by West, Sam
Instead she saw madness, the outrageous scene illuminated by a streak of lightning in the rain-soaked night.
“Oh, dear God,” she whispered, staggering backwards.
In her front garden was a small group of people. But ‘people’ in the loosest sense of the word. There was a slim naked girl who balanced on only one leg, cradling her head in her arms. Her long hair swept the ground, a brilliant shade of red.
The trees that lined the edge of the small front-lawn no longer looked like trees, but demons, the branches having morphed into long, spindly arms.
Next to the naked, headless girl stood a good-looking, naked couple – a man and a woman – smeared in blood. The woman was eating something big, and, only when the blinds had fallen back into place did Helen realise what it had been – a human foot.
Movement out of the corner of her eye caused her to spin round. The book, which lay on the floor where she had chucked it, was opening by itself. The pages flicked past at speed, before settling on the final page.
“What do you want from me?” she screamed at the godforsaken book. “Oh, fuck this,” she added, lunging for the living-room door.
As if in a dream, she couldn’t run. Like her nightmare of being stuck in some unspeakable, gooey substance, or the one where her limbs simply wouldn’t work, she found herself rooted to the spot.
And she was being tugged backwards, towards the book.
“No,” she went to scream, but the words were sucked from her lungs, leaving just a silent cry.
Déjà vu, was her final thought before the book swallowed her whole and severed all conscious thought.
XXIII
Roger let himself into his house at exactly twelve fifteen.
“Honey, I’m home,” he called.
Shit, I sound like a drunk. Be sober, for fuck’s sake… Hey, maybe she’s in bed waiting for me.
The though brought a smile to his face, and he made for the stairs, not even bothering to take off his duffel-coat or shoes. He was pissed wet through because the heavens had opened on his way home, and the rational, sober part of his brain recognised that she would be mad if he traipsed muddy shoes all over their new, cream, stair-carpet.
But Roger didn’t care too much about such trivialities, there were ten pints of bitter sloshing around inside of him, and by God, he fucking loved his girlfriend. Not one of those silly tarts in their silly little mini-skirts had caught his eye because he was with the best-looking, and the god-damn nicest, cleverest bird in the whole wide world.
In fact, one day very soon, he was going to ask her to marry him.
He staggered on the stairs, muttering crossly to himself like the drunk that he was tonight, then burst into their bedroom.
“Honey, I’m…. Oh. You’re not here.”
Well. That was strange. Where the hell was she? The bathroom door was ajar, revealing nothing, and the bed in the spare box-room was neatly made-up and empty. She had to have been in the downstairs toilet off the kitchen, he reasoned…
But she wasn’t there either.
Roger stood in the middle of the living-room, turning slowly round on the spot in confusion.
“Helen?” he called out to the empty room, then, pissed or not, felt a bit of a twat for doing so. “Where the fuck are you?” he muttered.
Something on the floor caught his eye and he bent over to pick it up.
A book, made of skin?
On closer inspection, he saw that the book wasn’t really made of skin. Or at least, he hoped so. On the skin-like cover were the words, ‘The Collection’, looking very much like bright-red cuts, slashed into flesh.
Stop being such a stupid twat, he chided himself.
But a chill had settled into his bones and despite the warmth of the well-heated house, he couldn’t stop his teeth from chattering.
Really shouldn’t be standing here in these wet clothes then, should you?
Outside, a thunderstorm raged.
Where’s that storm come from all of a sudden? Yeah, it was raining, but that storm’s just mental…
Oh my God, Helen, where are you?
What if she’s been abducted? What if she’s left me?
What if she’s dead?
Dead? Why would she be dead?
His mind went into overdrive, imagining where the hell Helen could be.
“She’s probably just pissed off at me and gone to stay with a girlfriend for the night.”
He said the words, but he didn’t quite believe them. As he spoke to himself and wondered if he should call the police, he found himself opening the book.
The first few lines had him crying out in terror….
