. “I knew you would make the right decision. First, the stake, as in my experience, games are not so enjoyable without a substantial risk.”

  Dillon nodded to one of his men, who approached with a suitcase. Dillon took it and opened it, then carried it to the ladder so that Brad could see inside.

  “One million dollars, clean and untraceable. Yours if you win. With it, you will take your freedom and leave this country. I think this is enough so that you would have no reason to show your face again.”

  Brad looked at Dillon but found his eyes returning to the money. It was more than he had ever seen in his life. "What about Monique?" He asked.

  “She is not part of this equation. This is between you and me as men.”

  “What have you done to her?”

  Dillon laughed and set the open case on the floor.

  “Nothing has happened to her. Why would I harm my own wife? She was led astray and has learned her lesson. She likes men like you, Mister Jackson. Down on their luck Americans with your chiselled features and your beach blonde hair. Oh, I’m quite sure you made quite the impression. But Monique knows well enough that her place is here with me.”

  He paused and tilted his head.

  “You didn’t think she would ever stay with you, did you, Mr. Jackson?”

  Brad's expression told him the answer, and Dillon burst into another bout of booming laughter.

  “Don’t be fooled into thinking that you are in any way unique here. My wife’s adulterous ways are nothing unusual. You are, I believe the seventh during the ten years of our marriage. You are just another statistic.

  Brad looked hurt, and Dillon lowered his voice, licking his wet lips as he spoke.

  “She does it to get to me. To remind me that I need to show her more attention. I don’t like it of course, but she knows that all she has to do is screw some degenerate low-life like you, and she will be rewarded with attention and more money being spent on her.”

  “I don’t believe you. She wouldn't..."

  “Oh, she would. Whilst we are here burning under this awful heat, she is in Monaco. I gave her the gold card, so I'm sure she is either at the apartment or sitting on a boat in the harbour, sipping champagne and looking over her purchases. She has already forgotten you, Mr. Jackson.”

  “So why can't you just let me go?”

  “I cannot be seen to be weak. Like it or not, you are solely responsible for everything that has happened.”

  Brad blinked sweat out of his eyes and tried to ignore the stinging sensation on his skin as it was barraged by the sun.

  “What if I refuse to play this game of yours?” He said, his voice coming out in a broken, cracked mumble.

  “Mr. Jackson.” Dillon beamed. “Think about it. How long do you think you can balance there? Surely already your calves burn with the effort of standing.”

  Brad said nothing, but Dillon was right. His legs did hurt, his muscles screaming at him to give them a little respite.

  Brad grimaced. Dillon grinned.

  “Alternatively, you can indulge in my game. A battle of mental fortitude, if you will.”

  Brad shuffled; sure he could feel the start of an alarming numb ache of a cramp in his leg.

  “It seems I have no choice.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  Dillon replied as he walked to the wall and took a piece of red chalk from his pocket. He started to draw a series of lines, speaking over his shoulder as he worked.

  “When I was a boy, my father was often busy growing our business. As a consequence, much of my childhood was spent alone. We were rich of course, so it was far from a broken home. To combat the monotony, the other children and I, the ones who like me were neglected by parents who were working on securing our futures, would group together and play games. Cards, chess and the like. Things devised to pass the time.”

  Dillon finished drawing on the wall and then turned towards Brad and flashed a wide lion like grin.

  “My favourite was Hangman, Mr. Jackson. And it is that which we are about to play right now.”

  Despite the heat, a cold shiver danced down Brad’s spine, and he licked his parched lips.

  “It’s insane. I won’t do it.”

  “But I thought we had reached an agreement? After all, it is just a simple word game. The stakes are as follows. If you correctly guess the clue, you leave here with the million dollars and your life, on the strict understanding that you leave the country immediately. If you lose, and the hangman is complete, I kick the ladder from under you and watch you die. Alternatively, if you refuse to participate, I will leave you out here until your strength wanes, after which you will pass out and die anyway. I see one option, Mr. Jackson.”

  Brad didn’t want to play along. He knew how dangerous Dillon was, and that any agreement made was playing into his hands. But he very much wanted to live, and even if it was only guaranteed for the short term, he would take it.

  “What choice do I have?" He said, locking eyes with Dillon.

  “Very good!” Dillon replied, clapping his hands together. “Take a moment to look over the clue, and we can begin before the heat becomes any more unbearable.”

  Brad looked at the case full of money, then at Dillon and finally at the wall.

