A scream bubbled up in Joseph's throat, but a pain in his chest swallowed the sound. He dropped to the floor, his knees popping under the strain. One hand clutched at his shirt, twisted into a claw as if he sought to tear open his chest and free his burning heart.
Joseph slumped across the filthy floorboards in the bathroom; too infected by pain to realise there should have been lino on the floor. The agony set his lungs on fire as he struggled to take fitful breaths, torn at the edges and too shallow to be useful.
“Mr Petersen? I heard a thud, are you alright?” 5B's voice drifted along the hallway. He scrabbled towards the door, his fingers raking through the congealed mess on the floor, and he made it across the threshold. He tried to crawl further along the passage towards the front door but his legs refused to obey. Panic gripped him, and he croaked a plea for help. The pain stole his words and his mouth flapped silently as footsteps approached along the hall.
“Oh my God, Mr Petersen!”
His vision darkened, and the floorboards creaked as she knelt beside him. She felt his neck for a pulse, prodding below his ear.
“Stay here, I'll go and phone for an ambulance.” She stood and ran out of the door. Joseph grimaced, despite the pain – where did she think he was going to go?
Another fist of agony gripped his heart, and he fought for breath, willing it into his wheezing lungs. He ceased to care whether 5B had found her mobile, and he was no longer interested in serving 6B with a termination notice. When his ribs stopped heaving, he looked for all the world like another pile of old rags.
~~~
Effie Wade, also known among other less flattering things as 5B by her landlord and neighbours, hurried along the hallway towards the safety of the landing.
She'd barely registered the mess in the apartment, but the darkness was difficult to miss. Really, didn't Mr Petersen check the references of his tenants? Her own had been impeccable, of course, although it was a constant source of irritation that she had to live in a place like this to start with. At least once she'd finished her book, then things would be different. They simply had to be.
She was halfway down the stairs, cursing herself for not bringing her mobile phone with her, when she heard footsteps below. Her neighbour in 5A was away for the week, and 6A never returned before 5pm, so it could only be 6B himself. Perhaps he had a mobile phone she could use – it was the least he could do, given it was probably the state of the flat that had given Mr Petersen a heart attack.
Effie reached the bottom of the stairs and waited. Moments later, the short man from 6B appeared on the landing. He stared at her with those cold, dead eyes of his, and she suppressed a shudder.
“I can help you?” The rasp of his voice grated on Effie’s already-shattered nerves, and she decided to overlook his poor grasp of English for the time being.
“Do you have a telephone? A mobile phone? Mr Petersen has been taken ill in your flat, I need to phone for an ambulance.”
“Telephone is in flat. You come.”
The short man slid past her and clumped up the stairs, pausing once to nod his head upwards. Effie grimaced and followed him. Why didn’t I think to look for a phone in the flat? I could have called an ambulance and been waiting downstairs by now.
Effie hurried back up the stairs after him, forgetting about her book for the first time in weeks. She found the short man from 6B standing outside his open door, his head tilted back as he sniffed the air.
“We should be in more of a hurry. Mr Petersen needs an ambulance now,” she said.
“Yes, yes.”
6B toddled into the apartment. Effie watched him disappear into the gloom and thought again about what an odd gait he had. Perhaps he had some sort of mobility problems, which could explain the strange noises at night.
“Ah. Mr Landlord. This is not good.” The short man’s voice sounded hollow inside the flat. Effie edged closer to the door, unwilling to step inside. She held the sleeve of her cardigan over her mouth in an attempt to blot out the stench.
“He needs an ambulance!” she shouted through her sleeve. What on earth was he doing?
“You come, sit with him while I call.”
Effie groaned, and stepped into the apartment. She kept her eyes fixed on the dim glow of the bathroom, ignoring the voices in her head that screamed warnings about heading to the light.
Mr Petersen lay where she’d left him, and her fingers again sought out his pulse. Nothing fluttered against her fingers; no fragile attempt to cling to life. Gently she lifted his body to check his face, to maybe close his eyes, but a scream erupted in her throat when she saw the smear of blood across the front of his shirt. She followed the trail down his body and along the floor, leading into the bathroom.
She hauled herself up onto shaking legs, clinging to the doorframe for support. She peered into the bathroom, and another scream, this one too violent to be born, paralysed her throat as she took in the bloody skins hung up to dry above the bath.
“You should not have come.”
Effie whirled around at the sound of 6B’s voice, but the bat connected with her skull before she could see he was armed. Stars exploded across her vision, and she screamed at her legs not to fail her. They ignored her, and she crumpled to the floor, one hand landing in the sticky pool beside Mr Petersen. She fell unconscious to the sounds of her own voice berating her for ever getting involved.
~~~
The short man stood over the body of the woman. He recognised her from 5B – she was the creature that filed endless complaints against him. Stupid woman – what business did she have in his den? She would be downstairs in her own little abyss working on more things to complain about if she had just left things alone. Alone…yes, she was lonely. He smelled it on her on the stairs. She reeked of it. So did the landlord. All those pheromones when he wore the blond woman. Disgusting.
