Twist and Scream - Volume 5 (Horror Short Stories)

by Jayne Bartholomew

  Twist and Scream 5

  Eight horror short stories

  Volume five

  By Jayne Bartholomew

  Copyright @ 2014 Jayne Bartholomew

  All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents

  Food of Love

  Running out of Time

  A Life worth Living

  Lucky Break

  Hair Extensions

  Enslaved

  Distractions

  A Fighting Chance

  Food of Love

  The man opposite me takes a tissue out of his jacket pocket and wipes the sweat off his forehead that threatens to cascade down his face in tiny rivulets. He blushes, a blotchy red flush, before replacing the sodden tissue back into his pocket and apologising. I dismiss the apology with a smile and lean forward to fill his glass with the Merlot my boyfriend usually orders, flashing my cleavage with an unspoken promise as I do so.

  The evening is going better than expected.

  Daniel looks nothing like the profile picture on the dating website. For a start the image showed a man at least ten years younger and eighty pounds lighter. He’s looking at me, again, with happy confusion; I doubt many women stayed on after the initial meeting. My picture, while recent, was also misleading. The cheerful summer dress I’m shown wearing is as unfamiliar to me as a light salad is to Daniel, but it looked less intimidating than my usual darker shades and so served its purpose well. The season has now turned to winter and the accompanying chill feels more appropriate to my mood.

  As the conversation moves with bone crushing predictability towards video games and the latest sci-fi blockbuster, I can feel my attention start to wander. My boyfriend is at home, waiting for me. Will he approve of Daniel? The others that have walked home with me along the dark streets didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow from him which hurt me terribly. They were athletic, muscular, strong; useless.

  I sense there’s a pause, Daniel is looking at me expectantly; I think I’m supposed to make a comment. What was the last thing he said? Damn, I really must try and concentrate.

  Under the table I slip off one of my kitten heels and slowly run a foot up his right inner thigh. Incredibly he turns an even brighter shade of crimson as the blood rushes to his face and as my foot moves up I feel his blood has also flooded lower. He makes a curiously strangled mewing sound before reaching for his damp tissue to mop the sweat off his forehead again.

  He is mine. Whatever it was he was droning on about has been forgotten. His entire focus is where my toes are, hidden under the tablecloth, teasing him.

  I smile encouragement as he fumbles with his wine glass, lost in unfamiliar territory, and try to look impressed by what I have felt under the table. Daniel drains his Merlot and again I lean over to refill his glass.

  The restaurant we’re passing time at is my boyfriend Mark’s favourite; an eclectic mix of faux Mexican and genuine steak house. He always orders the rump steak with a side order of ribs and that’s what I encouraged Daniel to have. It wasn’t difficult; the poor sap would have ordered sawdust if I’d fluttered my eye lashes any harder.

  I’m starting to get bored of this game. I want to take this sweaty, awkward lump home with me and end the charade.

  I watch him finish the meat on his plate and neatly place his cutlery, just so, together in the middle of his dish. He removes the napkin from his lap and delicately wipes the corners of his lips clean of the sticky sauce that came with the ribs. If he noticed the smear that fell on his tie earlier he isn’t drawing attention to it, and I have no wish to shake his confidence by doing so.

  The waiter clears the debris and crockery away. I feel a wave of judgement from him that I’ve come out to dinner with someone who isn’t Mark. Correction; I’ve come out to dinner again with yet another someone who isn’t Mark. I’d happily be with Mark if I had a choice but tonight the choice is Daniel.

  Mark waits patiently for me back home.

  I, however, realise that I am becoming impatient with Daniel as he explores the desert menu. My meal lays heavy on my stomach, I want the evening to be over.

  Gently covering his hand with my smaller one, I suggest that I have something sweet for him back at my house. His eyes gleam but I’m unsure if that’s because of me or the cheese plate that he has seen bustled to another table behind me. Either way, he is persuaded and the waiter is dispatched for the bill.

  Daniel already has his wallet out; there will be no question of splitting the cost.

  As we walk out of the warm restaurant and into the biting cold of the evening my date offers me his arm as protection against the icy pavement. An old-fashioned gesture that is both touching and redundant. I will not fall. Adrenaline is flooding through my veins so hard that without his arm to act as my anchor, I swear I would soar through the night sky like a comet.

  He’s drunk too much to consider driving but I was less thirsty and steer him gently towards my car. The courage that the wine gave him is fading slightly, I must get him into my bed before it dims completely and he starts making excuses to shuffle back to wherever it was he said he lived.

  We make small talk about neutral topics. The weather is particularly useful for a few minutes before the car hits a bump in the road and he begins to get excited about the inefficiencies of the current government to fix the state of public highways. While I appreciate his passion I’m picking up more than a few hints that for Daniel passion has remained an emotion experienced outside of the bedroom. I hope he’s not a virgin; as the night draws in, tiredness is creeping over me and I’ve no energy to coax him into position.

  Daniel pauses when we get to the front door. He looks like he wants to kiss me but I try and awake my inner femme fatale to lead him by his tie into the warmth of the hallway and up the stairs.