  ---/------/-------/---/-----

  His instincts screamed at him not to play along, and that anything that Dillon said could not be trusted. However, he also acknowledged that the odds were against him, and even though he was reasonably fit and healthy, he was already starting to feel weak. He wondered how long it would take for the heat to affect his brain function, and realised that
the sooner they began, the sharper he would be and ultimately, the more chance he would have of survival.

  “Okay," Brad said as he glared at his captor. “I’m ready.”

  “Marvellous! I’m sure you know how the game is played, but I shall confirm the rules so that there is absolute clarity. You will call out letters of the alphabet in order to try to fill in the blanks on the clue. A correct answer and I will place the letter on the wall. Incorrect, and I will begin to draw the hangman. If you guess enough correct letters, and you think you know the answer, you may tell me what you believe it to be. If you are incorrect, you forfeit the game. If you do not answer the clue before the hangman is complete, you forfeit the game. If you decide to withdraw, you forfeit the game. Are we in agreement?”

  “Just say it how it is, Dillon,” Brad grunted, “by forfeit, you mean I’ll die.”

  “If you wish to be so to the point then, yes. That is true.” He said with a slimy grin. “But is that not all the more reason to ensure that you answer correctly?”

  “I suppose so. Let’s get this over with. I choose the letter A.”

  Dillon grinned, walked to the wall and drew a single line.

  “An incorrect answer I’m afraid.”

  Brad’s heart rate increased, and he forced himself to focus through the sweat which was dripping into his eyes.

  “E,” Brad said, trying to ignore the burning ferocity of the sun.

  “Well done. That is correct.” Dillon said curtly as he took the chalk and updated the clue.

  --- / E----E / ------E / E-- / ----E

  “Choose again.”

  Brad licked his lips, knowing that whatever he said next would either lead him closer to either life or death. At first, he didn’t think he could bring himself to speak, but Dillon was watching and waiting, and so he forced himself to go on.

  “N.”

  Dillon’s smile faltered for a moment, and that alone felt like a huge victory to Brad. He watched as Dillon chalked in the letters, then stood back to allow Brad to see.

  --N / E----E / --N---E / E-- / ----E

  Brad studied the words, and now that he knew his voice would come, the temptation to blurt out any number of half-hearted guesses was strong, but he knew to do so would mean death. He would have just one chance to get it right, otherwise, he would die.

  “W,” he said as he adjusted his position on the ladder.

  Dillon walked to the wall and added a vertical line to the horizontal one that he had drawn earlier.

  “Unlucky, Mr. Jackson.”

  Brad looked at the wall, fighting hard against the urge to panic, which was hard when he knew that his life hinged on a series of chalk lines on a wall.

  “Choose again please.” Dillon prodded.

  “B.” He blurted.

  Dillon drew air through his teeth and shook his head as he amended the hangman drawing.

  “You should consider your guesses more carefully, Mr. Jackson.”

  Dillon was right. Brad squirmed, trying to ignore the burning pain in his legs, which were desperate for respite from the pressure of supporting his body. Brad pushed the pain aside and concentrated instead on staring at the clue as droplets of sweat dripped from the tip of his nose.

  “O.”

  Dillon updated the clue, then turned and grinned at Brad. “You see? It's so much better if you think. Are you ready to guess yet? Is the ticking clock of death loud enough for you?”

  “I'm not ready to die.”

  “We shall see. Please, choose again.”

  He looked at the clue, desperately trying to see if he could form any words, anything that might give him a chance to extend his life.

  -ON / E-O--E / -ON---E / E-- / -O--E

  “L”.

  “Incorrect,” Dillon replied as he went to the wall and added to the hangman.

  “Please,” Brad blurted, overcome by the terror that he had so far managed to hold back. “Just let me go. I've learned my lesson. I should never have done what I did, I know that now. It was a mistake.”

  “I understand. Really, I do.” Dillon said. Although his voice was sympathetic, his expression was predatory. “However, we are mid game now, and cannot stop.”

  “You can't expect to get away with this.” Brad hissed, for a moment losing his balance. Dillon watched, willing him to fall. When he saw that Brad was stable, he exhaled and shook his head.

  “Seven times, Mr. Jackson, my wife has cheated on me. And seven times this game has been played in this very yard. Four of the seven correctly guessed the clue and won both their money and freedom. Of the others, two ran out of moves and suffered the consequences. The third had a heart attack right there on the ladder, just when it looked like he might win. You see, the odds are in your favour, as long as you remain calm and think clearly. Now please, choose a letter.”

