Deadly Encounters

by Wycherley, Jeannie

  This is ridiculous she thought. He had probably gone up to his bedroom to get changed and fallen asleep. Or perhaps he had decided on a shower. Would she look desperate and stupid if she went up in search of him?

  She stood quietly at the bottom of the stairs. Again she could smell paint. It smelt fresher now as though someone in the house had started painting. Cilla checked the time: 2.42 a.m. She supposed Seth might be artistic. Perhaps he painted at night. Rock stars lived odd lives after all. She called again, and when she received no response she started to climb the stairs.

  The smell of oil based paint grew ever stronger. Cilla recognised it from her years of working as part of a stage crew. Mostly she painted things a rich oily black. Cilla moved along the first landing from bedroom to bedroom. The furnishings were simple but expensive, with a great deal of cream and beige everywhere, positively dull to Cilla’s eyes.

  The master bedroom however had been decorated in black and silver. With relief Cilla heard the shower running in the en suite, and she peeked into the bathroom to see Seth’s form outlined beyond the glass.

  Smiling, she turned and retraced her steps. Could it be feasible that this amazing rock superstar liked her? A plain and simple stagehand from a small town in the North of England? She hoped he would let her shower too. She had had a long day shifting sound gear and lights, helping out with anyone who needed an extra pair of hands.

  The smell of paint seemed stronger here. It appeared to be drifting down from the next landing up. Out of curiosity and feeling more secure, Cilla climbed the stairs to the next floor. This landing was far less opulent. The wood was plain, the floorboards bare. There were large ladders propped against the wall and paint trays and protective cloths scattered around. Several doors opening onto the landing stood ajar. The rooms beyond were empty. Obviously this part of the house had yet to be completed. Cilla lost herself in an adolescent fantasy. She imagined a nursery up here for her babies, but then she caught her breath. What a stupid romantic dream. She knew the reality was more likely to be one night of misspent passion and Seth would not remember her name in the morning.

  She turned back to the staircase and started to descend.

  A moan from behind her stopped her in her tracks. She stood still and listened.

  Nothing.

  Cilla frowned. She held her breath and listened. She thought she must have imagined the noise, but then it came again. Yes, no mistaking it.

  Cilla moved towards the noise and paused at the door. She held her breath and listened carefully. Another moan. It sounded thick and despairing, like a large animal in pain. With her heart beating hard in her chest, Cilla twisted the handle of the door. It rattled loosely, but it was locked. The moaning intensified on the other side of the door, and Cilla knew she had to get in. She hesitated. She took a few steps back and ran at the door, hitting it side on with her shoulder. The door gave easily, and Cilla almost fell into the room.

  Cilla didn’t understand what appeared in front of her. It was a large room at the back of the property. The walls were hung with stage blacks; dense heavy material that absorbed light. Dotted strategically around the room were some large stage lights suspended from lighting gantries. They were trained on a sculpture of some kind that inhabited the middle of the room. The sculpture sat on a floor cloth, which had probably once been black, but was now a lustrous shade of powder blue. The sculpture, or carving, or whatever you chose to call it, had been covered completely in light blue paint that shimmered softly in the light. Cilla stared at the sculpture in amazement. Was this an installation? Had Seth bought it? Or had he created it?

  The sculpture had been lit with clever use of stage lighting. Shadows flickered across the ceiling. Something in the room, something besides Cilla, had moved. Cilla jumped, startled. Adrenaline coursed through her blood stream. She drew a ragged breath and looked around. Nothing. Just her and the installation.

  Cilla inwardly smirked at herself. How ridiculous.

  She stared at the sculpture—for what else could she call it—in horrified fascination. At first she thought it had been carved using wood. Solid branches seemed to be sticking out at angles, distorted and reaching. Cilla stood, cocking her head to one side and squinting at what she was looking at. She reconsidered. The branches seemed to be all arms and legs. Those at the bottom of the pile looked like twisted and gnarled tree roots. But those higher up—and the pile stood approximately three to four feet high—did look more like limbs. Yes, in fact, Cilla moved closer … this appeared to be a pile of sculpted bodies, tangled up together.

  Cilla stepped towards the sculpture to get a closer look and then pulled herself up short. The moaning noise had come again, and it seemed to be coming from the sculpture in front of her.

  Cilla paused and then moved determinedly forwards. Her feet made sticking noises when she walked over the drying paint. She could make out heads and hair, torsos and breasts on the pile. The bodies were stacked up. But this was one amorphous structure, wasn’t it? The paint masked any real detail; it could be described as more of a suggestion of a pile of bodies. Isn’t that what modern art did? Suggested something to the viewer? Quite clever really.

  Cilla felt suddenly doubtful.

  She peered more closely at the sculpture, and her heart stopped for one awful second. Suddenly she knew, and her knees turned to water. The figure on the top of the sculpture was alive. It was a naked woman. Cilla could see the rise and fall of her breasts as she struggled to breathe. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, and paint bubbles blew from her nose. When she moaned, even her mouth and tongue were blue, and Cilla wondered whether someone had poured blue paint down her throat.