  He is panting behind me but I can’t tell if that’s because I’m moving too quickly or my air freshener is overpowering. I hadn’t noticed it earlier but as we approach the bedroom the scent is heavy and oppressive.

  Before he changes his mind or asks to open a window I kiss him. On the lips. Hard.

  He mistakes my action for ardour and his arms greedily wrap themselves around me. I’m feeling claustrophobic. Mark is the only man who has the right to do that.

  With a foot I nudge the bedroom door open and try to politely disentangle myself enough from Daniel for him to understand that I want to move the evening on.

  Eventually he gets the hint and views the softly lit room with an almost child-like sense of wonder. The décor took a lot of money and effort to perfect; I let him have this moment to believe that he too is part of something beautiful.

  The muted colours and soft furnishings are the perfect backdrop for the large four poster bed that dominates the space.

  The oak bed is a masterpiece that was designed by master craftsmen many years ago. It’s fashioned into the shape of a boat with the base of the bed tapering away into the floor. White silk sheets drape over the vessel like sails.

  Daniel has already slipped off his tie and shoes and smiles at me with a hopeful expression on his face. Confidently I lead him to the bed and he sits down on the right hand side, bouncing speculatively. The mattress is hard but he’s not likely to complain. Straining with the effort, he bends down and removes his socks.

  We are almost at the end of our evening.

  I tell him to make himself comfortable while I pop into the en suite bathroom; he asks me not to be too long and I blow him a kiss.

  There is a mirror on the wall next to the door I have just entered. It’s two-way and allows me to watch my guest as he quickly throws off his clot
hes and slips, naked, under the covers. As he falls back against the pillows I pull the lever that splits the mattress he lies on in two and he falls deeper into the bed.

  He screams as upright metal spikes pierce his skin, tearing through flesh and splintering bones as they pass through his body.

  The room is sound proof; no one will hear him.

  Mark must be getting impatient by now.

  The big man tries to grip the side of the bed to pull himself out but he is held firm, he shouts for me, pleading, begging me to help him. But the only man I will help tonight is Mark.

  Daniel’s blood flows quickly down the spikes and is collected in the hollow core of the bed.

  My love lies underneath, waiting for blood to feed him and make him strong again. The others that I brought to him only rejuvenated him so far, close but not close enough. Daniel is worth much more than those skinny offerings.

  And as my beloved begins to emerge I know I made the right choice for dinner.

  Running Out of Time

  Max paused briefly at the entrance of the industrial estate to adjust headphones before taking a deep breath of cold morning air. The sun had not yet risen and he was alone on the streets, exactly as he liked it. He turned his music up and as the bass picked up a rhythmic beat his feet on the pavement kept time.

  The long weekend stretched out in front of him in a glorious tableau of selfishness. It wasn’t often that he allowed himself the luxury of not working weekends but he’d landed a big commission last week and he figured he’d earned a break. He’d thrown some things in a weekend bag and headed to his holiday cottage in the suburbs straight after work on Friday evening.

  Max told his wife that he had a critical work thing that meant he would be unable to contact her for a few days, he didn’t give any detail and after nine years of marriage she didn’t expect any. He was missing his son’s third birthday party but really, a kid that age was hardly going to remember who turned up and as long as Daddy made an appearance at some point in the week with a big bag of sweets he seemed happy enough.

  Tanya, his girlfriend, was harder to brush off and had asked endless questions to which he’d given increasingly curt answers. When he returned home he was going to give some serious consideration to trading her in for a newer model. The sex was still good but she was getting less adventurous in the bedroom and if she was going to be as dull as his wife then he could do without the hassle of pretending to care about her opinions.

  The regular pad, pad, pad of his feet was hypnotic and he could feel himself pushing further into the estate than he usually travelled. There was a Bank Holiday on Monday which guaranteed three glorious days of running solo; the warehouses would stand empty until the workers flooded back on Tuesday.

  Yes, this weekend was going to go very well for him. He’d finish his run with a trip to the local supermarket and stock up on beer and pizza which he would enjoy completely guilt free while messing around on his Xbox without annoying interruptions every five minutes. Bliss.

  A pull on his bladder cut short his fantasies. Looking in all directions to double check he was definitely alone, Max veered right towards a sheltered wall.

  He picked his way over a carpet of packing cases until he was in position. Unwilling to give his muscles a chance to cool he quickly pulled down his running shorts far enough to aim a satisfying stream of piss against the brick in front of him.

  The packing cases under his feet felt slightly springy; if he’d not been otherwise occupied he would probably have noticed sooner. By the time he was rearranging himself, bladder empty, he was standing in a very noticeable dip.

  Max lifted his right foot up to walk back to the road but as he did so his left foot sank lower; the ground he was standing on was sinking. Too late he saw a sign on the wall warning about the collapsed tarmac.

  With a surge of effort he scrambled to move out of the sink hole. The sheets of cardboard he grabbed hold of were damp and tore easily in his grip. There was a pause, a heartbeat, and then the ground beneath him caved in completely and he was falling into a musty hole.

