“Wait, he has stopped outside the bedroom door you're in, don't make a sound,” even he spoke quiet now, clearly horrified. Time seemed to standstill as they both waited for the clown's next move.
Then the most frightful noise broke the breathless silence. An odd sound. A triangle? Knife? After a few seconds Laura knew what it was: the jangling of keys. Then one of them being inserted into a lock.
“He has a key? Oh my God he has a key!” Laura hushed, frantically. She was trapped and terrified.
“HIDE!” the officer of the law spoke in a whisper, but almost broke into the boundaries of normal talking volume. The jitters apparent in his voice made Laura drop instantly, collapsing behind the bed and wriggling under it. The jingle continued as she snaked further under the race-car bed, forearms brushing carpet. Luckily the dark provided decent cover. But the moon was gleaming through the window, highlighting the bed, exposing Laura's hiding place.
Fortunately there was black frill dangling from the bed, supposedly tyres to the car. She pulled it down for camouflage just as the door unlocked. Laura could hear it stroke carpet. A whooshing as the wood and carpet rubbed. Officer Thompson didn't speak, full of anxiousness. Laura now more than ever needed assistance. Physical support to protect and ensure safety. The bright red boots glowed, dim light bouncing off the shiny leather. The boots raised little by little, then pushed down on carpet, trying to remain unknown, not aware that Laura could see them. Or maybe he was aware, but Laura blocked that thought immediately. To indulge in that chance was too much to handle.
He was looming, only a few inches from the bed. Her head was only a short space away from the feet. Laura could actually see hairs on her arms jolt up, as if an electrical vault had sent the flesh into rigid formations of vertical hairs. Pimples were beneath these hairs, small lumps that held the hairs in place. Like ant mountains with thick strands of filament protruding from them. He moved around the base of the bed, towards the window. Then another oddly familiar audibility rung in her ears. A metal raking noise; the curtains were being closed. This unnerved Laura. But then the logic shone, like the moon just outside the window, which no longer subtly lit the room. He wanted to send the room into total darkness. As to why, Laura feared the answer to that question, but knew she was likely to find out very soon.
Chapter 8
The curtains remained closed, but the clown stuck his arms through and opened the window as wide as it would permit. It was freezing outside, rain was pounding trees and hitting grass violently. Wind howled around the castle and slapped stone walls with specks of sharp raindrops. Laura was inches from the window, and the full force of the cold could be felt. Only wearing a black top and red trousers; if she didn't move to a warmer location soon, the low temperatures would seriously affect her health, or become fatal.
Time went on as the clown roamed Toby's bedroom. Squeaking and sneaking as the maniac scavenged every possible hiding place where Laura may be. Closet doors creaked open, items clunked onto the carpet as furniture was rearranged and lifted. But what petrified Laura the most was the breathing. In between the many noises of ransacking for his prey, the all too familiar breathing resounded. That chilling breath filled the room. That eerie exhaling lurked in the room with the clown, forcing Laura to remember creepy conversations and frightening threats. The respiring scared Laura so much that she chose to block out sound. With elbows resting on the carpet and hands pressing each side of her head like earmuffs, noise was considerably suppressed. She also chose to close her eyes and pray for his departure.
Around fifteen minutes later Laura could have been in a freezer. She trembled. Each limb shaking ferociously, but still somehow able to stay quiet and undetected. She slowly raised her eyelids and let each hand fall from her ears. But nothing could be seen, and noise was minimal. It was impossible to distinguish if the maniac was still in the room perusing, or had left. Alone in the darkness of a castle, knowing a clown-dressed predator was skulking, made distress amplify a thousand times. Her entire body from head to toe, every square inch of flesh spiked like a hedgehodge, prickling with goosebumps, as definite evidence that Laura was fearful. And that was an understatement. Did he know she was in there? Did he open the window to draw her out? Or was he just too warm and stuffy in the clown outfit? Those questions, and more, loomed in Laura's consciousness. What was she to do? Wait until oxygen became an issue? Options were becoming scarce: either depart and try to live, or stay and quite possibly die. When a voice rang in her ears that made her heart stop.