Helen Clarke stretched out on the long, red leather sofa, her gaze drawn to the clock above the bookcase.
It’s only half-seven, what am I going to do with myself for the rest of the night?
Shocked to his core, Roger sank to his knees and stared in disbelief at the book in his trembling hands.
“Helen?” he called out. “Are you here? Is this a joke?”
There was no answer except for a clap of thunder, and the worst feeling in the world churned in his guts.
On his knees with tears blurring his vision, he began to read...
The End.
Hello dear reader, thanks for reading, and if you’re back for more, thanks so much for your continued support. It truly means the world to me and I am eternally grateful.
If you liked this and are new to my work, be sure to check out my author page over on Amazon.
Below, I have enclosed the first chapter of ‘Snuff Club’. Thanks again and sweet nightmares,
Sam.
CHAPTER ONE OF SNUFF CLUB
Steven Andrew Jones, or just plain ‘Stevie’, rested his head against the bus window, his heart heavy because he was almost home. Beyond the window it was grey and raining; it was always grey and raining in Greater Manchester.
His ghostly reflection in the glass stared back at him, his eyes empty sockets in his thin face, streaming with rain that looked like tears.
His stop loomed ahead, just two doors down from 249 Astley Street; the house on the busy through-road he was doomed to share with his twenty-seven-year-old brother and his slag of a girlfriend.
The hydraulics of the bus screeched noisily as it came to a halt and he lurched to his feet, shuffling off the bus with his rucksack slung over one shoulder, looking much younger than his eighteen years.
Happy birthday to me, he thought miserably. He wondered if his brother had planned anything nice for him. He wondered if he had even remembered.
As soon as his trainers hit the pavement, a car swung in front of him on the wide pavement.
Her car.
His heart started to hammer and all the moisture sucked out of his mouth as the Ford Escort pulled into the short driveway of the house next door, tucking up behind the white van.
Walking slowly on the off chance that she would get out of her car quicker than he would reach his front gate, he made a big show of rummaging through his rucksack for his door keys.
Which was a load of bollocks, because the front door was always open anyway because Mark’s mates were in and out constantly and rarely bothered with the niceties of ringing the doorbell.
The engine died and her car-door creaked open. Stevie did his best not to spin round and gawp.
“Hello Steven, how are you?” she called over to him.
She had to be the only person in the world that called him Steven rather than Stevie. He liked that. Yes, he liked that a lot.
He swivelled on the spot and shyly raised his hand in greeting. “Oh, hello Julie. Did you have a good day at work?”
She smiled at him, and it was like the sun cutting through the constant grey skies. Even with her blonde hair scraped off her face and wearing the sack-like, blue nurse’s uniform courtesy of the NHS, she still managed to look like she had just stepped out of the pages of NUTS magazine.
“Fine, thanks. How was college?”
“Good.”
Her gorgeous smile broadened. “Good for you, get those A levels and make something of yourself. You can be anything you want to be, Steven, never forget that.”
Stevie was rooted to the spot, transfixed by her dazzling beauty. His face burned hot, and he prayed that the grey skies of Tyldesley drained the colour from his cheeks as surely as it did everything else.
Say something, for fuck’s sake.
“Well, better be getting in,” she said. “It’s raining, just for a change. Have a good night.”
“Sure, you too,” he said, but he was pretty sure she hadn’t heard him because she had already turned her back and the roar of traffic magnified by the rain drowned out his reedy, love-struck voice.
The euphoria of seeing her and actually speaking to her was quickly replaced by sadness.
The grim reality of home awaited.
*****
Julie pushed open the front-door, all thoughts of ‘Stevie’ vanishing from her head as soon as he was out of sight.
“Hello?” she called out in the small, tidy hallway.
She could smell dinner in the oven. Beef casserole, she thought, and smiled.
“Hey, baby,” Grant said from the kitchen. “How was work?”
“Fine,” she said, going through and planting a kiss on her fiancé’s lips. “How was your day? Dinner smells great.”
