Flee

by Caroline Clark

  Taking a few deep breaths, she tried to relax her tense shoulders. Should she call Simon? Who had left her parents’ house? If they left by the drive, why had Robert not seen them? The more she thought, the more questions she had, but mostly she felt a deep aching sorrow in her heart that threatened to pull her down into despair. There were so many things she wanted to tell her parents, so many things she wanted to do with them. Like everyone, she always believed they had so much time, and that things could be put off until tomorrow.

  * * *

  Back in the bedroom, she saw the clothes Robert had left. Thankful, she dried and dressed, and was pleased to find Sophie’s clothes were a good fit. Robert had married about ten years ago to Sophie, a sophisticated blonde from London. She was much younger than him, and very attractive. Always ready with a smile, she was fun to be around. A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you okay? Can I come in?” Robert asked.

  “Yes of course.”

  The door opened, and Rosie rushed in, all wagging body and exuberant love. She bounded across the room, and jumped up straight onto the bed. “Oh, God, Robert, I’m sorry, Rosie come on, get down.” Jenny grabbed her collar.

  “It’s okay. She’s clean. I think tonight she can sleep on the bed, no problem.” Robert walked into the room with a hot mug of tea. “Here’s one Assam tea, china mug, and teaspoon of milk.” He winked as he handed the cup across.

  Jenny laughed as she pulled the tea to her, like a comfort blanket. “I know I’m a tea snob, but it’s not fun to mock the distressed.” She sipped the tea. It was strong and malty just the way she liked it. “Have you heard from the police? Is Doris okay?”

  “I haven’t rung again since the last time, but I will tell you what we talked about. They’re sending an officer out to the house remember. I still don’t actually think they believed me. They don’t know about Doris yet, but I’m sure she will be okay. They are going to want to speak to you over the next few days. I told them you would be here, and I told them you might be in danger until your birthday. I didn’t tell them you saw the bodies.” He raised his hand. “I know, I know but I thought you could do without that extra pressure at the moment. After all, I saw as much as you. They asked that we kept your location quiet.” Robert twirled the dresser chair to face Jenny, and sat down.

  “Did you tell them about Simon?” Jenny asked.

  “Yes, sort of. They really thought I was a bit over dramatic. I don’t think there’s been a murder in this part of the county for fifty years. I think they will be more forthcoming once they’ve seen the… you know the b… the scene.”

  He raised his eyebrows. Jenny was not sure whether in sympathy or concern.

  “They will want to speak to you as you found the bodies. But not tonight, and because of the size of the police force here it may take time. It may take longer than you want, but don’t get frustrated. Do you feel like sleeping?”

  “Oh, God no,” Jenny replied “I don’t know what to do. I want to go there, to help, to see them. I want to do anything to keep me busy. I don’t want to think.”

  “Sure. Have you rung Simon yet?” he asked, an eyebrow rose quizzically.

  “No, I can’t make my mind up what to do.” Her expression asked the unspoken question, Robert what do I do?

  “Well, forget it for tonight. It’s just gone midnight, and he’s probably asleep. The police may tell us what we should do tomorrow. Now come on.” Robert stood, replaced the chair, and headed for the door.

  “What?”

  “You will love my homemade chicken soup.”

  “No, I couldn’t eat anything.” She almost smiled.

  “Yes, you can. You need to keep your strength up. A little soup will be easy on your stomach, and will keep you going. Come on, and we’ll get through this.”

  They left the room, Rosie tagged along behind. She stayed close to her mistress, still sensing her pain. Jenny had an uneasy feeling. She remembered her mum had told her something about Simon when she was younger. It was important, but she just couldn’t remember what it was. The urge to ring him was strong, but so was the fear that he had done this. Shaking her head, she thought. Let’s just get through tonight, and see what the police say. They were bound to want to talk to her soon.