“Laura, Laura,” the policeman spouted from the phone.
She quickly slapped it to her palm to drown out sound, but then realised that Officer Thompson could see both her and the killer. He wouldn't do anything to alert her location. It must be safe, or at the least very important.
“Yes,” she whispered so quietly the helpful officer could hardly hear.
“He's gone,” the officer exclaimed, relieved.
Thankfulness swam in her blood, paddling through the plasma and settling her nerves profoundly.
“You sure?” Laura checked, not wanting a repeat of the panic room incident. Double checking was a necessary precaution as the killer seemed to be a master of trickery.
“Yes, now hurry and get down to the first floor and let the officer in. There is still a presence in the computer room, so be careful. It could be one of my men. But I doubt they would stay in one room for this long. As for the clown, I can't detect his location. I'm pretty sure I'd be able to see if he was roaming the halls, or out in the foyer or stairwell. His heat would create bright luminous colours on the heat detection cameras,” he spoke, clearly feeling like the clock was against him, which it was.
“Okay, I am going,” Laura clawed from the bed and very cautiously took agile steps to the bedroom door, which was open. Oh thank God, he must have left, as I'm sure he closed the door on his way in.
Each step was done as if in a safari and constantly trying to avoid the attention of tigers or lions, anything life threatening and this psycho definitely made that list. Bewilderment came when the door began to shut by itself. Remotely? Why would Officer Thompson do that? He just told me to leave? Was there a mechanism in the door? Was Officer Thompson closing it remotely or was it the wind? But then a long recurrence of clicks and ticks droned, followed by heaps of blinding light. Laura was momentarily stunned by whiteness disorientating her vision, as every light switched on. Her arms became a shield as she turned away from the sudden burst of light. Until it began to dilute and settle, as she inched her eyes open. Her sight adjusted steadily and aimed forwards. But they did not lead out, only exploited what was still inside the room: the clown.
Laura was only a few steps from the door when it moved as the lights came on; the clown had been hiding behind it. He edged forwards, with an insidious smile swept across his face, chuckling disturbingly. It was the laugh of a hyena, high pitched cackles. His eyes were so intense and full of rage, taught and heinous. An anime sketch with disproportionately large eyes. The laugh contrasting greatly with this look of loathing. Two opposites working in harmony to instil cowardice. She was truly stuck, lacking any idea of what to do next, other than stand and die.
Which she soon concluded was the most probable occurrence when the clown revealed he was holding half a candlestick. One end was the wide, circular base, gleaming silver, and the other end sharp and coated in blood. Wait, was that from Toby's shoulder? Did he bring that from the panic room? Laura had just established how phenomenally insane this individual was. He killed an innocent young boy with it, now he was going to kill her. No doubt it would be displayed like a trophy in the lunatic's home. A souvenir of sickness.
With the phone still held to her ear, Officer Thompson's voice was blurring into her delicate consciousness.
“Run, run now, get away from him,” his voice ordered. But her body refused to cooperate, too overcome by abhorrence. Stuck in a statue-like state, until something the police officer said struck a nerve.<
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“Think of your parents, your family, survive for them! You can do this Laura!” he yelled.
This thrashed motivation through her entire body. An unquenchable yearning aligned, daring to risk her life, in order to see family again, and laugh with friends.