The short man sniffed the air to be sure. No, no signs of life here. Recently, yes, but not now. He snapped off the bathroom light, his eyes happiest in the gloom. He liked darkness, a comforting blanket that blotted out the world.
He nudged 5B aside with his foot. The landlord lay prone on the floor, one hand at his chest, his face twisted into an expression that could have been anger or inflamed passion. The short man smirked, thinking of the man’s lust. Heartache after all.
The short man reached his fingers around the back of his neck and pried the skin away from a glistening black spinal column. The skin peeled away easily, and the creature stepped out of the suit. It unfurled its long limbs and stretched, its joints popping as they snapped back into place.
It was glad to be free of the short man’s prison, able to move long legs at more than an awkward shuffle. It crossed the corridor to the bedroom and hung the suit in the wardrobe, beside the tall attractive woman’s skin. Oh yes, the landlord had liked that skin. He'd made that very clear.
The creature gently peeled away its human face, and deposited it in the empty jar by the door. It took up the skinning knife from the cabinet and skittered back into the corridor where it bent its long nose and sniffed the landlord.
No scent of life, but it didn't hurt to be sure.
It nudged the landlord with one claw. Nothing. The creature allowed itself a tiny crow of satisfaction. Yes, this was very good. The other tenants would let it in now, dressed as their landlord. And two for the price of one. The tenant in 5B would make a lovely new suit. Very roomy.
Light flashed on the creature’s blade. It swayed with joy, humming the opening bars to Eleanor Rigby as it worked. It didn’t understand music, not really, but it understood that humans liked it, and that in itself was useful information. It often found new skins at the discotheque three streets away, where humans copulated in the alleyway and deposited the contents of their stomachs on the pavement. Those skins needed an awful lot of cleaning.
The landlord proved to be especially easy – age had loosened his skin, and the creature hung him up in the bathroom with the others. It had a v
ague understanding of commerce, and it needed finance to pay its rent. Besides, others would come once the landlord was missed, but it would be gone by then, set up in another building in another town.
There was a much bigger city several miles away that it could try. Perhaps it would even find another of its kind, hiding in plain sight. The creature did not understand loneliness, but it did understand its need to hear the clicks and whistles of its own language, its desire to curl up alongside the insectoid form of another.
It took longer to prepare 5B. The creature berated itself for using the bat, and carefully removed the scalp around the wound. Perhaps it could use the blonde woman’s hair instead. No one in the building knew 5B that well. They may not even notice.
The creature could sense that night had fallen by the time it had finished with 5B. Her skin hung alongside the landlord’s, her face in a jar by the bathroom door. It left their remains in the bath tub to congeal – raw flesh tasted too metallic for its palate. The creature preferred a flavour of age in its meals.
Thoughts of food turned once again to money. The creature knew it would need more money for a flat somewhere else – and without 5B snooping around, or the landlord getting under its feet, it could find money in the very same building.
Once again the blond woman’s skin was selected from the wardrobe, and the creature slipped into its long limbs and tiny waist with ease. It contorted its face to match the contours of the woman, and stretched to allow the skin to settle. This skin would last for some time, its form better suited to the creature than the short man.
It tottered out of the flat on too-high heels. Music came from the flat next door, and the creature peered out of the landing window. A clock hung outside the pawnbroker’s across the street, and it announced the time as 7:30pm. 6A was home now – and the creature remembered the way the young man looked at the blond woman. 6A would let it in.
The creature listened, and attempted a smile when it recognised the song coming from inside 6A. Eleanor Rigby.
It knocked on the door.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Clockhouse London Writers was formed in October 2012 by Allen Ashley. It is an advanced writing group dedicated to writing short fiction within the broad science fiction / fantasy / horror / slipstream fields. The group – collectively or individually – has achieved a huge number of publishing credits since its formation, including seven collaborative pieces published in either The BFS Journal or issues of Sein und Werden. Check out clockhouselondonwriters.wordpress.com. The individual writers contributing to ‘The Silencing Machine’ were all founder members: Allen Ashley, David Turnbull, Mark Lewis and Gary Budgen.
Christopher Beck was born in San Diego, California but was raised in Southern New Jersey, where he still resides. His love for reading and writing started at a young age and his short stories have appeared in numerous anthologies, with more forthcoming. Recently, Christopher became a member of the HWA. He lives alone and is something of a book hoarder. He works as a hotel Front Desk Manager, is always thinking about writing, and always finding new ways to hone his skills in procrastination. Follow him on Facebook at facebook.com/chrifive.
Native of Plymouth, Devon, Adrian Cole has been writing for nearly 40 years – sf, fantasy, S&S, horror, both short fiction and some 26 novels. He has had horror published in collections by Stephen Jones, Mary Danby, Richard Davis, Hugh Lamb, Lin Carter, Ellen Datlow and others. His most recent novel The Shadow Academy was published by Edge SF and F Books, and also the collection Nick Nightmare Investigates, tales of the hard-boiled occult private eye, from Alchemy Press. Adrian’s hobbies include cycling, swimming in the briny stuff, following Plymouth Argyle, movies, books, comics and generally enjoying life as a retired Old Codger. Married to the lovely Judy.