  Chapter Seven

  Simon was wrenched from sleep. His eyes sticky, yet instantly open. He gasped for breath as enormous power rushed into his body. It was as if he were connected to the mains. Energy and euphoria lit up every nerve and fiber of his being as the lifeblood was drained from Alexander Stephens. It surged into him, filled him with vigor, and gave him dominion over this realm.

  Gasping again he felt more power enter his body, his rapture growing, tensing his muscles it thrilled down his spine like a lover’s caress.

  Blood gushed onto his hands. He smelt its coppery aroma, and could almost taste it. Warm on his skin, the blood gave him power, the blood was his power.

  The fear and panic in his friend’s eyes was a delicious irony as Alex realized he had been bested. Simon’s own hand held the wine glass, as it filled with blood, the life force of his friend.

  Blood surged from the gaping wound, filled with air bubbles, causing it to splash over the side of the glass, and land warm on his skin. It spurted, bubbled and cascaded from the horrific gash, like a living beast, eager to escape, it flowed into the crystal. Once the glass was full, his left hand appeared holding a pewter container shaped like a horn. He moved it skillfully into place, careful not to spill any of the precious fluid.

  Simon could feel the power that held Alex, that kept him upright, as his life drained into the sacrificial vessel. It was hard work holding him there, and his eyebrows drew close together with strain. The concentration needed to hold the commanding figure in place was immense. Only his own power suspended Alex six inches off the floor, vertical, arms outstretched. His head was upright, his neck slashed, gaping, muscle, tendon and blood vessels were exposed in the gruesome wound.

  Alex looked like a slaughtered lamb, hung up to drain. He was unable to speak. Panic had crossed his face, followed by fear, and quickly replaced with nothing as his life drained out of him along with his blood.

  “What’s going on? What’s all the noise?” Helen asked as she entered the kitchen, a magazine in her right hand. She hesitated, took in the scene, and then rushed forward. “Stop this, how could you.” She was within three feet of touching her husband, a slender hand outstretched.

  Simon turned his body, saw her agony, and uttered the word duratus, or freeze, sending the spell to hold her, suspended away from her love.

  His brow furrowed even more with the tremendous concentration and power needed to stop this tigress, to prevent her from fighting to protect her man.

  Helen stopped as if she had hit a brick wall. Held there, her blond hair blowing out from around her shoulders, her arms pushed out at her sides. Her soft face showed stress and anguish, but not fear.

  The power needed was immense. Simon felt a bead of sweat slide down his forehead, dripping in front of his eyes, and he felt a splinter of fear slide into his mind. Could he hold her? She was strong, but he was stronger, with the blood from the sacrifice. He would win.

  * * *

  Suspended just off the ground Helen pushed against the mystical barrier that held her. She tried to utter a spell, but her mouth would not move. Tears streamed from her green eyes as she watched the light go out of Alex’s blue ones. “My love,” she said inside her head. “Sleep now my darling, and wait for me.”

  Simon watched, unable to do anything, as he held Alex for a moment longer. He waited until the last drop of his blood dripped into the receptacle. Then he placed a cap on the horn, and released the dead body of his friend to the floor. It fell, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, dropping to the marble heels first, and then toppled back so the body, was lying face up on the cold floor. The head hit last with a dull thud. His black suit, and white sh
irt on the grey marble looked so out of place.

  Simon turned and approached Helen. He set the horn on the table, and watched the panic cross her face. He could feel the energy of it as she struggled to free herself. He stooped, and picked up a statue of a prancing horse, a gift from Jenny many years ago. He smiled slightly at the horror he saw reflected in her eyes.

  Unable to move, she waited for him, suspended and held by a mystical barrier. She looked delicate and graceful, like a dancer frozen by the camera lens. He approached slowly, enjoyed the moment, yet feeling sick to his stomach, wanting her to run. Raising the statue he brought it crashing down on her head, a grin of pure joy on his own face. As the figure connected, he felt her skull give, and warm blood splashed onto his hands.