  Cilla dug her fingers into the paint around the woman’s face. The woman cried out in pain and fear. With shaking hands, Cilla clawed at the paint around the woman’s eyes and mouth. Underneath Cilla could see a faint hint of pink skin. The hair had congealed and matted and completely stuck to whatever was underneath. With a growing horror, Cilla realised that this was no representation. No. This was an actual pile of human bodies. One artfully arranged on top of another, the paint thrown over each new addition so that they were stuck together forming a single mass.

  More frantically now, Cilla tried to free the woman from the pile. Using the sides of her thumbs, she scraped the paint away from her face as best as she could. The woman’s eyes were grey, and she watched, terrified, as Cilla tried to free her. “It’s okay. It’s okay,” Cilla chanted, as much to herself as the woman. “I’m going to get you out of here. I’m going to get us both out of here.”

  Cilla started to work on the hands and arms but realised that the woman had been tied to the bodies beneath her. Shaking, Cilla stared at the bonds in disbelief. She would need something to cut the rope away from her. “I have to get a knife. A knife. Wait. Just a minute. I’ll be back. I promise. It’s going to be ok.” Cilla could hear the quivery panic in her voice, and she cut off a sob and tried to pull herself together. If she was going to rescue the woman and get her out of here, she needed to act fast and decisively.

  Turning, she ran straight into Seth’s fist.

  Her nose exploded in a rush of red, and she fell backwards onto the bodies behind her. She pushed against them and scrambled with her feet, trying to gain purchase on the sticky, wet floor. Seth punched her again on the side of the head, and she crumpled, lying dazed on the floor, while the blood from her nose ran down into her mouth and stars danced in her outer vision.

  Seth hauled her to her feet and threw her on top of the pile of bodies next to the moaning woman. Cilla tried valiantly to pull away, but Seth punched her in the stomach and she curled into a ball and then twisted to her side, trying to protect her head with her hands. Seth pulled her arms away one by one and tied them off. He looped a rope around her neck and pulled her head back so that it was trailing off the pile and her long dark hair draped down towards the floor. Seth reached for her legs, and Cilla managed to kick him hard. She heard
him curse, but he quickly had her under control. He splayed her legs wide apart and tightened the ropes viciously. When she cried out, he pulled on them again, and Cilla felt the ropes digging deep into her flesh, burning and pinching mercilessly.

  He set about cutting her clothes off with a long bone-handled knife. The blade was dull and occasionally he simply ripped the clothes from her, pulling her hard against the rope ties so that she cried out repeatedly.

  Seth moved out of Cilla’s vision for a while. She could hear him moving around in front of her. Occasionally he sighed, but with her head pulled so far back she couldn’t see what he was doing. A draft came from somewhere, probably up the stairs from the hall below. She lay unable to move, naked, cold, and exposed.

  Finally Seth appeared in her line of vision just to the side. Twisting her head slightly and straining her eyes to the left she could see that he was naked. He disappeared again and the next minute she could feel him nuzzling between her legs with his flaccid penis. He reached for her nipples, hard and pointed because of the cool temperature of the room. She heard him moan in satisfaction as he pinched both of them. She cried then and begged him to stop. He pinched her breasts hard and dug his nails into her tender skin, leaving welts of blood in crescent shaped holes.

  Seth drew away again. For a second Cilla was hopeful that he would finish and disappear, but no. He quickly returned. This time he was clutching a gallon can of powder blue paint and pouring it all over her. He emptied the can, stood back to admire his work and then began to rub the paint into Cilla’s skin.

  He rubbed and stroked her like a lover, his hands slippery with blue lubricant, firstly taking in her neck and shoulders, caressing her breasts, her stomach and pubis. His fingers were gentle now, tweaking her nipples and then slipping into the folds between her legs. He sighed in satisfaction. He was gentle and attentive and no part of her body went unexplored. More importantly, no part of her body from the shoulders down remained uncovered. He picked up another can and repeated the procedure again. And then again. The paint was starting to dry and harden in places and Cilla tried desperately to keep wriggling and moving, but Seth’s peculiar massage was oddly hypnotic and gradually Cilla gave herself up to it.

  Seth moved around to her head, and bending down he smiled into her eyes. “You are so beautiful,” he said. “You’re the cherry on my blue cake.”

  Seth picked up another can of paint and poured this onto Cilla’s hair. He worked it through her thick locks, scrunching and rubbing her hair so that every strand was covered. Cilla’s head dangled back, becoming heavier and heavier.

  “It’s quick drying paint.” Seth explained to her. “It’s very expensive. I have this colour custom made. Well, I can afford it, can’t I?”

  Seth started at her face. Cilla closed her eyes tightly and tried desperately to keep her mouth shut, but Seth had other ideas and his intrusive fingers worked their way into her ears, nose and mouth. The taste of paint was bitter in her mouth, making her gag and retch, but Seth was determined. “Don’t fuss so, sweetheart. It will be worse for you if you do. You can’t sit up now, and you don’t want to choke on your own vomit do you? That would be such a rock star way to go. And so messy.”