Laura dove forwards, swivelling around the clown, dodging and weaving his candlestick-wielding arm. He slashed desperately in an attempt to hack Laura to pieces, halting her bid for escape. The jagged tip nicked her neck and sliced through hair a couple of times. Her blonde locks swished as she vaulted out the bedroom. It soon came to her attention that the lighting in the hallway had not turned on, just Toby's room. Which was baffling. In the midst of sprinting she assumed all lights had been switched off then on by a main circuit board. So when it came back on, all the lights in the castle would come back. So how was it possible for one bedroom light to come on and leave other parts of the castle in the gloom? The clown knew what he was doing, and that terrified Laura. This seemed premeditated, not just a random kill, but a plotted, well thought out scheme. The narrow, dark corridor seemed to last forever as she barrelled for the stairs. Heavy, clumsy footsteps pounding the floor, almost tripping. Moonlight grew near as the stairs were getting closer. Laura used the walls to lead her to the stairs, leaning on them for support, hands spidering along them quickly. Paintings and other wall mounted artwork clattered and crumbled to the floor, leaving a line of destruction at her feet. With any luck that will slow the bastard down! More expensive portraits and landscapes thumped onto the carpet, their frames splintering. Sculptures cracked and smashed as Laura barged into them, swaying left and right as her feet fought for control. Then, reaching the first step, she began her expedition downwards, clinging tightly to the bannister. But despite efforts to maintain control of all muscles and movement, her legs became tangled.
This sent Laura tumbling hard; head over heels. She spun sideways to the second floor, continuing on to the first. Her skull repeatedly smacking each stone step, laced with carpet. It was only now that it became clear how thin the carpet was, painfully thin. A continuous pounding bashed her eardrums as the noise of her own skull cracking brought nausea. Consciousness hung in the balance as Laura became woozy. Her vision was a surreal blur of stone and red carpet illuminated by a sliver of moonlight. Laura's head throbbed as her bag of bones smashed each and every step. Clonk, clonk, clonk. But Laura was disturbingly at peace. At least I am moving, she managed to think in the spiralling chaos. A painful spell that seemed to last an eternity soon came to an end when smooth, cold beech wood came into sight, with rugs plotted around like small pools of blood. Laura collided with the wood hard.
The air held her for a couple of seconds, waiting to spit her out at just the right moment. The first time Laura had truly been at peace was in this instance, floating, free from gravity, temporarily. The air cradling, the freedom. But then reality came into focus, and hit her with a clout, literally.
Laura felt as though she had been dropped from a ten story building, declining through the sky for a millennia, and then finally crashing against earth. She slumped but somehow maintained consciousness. Every crack and crevice of her was thumping with every type of anguish. Pins and needles tingled everywhere. A whooping swung around the insides of her skull as she tried to concentrate on making the necessary preparations to stand. Hands were the first to co-operate, pushing Laura from the ground until her torso was vertical. Next, the knees lifted her like a fire-fighter rescuing a damsel in distress. But it was her soul that held, a brawniness that kept her steady. But then the demons of her cranium made recent occurrences come to light, in a foyer with nothing but darkness. A vast space with shadows and statues, some resembling people. Stone figures prowling in the sombre hall.
The rainbow of stresses all held within one man shone in front of her, as if he were actually there. Then the thought boomed, he could be here any second. But, to balance the situation, and keep equilibrium and maintain a natural order, there was a policeman at the other side of the front door. This gave her thighs and calves no choice but to follow her wishes. Laura drudged onwards as if wading through a lake containing a litter of sleeping snakes, administering caution with every step.
Which led her foot to touch something squishy, and wet, almost causing her to slip. Caught unaware Laura almost slipped on the substance. By this point her eyes had adapted to the lack of light and she looked down to see the cause of this. Laura struggled to remain vertical when her eyes fell upon the bloody corpse of a police officer.
She felt like a ship that had just crashed against jagged rock, optimism leaking out and anxiety piling in. And her own vessel being dragged downwards, succumbing to sways of giant sea waves. That was her lifeline, the life raft on this voyage of tremors, and with the snap of two fingers, it was gone. Taken from her grasp. Had the criminally insane individual had time to do this? Something did not fit into this jigsaw puzzle.