  Helen fell to the floor, the light already gone from her eyes, blood gushed from her head. Just to be sure she was dead he kicked her still form again and again, each time he laughed as his foot connected with her body. He could feel the mania in him causing him to strike again and again. Each time his foot hit her in the chest, it was like hitting a cushion, the blow would sink into her flesh, and her body would rock away from him. At last he stopped.

  Then he stood over her, and pushed her once more with his blood covered foot. The foot felt warm, sticky and wet. She did not move. A pool of blood was rapidly spreading around her, and he was convinced of his success.

  Turning, he put the statue back on the surface, collected his horn and glass of blood, and walked calmly out of the room.

  Simon was shaking as the vision ended. It had been so real, he wanted to vomit, and at the same time he was filled with the emotions of triumph and euphoria.

  He rolled across the sweat-soaked sheets of his bed, and reached for the phone. Anxiety tingled up and down his arms. He must get to Jenny quickly. She must be with him before Saturday, her thirtieth birthday.

  Chapter Eight

  Doris could do nothing but watch as he walked away, so calm, so casual and so arrogant. He never glanced back, never even slowed his pace, just strolled to the stairs, and climbed out of the darkness. As his footsteps faded, the fog closed in around her. Its glow gave her a little more light, but this caused more unease than it offered comfort.

  Its presence was like the pressure you feel when you take off in an airplane. As it closed in, her ears popped. She cried out, and struggled once more against her restraints, but all she did was cause her muscles to cramp and her wrists to bleed. She wept again, but this time in pain.

  A noise from the seal stopped her. She lifted her head, and peered into the mist. Her every nerve was on edge. Tingles of adrenaline touched her skin like fire ants marching towards her pounding heart. She listened.

  The room itself seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. The sigh rose from the seal and challenged her. The force of it pushed her back into the post, the cross that she was tied to. Fear threatened to pull her down with its insidious might. She pressed her head against the post, and started to cry. Exhaustion followed the tears, and pulled her down into the nightmare world she experienced that night fifteen years ago.

  She was younger then, thirty, and had been with the Stephens for a few years. She loved her work, had settled in with them, and had almost become part of the family. Back then she still had dreams and hopes of rebuilding a life outside her job. Her own parents and a sister had died in a car crash a few years earlier, and she had been lost in grief. The Stephens had cared for her, looked after her when she needed it most.

  She was just starting to think about rebuilding her life when he had asked her out. He told her she must meet him away from the house, and must not tell the Stephens who she was meeting. It seemed romantic at the time, a secret rendezvous. They met in a friendly pub for a meal and a few drinks. She had worn her best dress, put up her dark brown hair, and even worn a touch of makeup.

  She arrived at the bar in her little Fiesta. His car was already there, a big blue BMW. It looked so very posh. He crossed to meet her, a beaming smile on his handsome face. Wearing black trousers and an open-necked shirt, which shimmered as he walked. The deep purple material was some form of brushed cotton, and it caught the fading sunlight. The sight of him caused a little flutter in her stomach, and a smile spread unbidden across her face.

  Though he often visited the Stephens’s house, she had never spoken to him. He’d always been aloof, a little snobby, and sometimes even downright creepy. She was surprised when he met her, exiting through the kitchen after one of his visits. He looked at her, a smile on his face, and that’s when he’d asked her to dinner. She could still remember her excitement. A blush had warmed her cheeks as she’d agreed.

  When they met, he took her hand, raised it to his lips and brushed them softly across her skin. The gesture had thrilled her, sending a shiver of pleasure down her spine. Guiding her to the pub, he opened the door, and ushered her inside, like a true gentleman.

  It had been an exciting night. This sophisticated man, gave her every courtesy. He opened doors, helped her with the menu, and complimented her on her looks. She laughed and chatted, hoping the evening would never end. It was wonderful to be out with an attractive man, enjoying the conversation. And he never once belittled her comments. He made her feel important, wanted, almost treasured.

  After the meal they talked for ages, and then he said he had to get some papers from home, would she like to come with him? He winked at her, told her he was a gentleman, and she had no fears about his intentions on a first date. But he had wagged a finger then, and said that after a few more dates, she may enjoy his intentions. She remembered how she had blushed at his comments.