“Fine. I missed you, though, days off are no fun without you.” He opened the oven door, peering at the bubbling pot. “Who were you talking to outside?”
“That kid from next door.”
Grant frowned. It didn’t suit him, he had a happy face that spoke of a million laughing fits and the sudden crease between his dark eyebrows just looked wrong.
“I’m not sure you should be talking to that lot, they’re fucking awful.”
She swatted him on the arm. “Language! And don’t be mean. Steven’s a sweet kid. Can you imagine losing your dad like that to alcoholism? Can you imagine what it must feel like to know that your mother died giving birth to you? It’s just so sad.”
“Maybe. But his brother is scum.”
“Their dad didn’t die that long ago. God, what that poor kid must have been through…”
Her voice trailed off thinking about the boy next door. He always seemed so lost, so forlorn. She guessed him to be around seventeen – far too young to be alone in the world. He was different from his big brother. Grant was right, Mark was bad news. But Steven was different, she could tell.
“They are shit, sweetheart. Pure shit, through and through.”
Julie rolled her eyes. “For a nice guy, you can be pretty judgemental.”
“I’m serious, sweetheart, they’re bad news. I worry when you talk to them.”
He was looking at her with such intensity, that she couldn’t help but smile. “You know, for a brickie, you’re pretty in touch with your intuitive, feminine side.”
“Thinking that they’re scum has got nothing to do with being intuitive. I don’t think we should encourage them, or get involved. Just keep it polite and distant, yeah?”
“That’s what I do,” she said. “What’s the harm in saying hello on the street?”
“I’ve seen the way that kid moons after you. He’s got a crush, baby, it’s as plain as day.”
Julie squirmed in discomfort at the thought. “Don’t be silly, he’s just a kid.”
“Yeah, a horny pubescent with a constant bloody hard-on.”
“Will you please stop?” she said, slapping his arm again. “Besides, we’ve almost got our deposit together, then we can move away from this dump.”
“And not a moment too soon. I really didn’t think Tyldesley was as shit as this.”
“Yeah,” she said, falling silent.
Grant was right. Tyldesley was shit. They had only moved here because the rent was a damn sight cheaper than in the centre of Manchester and it was a convenient location for both their jobs.
But it was cheap with good reason. Unemployment was rife, drugs were openly dealt, crime was the norm, and the streets were ankle-deep in litter…
Julie shuddered; thank God they were getting out.
*****
“Oi, Stevie, you perving over that slag next door again?” his brother Mark said by way of greeting.
Stevie paused in the tiny, grubby hallway, desperate to leg-it upstairs to his box bedroom but not wanting to piss off Mark. If Mark wanted to talk, then he’d better make damn sure he did, or else.
“No,” he mumbled, blushing hard.
Mark was sitting on the tatty grey sofa with Crystal, his arm draped over her shoulder. A joint dangled from his fingers, which he passed to his girlfriend. He was wearing a tight, white t-shirt with his designer, grey jogging bottoms, and Stevie’s gaze was drawn to his biceps.
I swear, he gets bigger every day.
Fleetingly, he wondered if he would get as big as Mark if he worked out. They shared the same genetics, didn’t they? You wouldn’t think it to look at them; Mark was well over six foot and big boned. Stevie was five foot nine, skinny, and slight. Mark’s wiry black hair, which he wore close to his scalp, strong jaw, and big nose was the polar opposite to his own floppy, dark-blonde hair, perfectly oval face and straight nose. Mark looked like a brute, and Stevie a choirboy. The only facial similarity they had in common were the same, piercing, powder-blue eyes; a trait passed down from their long-dead mother.
“Aw,” leave him alone, Crystal giggled. “Little Stevie-weevie has a little crushy-wushy.”
Someone else snorted laughter from the kitchen and Stevie’s heart sank further. He recognised that rapid-fire, high-pitched giggle. Sure enough, Ratski appeared in the doorway that separated the living-room from the kitchen, three tins of lager in one splayed hand.