This innocent man, this selfless officer of the law. This could-have-been hero was spread out on the wooden beams, blood spurting from a deep slit in his neck. The gouge allowed plasma to empty energetically, red fluid leaking onto the floor forming a large puddle. The navy uniform soiled, uneven and torn. His face was contorted in terror, that image itself was enough to make Laura squeal. A pale sheen masking the features among specks of blood. Scratches and bruises marked the flesh. This man hadn't died peacefully, that was for sure. It appeared as though he had lost a battle with a lawnmower. But Laura knew no gardening tool had done this, the massacre before her was the result of a lunatic clown. The metallic tang of his bloody lingered in the air, testing Laura's gut. Then came an idea. Police officers carry weapons, and radios to contact other officers. Laura could look for a radio or weapon that was no doubt hiding in the gloom somewhere. Or even her own phone, which had most likely clattered down the stairwell, accompanying Laura on her rocky descent. A noise suddenly came from upstairs, pushing all these brave ideas aside. Total despair was beginning to consume her. But before Laura could scream, a cold, fleshy palm trapped the noise. This hand wasn't Laura's. She didn't know whether to yell through the tightly sealed fingers, try and bite them, or stay quiet. As this person was clearly not the clown if the lack of gloves was any indicator. But also the forearm was not wearing a coloured sleeve. But this unnamed individual could still be dangerous. The hand stunk of dirt and nature, as if they had been rolling around in a forest. What was even more disorientating was that the arm looked slender, hairless and feminine. Tiny, delicate wrists and soft skin and a silver band on the wedding finger.
“Shhh stay quiet, he'll find us, follow me,” the female-sounding voice advised Laura.
Was this female someone to be trusted? But then logic broke through the cave of her skull and landed on her jelly-like brain. This was a girl, or woman, who would be much easier to defeat than a large crazed man armed with a spiked implement. If it came down to it. But there was a quality about this woman that was friendly and trustworthy, and dare Laura think it, familiar.
However she was still discombobulated and weary so Laura remained vigilant; trust was a luxury she couldn't afford. This person stepped in front in a Gothic ensemble. A black jacket, jeans, and shoes. The drably dressed person tugged Laura towards an open door: the computer room.
Officer Thompson had mentioned the heated object downstairs, in the computer room, maybe it was her? The phone! Where was her phone? It could be anywhere after the recent plummet. It could be on the stairs, thrown onto the second floor landing, or even tumbled down the stairwell to the ground floor. Or even further into the hellish basement. The woman continued to yank, taking Laura from racing thoughts. Soon enough they were safely locked in the room, technology and fear everywhere. The rescuer paced to the corner as a flash of light struck upwards and broke through the darkness. This ray shone and exposed the woman's face. Blonde hair, similar to Laura's. Blue eyes, strong jawline, but slightly older than Laura with the addition of a few lines around the eyes. It was an
older version of Laura. It was her mother.
“Mum?” Laura asked, astounded.
Her mother, Sandra, stormed forwards with a finger pressed tightly against her lips, indicating silence.
“Yes honey it's me,” the soothing, known voice enveloped Laura in comfort.
“What are you doing here?” Laura was utterly stunned, eyelids hid behind wide eyes.
“I came to save you,” she smiled, stroking Laura's cheek.
“What? How did you know about this? Did the police call you?” Laura was puzzled.
“No, I know who the man is,” she announced.
“Who?” Laura was becoming tense, bursting at the seams to know who it was.
“Bruce.” Laura was momentarily stumped. Confusion fogged her mind as those letters sparked recognition. That word meant something. Until clarity came, followed by understanding. Breath was stolen from Laura as realisation struck.
“Yes, your father,” Sandra confessed, guilt tainting her face.
My father? My dad? My own flesh and blood? The one person in all the world who is supposed to protect, guide and help me? Why would he do this? He had been so caring and considerate in the car. Which was unusual for him. He had expressed interest and emotion. Enigmas grew as idle questions transformed into mystifications that needed answers to safeguard her mental health. Just as her mouth parted open and words were about to stutter out, she paused. Laura considered if knowing why, at this point, would be worse. Maybe it would be best to wait. Then the downside to being in a catastrophe occurred, survival wasn't guaranteed. If Laura was going to her grave soon, she needed answers. That was one thing that was compulsory if she was to make the voyage to heaven tonight, or more specifically, the early hours of the morning.
He's Watching Me Page 8