Stephanie Ellis is currently a Learning Support Assistant in a Southampton secondary school but previously worked for many years as a technical author. Her genre fiction short stories have found success in issues of Massacre Magazine and Sanitarium magazine as well as in anthologies including Alchemy Press’ Kneeling in the Silver Light, Mystery and Horror LLC’s History and Horror, Oh My!, Sky Warrior Books’ Vampires Still Don’t Sparkle and Visionary Press’ Horror in Bloom, as well as in KnightWatch Press collections including The Last Diner and Cadavers. Samples of her writing can be found at stephellis.weebly.com and she is on twitter at @el_stevie.
James Everington is a writer of supernatural fiction whose work has appeared in Dark Moon Digest, Supernatural Tales, The Outsiders and Little Visible Delight, amongst others. His second collection of short stories, Falling Over, is out now from Infinity Plus and a monthly serial, The Quarantined City, was released in 2015 by Spectral Press. He has a black cat and cream carpets, which shows how much thought he puts into those parts of his life that aren't book-related. Oh and he drinks Guinness, if anyone's asking.
David (D.T.) Griffith could write a happy story as long as it ends with someone dying or falling into a pit of self-loathing and derangement. He draws inspiration from classic and modern works of noir, dystopia, horror, and other dark fiction, weaving those elements into his own brand of storytelling. Educated in fine arts and creative writing, he has led a productive career in the creative and communication fields. He can be found sharing his thoughts on writing, books, and the world at large at dtgriffith.com and as @dtgriffith on Twitter.
Christine Morgan works the overnight shift in a psychiatric facility, which plays havoc with her sleep schedule but allows her a lot of writing time. A lifelong reader, she also reviews, beta-reads, occasionally edits and dabbles in self-publishing. Her other interests include gaming, history, superheroes, crafts, cheesy disaster movies and training to be a crazy cat lady. She can be found online at facebook.com/christinemorganauthor and christinemariemorgan.wordpress.com.
Frank (F.A.) Nosić was born and raised in Mississauga, Ontario, Canada and educated at McMaster University, receiving his M.A. in History in 2013. He is an avid lover of philosophy, video games, and horror, and often indulges in all three, especially when they are combined into a single medium. When this happens, he becomes incredibly happy. He currently lives in Burlington, Ontario, fueled by copious amounts of coffee, tea, and heavy metal music, writing as much as his heart will allow.
Russell Proctor is an Australian writer, but has also been many other things in his working life, including a lawyer, teacher, professional actor, medical project manager and pizza delivery boy. Writing credits include the horror mash-up series The Jabberwocky Book, a science-fiction series about terrorism in the future and a sci-fi/fantasy/philosophy satire, Plato’s Cave. He thinks semi-colons are cool. When not writing he travels to exotic places and tries to get lost; sometimes he succeeds. Further information about him and his work can be found at his website: russellproctor.com.
The author of over sixteen short stories, of which ‘Many Happy Returns’ is his latest, Kyle Rader is someone who doesn’t like to color within the lines. He writes across multiple genres with the expressed goal of doing the unexpected and, above all, not boring his readers. He lives in New Hampshire and enjoys playing guitar poorly, yelling at his television, and, when time permits, the occasional skylark. He can be found online at kylerader.net.
Icy Sedgwick was born in the North East of England, and lives and works in Newcastle, where she teaches graphic design and illustration. She has been writing for over ten years, and had her first book The Guns of Retribution, published in 2011. Her horror fantasy The Necromancer’s Apprentice, was released in March 2014. She spends her non-writing time working on a PhD in Film Studies, considering the use of set design in contemporary horror. She also knits up a storm and makes jewellery! You can find her on Twitter @IcySedgwick or read her free fiction at icysedgwick.com.
Phil Sloman is a horror writer from the south coast of England with a slew of horror stories scattered across the ether. He likes to peak behind the curtain of reality and see what might be lurking there in the darkness. Sometimes he writes
down what he sees. In the humdrum of everyday life, Phil lives with an understanding wife and a trio of vagrant cats who tolerate their human slaves. There are no bodies buried beneath the patio as far as he is aware or foxes bringing gifts; as yet. Occasionally he can be found lurking at insearchofperdition.blogspot.co.uk or wasting time on Facebook – come say hi.
Christopher Stokes was born on 8th January and currently resides in Walsall in the West Midlands. After attaining his GCSE's and also finishing his A-Level studies he decided to try and turn a life-long passion for writing into a career. With the constant support from his family, he has been able to complete two novels in the fantasy and horror genres. Chris has also used his passion for art in order to create a plethora of illustrated children's books aimed at a variety of age groups, from two year olds to twelve year olds. He loves all things in relation to science fiction and horror. Inspirations for his work are authors such as George R.R Martin, J.R.R Tolkien, Stephen King and children's author Roald Dahl. He is also inspired by illustrator Quentin Blake.
Since he already wears glasses, is relatively mild-mannered, works for a major metropolitan newspaper, and has the initials 'C' and 'K' in his real name, this first-time-published writer decided to use Lucas Williams as his pseudonym so he could add a secret identity to the mix. It's uncanny how no one has ever seen him and his co-author in the same place at the same time.
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