Ratski – real name Ryan Eaves – handed Mark and Crystal a tin of lager each and sat down on the armchair opposite. He was called Ratski because he was thin and weaselly with shoulder-length, ratty hair and he had a long, narrow nose that vaguely resembled a ski-slope.
“Maybe Stevie should go and get himself a real girlfriend and stop lusting after a bird old enough to be his mother,” Ratski said, snapping back the ring-pull of his lager and simultaneously checking his phone.
“Yeah, like, how old is she, anyway? Forty?” Crystal said.
“Nah, thirty if a day,” Mark replied helpfully, “and she is fucking hot.”
Crystal’s face fell; if looks could kill, Mark would have undoubtedly been dead.
Jealous bitch, Stevie thought with a stab of satisfaction. At twenty, Crystal may have been a good ten years younger than Julie, but she couldn’t hold a torch to her. Crystal was quite pretty, but she was trash, through and through. Everything about her was trash, from the miniskirts and skyscraper heels she wore, to her fake tan, inch-thick make-up, hoop earrings and dyed-black hair which she always wore scraped off her forehead in a high-bun.
“Yeah, well she looks way older,” she pouted. “I don’t know why Stevie likes her so much.”
“I don’t like her,” he muttered, edging towards the stairs. “Just bein’ nice, that’s all.”
Mark snorted laughter. “Fucking bullshit. Grab a beer and join us.”
Mark patted the empty space next to him on the sofa and Stevie could’ve cried. All he wanted to do was lock himself away in his room, surf for porn on the net and do his English and Sociology homework.
Julie’s voice rang in his mind: You can be anything you want to be, Steven. Never forget that…
Sure. Try telling my brother that.
“You coming in, fucktard, or are you just going to stand there gawping?”
Ratski giggled and Stevie contemplated telling them all to fuck off.
Then he thought of his brother pummelling him and decided not to; his ribs still ached from the beating he’d got last week.
Trying not to be too obvious about it, he tucked his rucksack behind the living-room door, hoping that there it would
be ‘out of sight, out of mind’. Mark wasn’t adverse to rootling through it when the fancy took him and tearing up his college notes.
Stevie made his way into the kitchen and opened the mouldy fridge, helping himself to can of lager that he really didn’t want to drink.
CHAPTER TWO
Back in the living-room, Mark had fallen silent. Stevie watched him, a knot of apprehension in the pit of his stomach. He recognised that look in Mark’s eyes and he didn’t like it one bit. Mark was pissed off about some perceived injustice or other, and that didn’t bode well for any of them.
Tentatively, he sat next to him on the sofa, wishing that he was anywhere but where he was.
“Curly and Dairy are coming round in a bit,” Ratski said, not looking up from his phone, seemingly oblivious to Mark’s sudden, black mood.
Fucking wonderful, Stevie silently fumed. All the cunts together.
“Good. I’m almost out of gear,” Mark said, sucking hard on the joint.
“Save some for me,” Crystal said, extending a hand complete with hot-pink fingernails.
“Fuck off,” Mark said. “I think you’ve had enough.”
Stevie winced.
What the fuck’s rattled his cage now?
Crystal fell silent; obviously, she knew better than to reply. The semi-detached house was small and Stevie knew for a fact that he wasn’t the only person Mark got fist-happy with on occasion. He could hear Crystal’s muffled screams coming from the bedroom at night. He bet that her torso was black with bruises – Mark never hit where it would show.
Crystal fumbled in her sparkly, gold handbag for her phone and frowned in concentration at the lit-up screen. She shuffled out from under his arm and propped her back up against the arm-rest with her bare toes resting against Mark’s thigh.
“What you doin’?” Mark asked her.
“Nothin.”
“Yeah, you are. I bet you’re on facebook again.”
“Hey!” she protested when without warning he snatched her phone out of her hand. “What the hell are you doin’?”