  “P,” Brad said, his voice wavering as he watched his captor with the purest sense of terror he had ever experienced.

  “There, you see? Clear thinking.” Dillon said as he chalked the letter into the clue.

  -ON / EPO--E / -ON---E / E-- / -O- -E

  “It makes no sense. I don’t know what it says!” Brad sobbed, and although he didn’t like showing Dillon how afraid he was; it was impossible to hide it. He thought he had found love, but it seemed he was just a plaything, a way for a lonely wife to get some attention from her egomaniac husband.

  “Don’t lose your focus, Mr. Jackson.” Dillon said, enjoying the show. “I think you might yet win if you can only keep calm. Please choose again.”

  “G.” He stammered, fighting back the urge to vomit.

  “I’m afraid,” Dillon said as he walked to the hangman and drew in the next line.

  “You are incorrect.”

  Brad stared at the drawing, and at the beaming Dillon, then back to the clue.

  “I don’t want to do this anymore.” He whispered.

  “Are you saying you concede defeat?” Dillon said with a wide grin.

  “No!” He blurted, and almost lost his balance. He swayed, his punished calves struggling to support him. The rope dug into his throat a little as he tried to regain his footing, and just when it seemed he was destined to fall; he regained his balance. Dillon watched with amusement, chalk held deftly as he waited for Brad to either fall or stay upright, looking as if he didn’t care either way.

  Sweating, exhausted and afraid, Brad began to sob.

  “Choose a letter please,” Dillon said with indifference.

  “Fuck you.”

  Dillon grinned and added to the hangman.

  “Hey, that’s not the rules. It's not fair!” Brad whined, glaring at Dillon.

  “I will not be insulted. Please act in a gentlemanly manner, or suffer the consequences.”

  Brad looked at the hangman, and tried to work out how many moves he had left before the end.

  Five incorrect letters were all he had left before his death, so in reality he could make only four more mistakes. He looked at the clue, and could make no sense of it. The fear which had started as a gnawing subtle pressure in his stomach had now spread and filled his entire being. He could feel himself shaking, both from the pressure on his exhausted legs and the very real possibility that his life was almost at an end. He knew that even if by some miracle he survived the day, some part of him was destined to die here with Dillon.

  “Remember, failure to play counts as forfeit.”

  “U, I choose U.” He spat, the combination of tears and sweat stinging his eyes and making it difficult to see.

  “Correct.” Dillon beamed, and filled in the clue.

  -ON / EPOU-E / -ON--UE / E-- / -O- -E

  “I don’t know it; I can't do this anymore. Please, let me go!”

  He didn’t care that Dillon would see his weakness or his fear, all he wanted was to be out of the heat, and to sit down and take the pressure off his legs, which were close to giving up with or without him. Dillon smiled, and picked up the beer that he had started earlier, an
d took a long, leisurely drink.

  Brad’s stomach — which felt like a tiny, shrivelled up ball, quivered as he watched the cool liquid disappear down Dillon’s gullet.

  “You son of a bitch!” He whispered.

  “Ah, very refreshing. I would offer you one, but it is against the spirit of the rules. Now please, choose a letter.”

  “M.” He said absently, still staring at the bottle clutched in Dillon’s fat fingers.

  Dillon smiled and drew the letter into the clue.

  “Surely, now you must have some idea, Mr. Jackson. It really is quite easy.”

  Brad looked at the words, trying to make sense of them, and then everything fell into place, and he knew why he couldn’t understand.

  MON / EPOU-E / MON--UE / E-- / MO- -E

  “It isn’t written in English, is it Dillon?” Brad asked with a wry smile.

  Dillon grinned. “Of course not. Nowhere in the rules did it say it had to be.”

  “It looks like French.”

  “Correct. It is, after all, my native tongue.”

  Dillon grinned, and Brad tried to recall hazy school French lessons, hoping that some of the information had stuck, but if it had, it was evading him now.

  “You were never going to lose, were you?” Brad asked, finding it in himself to push his smile into a wide grin. “Because you knew that even if I filled in all of the blanks, I don’t speak the language.”

  “Perhaps you are more intelligent than I thought.” Dillon said, with a grin. “You see, Mr Jackson; I have learned never to lose. And never to let anyone take me for a fool.”

  “I didn’t intend any of this,” Brad said. “I just happened to fall in love with the wrong woman.”

  “If it's of consequence, she also said she loved you a little too. I suppose that’s why I perhaps skewed the rules in my favour."

  “Then why not just let me go. Call it even. I'll disappear. You have my word.”