  Back at his house, he ushered her into a study, and offered her a glass of wine. She remembered the room, dark oak-paneled walls, an impressive desk, and plush cream carpet. For a second she had fantasized about living there, causing her cheeks to redden with shame. She saw the chair in front of her, and wondered whether to sit. Then he waved a glass of wine, eyes raised in question. She accepted, wondering if she should, as she would be driving soon, but then she had declined wine with the meal, and one small glass would never hurt.

  He went behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder. She had felt a mild shiver of anticipation, and then before she could move, he muttered some words. Duratus intra potestas mea suscitavit. She remembered not being able to understand them, yet they were burned into her memory. As he finished, her body had stiffened. She opened her mouth, but was unable to scream, as her feet rose off the ground, and her head lowered till she was perpendicular in front of him. Suspended, she lay there on a cushion of air at around waist height.

  The cry still would not come, and the more she tried, the tighter her throat became. She tried to thrash her arms, to move, to hit out, to stand, but nothing happened. It was as if she was drugged. She still held the glass, having not even has the chance to sip the wine. It ran over the top of her hand. She could feel it as it trickled over her skin, and dripped onto the lush carpet below.

  He looked down at her, smiled a greasy, sickly smile, and whispered the word Numen. She found herself repeating it inside her head over and over again. Numen. She tried to stop, but could not. Fear slid down her spine like a cold knife, but Doris felt detached from what was happening, as if this was playing out in front of her, happening to someone else.

  He reached out to her, a blank smile on his face. Licking his lips, he moved his hands down to her body. One by one, he undid the buttons on her dress a boyish grin on his face. He stumbled with the first one, the tiny buttons awkward in his huge hands. His tongue, pink and fleshy, showed between his parted lips, bubbles of saliva forming beneath it.

  Buttons undone he raised her arms. She had no choice but to move them. They did as he wanted, even though inside she was thrashing, and tearing at him. Slowly, he pulled the dress over her head. She felt it sliding across her skin, over her face, blinding her for a second. She felt claustrophobic as it slipped over her neck, mouth, nose and eyes, and then it was gone. She was blu
shing, head to toe, but her skin remained white, uncolored by the blush that she felt in her mind. He tossed the dress casually onto a chair behind him.

  Next his hands reached forward, and stroked her shoulders, running down her skin. He gently cupped each breast. His touch was so real. She could see he was touching her could feel it. She could feel her skin as it twitched away from his fingers, but she never moved. He grinned salaciously as a tiny amount of saliva appeared at the corner of his eager mouth. Grinning even wider, he moved his hands from her breasts, sliding them around her back to the strap holding her practical white bra. She shuddered inside as he undid the strap. Not really a first date bra, she had thought earlier, but then she had not expected things to get this far. He removed the bra, and raised it to his face. He rubbed it across his lips and nose, inhaling with his eyes closed before throwing it on top of the dress.

  He slid his hands down her body, caressing her breasts and nipples. Doris felt her foot twitch. She was regaining some feeling, and with it came hope. As he squeezed her left nipple, he looked into her eyes. The coldness of that gaze froze the breath in her throat. Then he squeezed the right nipple hard. The pain caused her to cry out, but the noise was only in her mind. He left her breasts, sore and ashamed, and slid his smooth hands down her stomach to the elastic of her knickers. She could feel herself cringing. Her muscles spasmed as his hands traveled over her sensitive skin. But her body remained rock still, unable to move.

  Her knickers were also practical, white and large. He slipped his hand, warm now and slightly clammy, under the elastic and he laughed. “Well, Doris, I see you pulled out all the stops for our date. What a sexy beast you must be.” He grinned down at her face, his lips wide like the joker.

  She struggled and desperately fought against the force that held her. Just for a second her left leg moved, not much, maybe just a few millimeters. She felt triumph, and expected to break free.