  A brief shout of surprise was all he managed before the impact of falling down the dark tunnel punched the breath out of him. The ground was uneven from the tarmac that had fallen before him; his head smacked on something hard and dazed him before he had a chance to see what the impact had done to the rest of his body.

  When he recovered enough to regain some awareness of what had happened the sunlight was streaming through the hole above him. He registered daylight before the smell. The stink of a forgotten sewage system that burned his nostrils and made him gag and as the bile rose in his throat he became aware of the pain.

  The pain began as a dull all body ache, when Max focussed on which part of him specifically was hurting the pain grew into red hot pokers stabbing into his chest, leg and right shoulder. It was excruciating and he couldn’t move to see what the damage was without making it worse.

  His leg felt as though it was lying at an unnatural angle and through tears and desperation he raised his left hand to feel if there was any blood. Moving caused intense pain around his torso; he suspected a broken rib, at least.

  He managed to reach his leg but there was something not right about what he was feeling. A wet stick was in the way and if he tried to move it, even by the slightest amount, his body flooded fresh waves of intense pain through the leg. Max gritted his teeth to inch his hand down and found that the wet stick had pierced his leg. It took him a few minutes to realise that the stick was his leg bone still covered with pieces of flesh. He passed out.

  The smell pulled him back. Daylight had moved to dusk and the only sound he could hear was a gentle lapping noise of nearby water. He wondered if he had fallen far and briefly why he hadn’t already bled to death.

  Max risked another touch to his leg and the bone that was jutting out of it. The wound was not as big as he’d feared, perhaps a shard of bone rather than the whole femur, and wet blood could be felt only when he moved. It was no hardship not to move.

  Leaving the cottage this morning without his phone had been liberating but now it seemed to be a new level of stupid. What had he been thinking of?

  The light above him was slowly fading away and as his vision diminished in the gloom the sense of panic that he’d been fighting off rose.

  He shouted out but the only answer back was the erratic beating of his heart that pounded loudly in his ears. Underneath him the damp seeped through his cardboard and rubble stretcher, chilling his flesh and creeping into his clothing. He was cold and he knew it would only get colder as the stars began to emerge.

  Reluctantly Max tried to pull himself up to a sitting position, managing a few inches before collapsing again, exhausted and crippled with pain. It was no use, he was stuck there until someone either came by or the workers returned on Tuesday.

  He had never felt so alone.

  A fresh wave of fatigue and dizziness flushed over him and Max struggled to stay conscious. He was so tired, so very tired that he allowed the drowsiness to lull him into a half doze, half restless sleep.

  In his dreams he was back at home, in bed with his wife. Her hand lay relaxed over his chest and her face was nuzzled against his neck, she licked his ear and smiled at him. Max smiled back and tried to stroke her face but found it hard to move his arm. She moved her arm up to his shoulder and gently traced the line between his ear and his eye with her nose before gently kissing his eyebrow.

  There was something bothering him about his wife’s attentions though but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

  The hand on his shoulder moved lower and he winced as her nail caught the hair on his chest. It tugged sharply and then again. Max shifted towards his wife, moving her hand but she bit his eyelid with her razor sharp teeth – and he was jerked instantly into consciousness again.

  There was a weight on his face, without considering the pain of his arm he lashed out and recoiled as the back of his hand made contact with
a rat and sent it flying into the darkness. He could tell from the pressure on his stomach that there was at least one on there too though he couldn’t see anything in the darkness. Using up his remaining strength he jerked forward and flung them off him.

  The smell in the tunnel had changed. There was still the putrid strength of stale sewage but now there was a deeper undertone, a musky, warm blanket that hung around where he lay. He couldn’t see them but he sensed the rats. Watching him. Waiting for their moment.

  He screamed up into the hole above him but the only response was the hooting of an owl.

  Max could hear breathing.

  Rasping little gasps of breath from the multitude of rats that were building themselves up with excitement. The occasional squeak and scurry as the animals jostled for a front row position.

  Something pulled at his shoe. He tried to kick at it but he was too weak to get any strength into the movement and the rat took no notice. Emboldened he sensed the pack moving closer.

  Moonlight from the night sky shone down to reveal hundreds of tiny glimmers of eyes, waiting no longer, slowly creeping forward.

  Whiskers on his cheek were followed by tiny paws scrabbling to climb up for a better position, and they were followed by the rest. A colony of flea infested rats driven nearly crazy by the scent of blood from an injured animal that would be unable to fight them off. They had been patient but would hold back no longer.

  His Lycra running outfit was little protection against the river of teeth that tore at Max’s flesh. Once blood had been drawn more rats would move to the spot to burrow and feast at the gory banquet. His open mouthed screams merely gave the rats access to his tongue and once that had been silenced the soft jelly of his eyeballs were close behind.

  Max did not die quickly. When the horror was enough to force unconsciousness back on him again he dreamed himself back in bed with his wife. Her hand was against his chest and her face was nuzzled against his neck.