  When he was done, Seth moved away and out of her line of sight once more. Cilla heard the door click shut behind him, and she struggled against her bonds. She felt paint sucking and bubbling as she wriggled, but there was no way to free herself. She opened her eyes and opened and closed her mouth to stop the paint solidifying, but it became increasingly difficult. She lay for what seemed like hours, her body becoming more and more immobile. She was completely unable to move her head, her hair felt heavy and solid. Time passed and she found herself praying.

  Hours later, Seth came back into the room. He stood in front of Cilla’s face, but about eight feet away so that she could see the whole of him in all of his glory. He happily modelled a bright red robe. Freshly shaven, he had obviously cleaned the paint from himself and now smelled fragrant and expensive, with his wet hair framing his face in gentle waves. He dropped the robe off his shoulders so that Cilla could see that he had scrawled ‘Rock God’ in kohl eyeliner on his hairless chest.

  “We’re going to have so much fun, you and I, baby,” said Seth. “Days and days of it. Then I’m playing four gigs in Germany, but if you’re still up for it when I get back we can play again.”

  Seth dropped his robe completely, and Cilla found herself eye to eye with his enormous erection. Seth was swollen and wanting, and suddenly Cilla understood what the sculpture was for, why she was lying fixed and immobile in this position, at this angle, with her throat and mouth exposed. She stiffly opened her throat and screamed as loudly as she could as he moved towards her face.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’ve been writing short stories for the past five years –so I’m a relative newbie. You’ll see that some of these tales are early ideas, that formed bigger ideas, and became monsters. Does anyone recognize Aefre from CRONE in ‘In Kindness’?

  I owe my writing learning curve to a few key people. To Alex Davis who held a horror weekend in Derbyshire which I attended in November 2012. Alex blew my mind with his wealth of knowledge and I learned a huge amount which set me off with short story writing. Simon Bestwick ran a workshop on the Sunday of that weekend, and the content has stayed with me ever since. I find him inspirational. Thanks to both!

  I owe a massive debt of gratitude to Charlie Haynes from The Writer’s Playground, because she has facilitated and encouraged my writing every step of the way for five years now.

  To my Dad, because he shares his short stories with me and we are a little competitive at times!

  To John Wycherley, who is never afraid to tell me, “That’s rubbish.” Only those stories that pass muster with my husband made it into this anthology, so you can thank him for his quality control. Or not …

  To Amie McCracken for editing the full range of stories you find herein and doing a great job. Many thanks!

  And finally, to you, my reader. Thank you for honouring my stories by reading them. It means the world to me.

  Mind how you go now! X

  Jeannie Wycherley

  21st July 2017

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jeannie Wycherley is a writer, copywriter and gift shop proprietor who resides somewhere between the forest and the coast in East Devon, UK. Her work is inspired by the landscape, not least because her desk affords her sweeping views over a valley and the glorious hills beyond. Why this translates into horror is anybody’s guess.

  ALSO BY JEANNIE WYCHERLEY

  If you go down to the woods today, you’d better not go alone.

  If you enjoyed Deadly Encounters, you may like Jeannie’s debut novel, Crone, released 3rd May 2017.

  “I stood in front of the tree once more, the bark rough beneath my fingertips. This time I knew the truth. I swore on my son’s life that he would be avenged. Somehow, someway, I would have my revenge.”

  Heather Keynes’ teenage son died in a tragic car accident. Or so she thinks. However, deep in the wilds of the Devon countryside, an ancient evil has awoken … No-one is safe.

  When Heather determines the true cause of her son’s death, she is hell-bent on vengeance. Determined to halt the march of the Crone once and for all, hatred becomes the ultimate weapon. Furies collide in this twisted tale of murder, magic and salvation.

  Crone is a mild horror, dark fantasy, part mystery, part thriller, so there’s something for everyone, and is available from the usual places.

  Jeannie’s Autumn 2017 release will be the psychological horror, The Jumpers. If you would like further information about this or any new releases, please do sign up for the newsletter

  @ http://www.jeanniewycherley.com

  You can tweet Jeannie @thecushionlady

  Find Jeannie on Facebook: Jeannie Wycherley

  PRAISE FOR CRONE

  BY JEANNIE WYCHERLEY

  “Kept me gripped right until the end
.”

  “A real page-turner, atmospheric, with twists and turns and a dizzying climax!”

  “Nothing was certain or predictable. A dark and dangerous read

  rooted in a world that's real and recognisable but takes you into truly magical realms.”

  “One of those stories that taps into natural fears, stories of old and country life. I enjoyed every page of it.”

  “Stunningly atmospheric! Gothic & timeless set in the beautifully described Devon landscape .... Twists and turns.”

  “Crone is a really good horror read. For a debut novel, it is impressive.”

  “I just couldn't put it down particularly at the end. I kept thinking how the hell is Heather going to get out of this crazy situation? The plot was really clever, fantastical but really believable too.”

  “There was a richness to even the more peripheral and background characters. This was a really impressive debut novel.”

  “Incredibly twisty and dark but also beautiful and lyrical, this book is one that you won't want to put down.

  PREVIOUSLY PUBLISHED

  A Conversation with Death (by Betty Gabriel) was previously published in Things That go Bump in the Night! Women in Horror Month, by The Sirens Call eZine, February 2016.