by Andy Morris
churned with a sickeningly vertigo. The hammer felt ever so heavy in her trembling hands.
After a moment Giles’s frosty stare cracked into a cold smile. He stood up to his full height and grinned mirthlessly down at her. She was too weak, too stupid to do anything and Giles knew it. The hammer slipped from her fingers to land softly on the floor.
The truth was clear: She could never leave him because he’d always find her. She couldn’t tell anyone about the abuse because no one would believe her and she couldn’t hurt him either.
As Giles turned his back on her and drifted silently out of the room. Stephanie glanced down at the hammer lying on the floor. An overwhelming urge conspired within her to pick it up and go after her husband. It was a strong intoxicating feeling that lifted her spirits with promises of liberation and release. But it would be no good, she reasoned. She couldn’t murder him a second time and so she left the hammer where it lay.
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Seven - Crossed Lines
The taxi stank of stale sweat and fried food and if it hadn’t been raining so hard outside Dean would have walked from the train station to the hotel. Nothing had gone his way today: First his train had been late this morning causing him to miss his connecting train. Both buffet cars had been closed and now he was in this shoddy taxi with a sleazy driver for company. Hungry, tired and in need of a shower he was half-expecting his accommodation to be disappointing and he wasn’t wrong.
“You gonna stay here, mate?” asked the driver raising his eyebrows which made the question sound more incredulous than he probably intended it to be. “You don’t know what happened in there do you? Look, there’s much nicer hotels nearby and, if you like, I can arrange for some company for you as well?”
“This is fine. I don’t care about other places” Dean said irritably as he took his bags from the boot and handed the driver his money, making a point of not giving a tip.
The dusty outdated 1950’s décor in the lobby made Dean feel he had travelled back in time. It smelled of old cardboard and was very quiet. The silence reminded Dean of a traditional library, making him conscious that even his breathing was disturbing the brittle stillness of the place. The only other sound was the steady ticking of a large wrought iron clock that looked like it belonged over a train station platform. Beneath the timepiece stood the dull beech wood panelled reception desk. There was no one manning the desk but Dean was beyond the point of caring. He saw a card with his name on it next to his room key and took it before wearily making his way up the dimly lit staircase to his room.
The scent of cheap lavender air-freshener wasn’t quite able to mask the tang of old cheese and disinfectant that wafted out as he opened the door to his sparsely furnished room. But, to his mild surprise the bedding appeared clean so he kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the bed, trying to ignore the creeping loneliness that the old battered furniture and faded floral wallpaper conspired to create. He needed to phone Gwen to discuss this conference and to help lift his mood.
After he had shared the details of his horrendous journey, Gwen said “It’s a bad line. I can hear voices in the background, are you in a pub or something?”
“No I’m in my crappy room in this cheap hotel. There’s no one else here” Dean sighed trying to get comfy on the hard lumpy mattress.
“There’s lots of interference but I can definitely hear something: raised voices and it sounds like someone’s crying. What are you watching on TV?”
“Nothing, I don’t even have a TV here!” Dean shivered from a sudden chill as the wind outside blew through the open window and billowed the curtains inwards in a poor imitation of a ghost.
“Those voices are getting clearer now” Gwen observed, no longer interested in his misery now she had something potentially juicy to eavesdrop on. “Are you sure you can’t hear them?”
“Positive. It must be a crossed line or something because it’s as quiet as the grave over here. Can you email me those figures for the regional meeting next week; I may as well start on them tonight”.
Gwen ignored him. “I can definitely hear something else: I think someone’s asking for help. What? You’re breaking up Dean… Can you still hear me?”
“Yes, you’re perfectly clear this end”.
“Hello, Dean?” Gwen’s tone had changed. When she spoke again she was talking much faster which was odd because she was always so unflappable. “The line just went all funny” Gwen blurted. “I could hear screaming. Then another voice came on. It sounded… twisted, scary; like that girl in The Exorcist!”
Whatever sinister things were happening on the other line it wasn’t their problem Dean decided. At that moment the curtains blew inwards again and he jumped as a floorboard creaked. He couldn’t help reflecting that he hadn’t seen a single soul since he arrived here but before he could reassure himself that everything was fine Gwen carried on relaying her commentary. “It sounds serious” she continued quietly as if she was listening in to a conversation in the next room. “It’s stopped. Hang on… I can hear more talking… He’s got someone trapped in the bedroom” she squealed. “I don’t like this Dean. I think someone is about to get hurt. Are you sure you can’t hear any of this, it sounds terrifying?”
“I can’t hear anything this end… Gwen?” Behind him the floorboards creaked again. For some reason Dean felt a strong urge to sit up upright with his back to the wall. As he shifted position he thought he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye near the bathroom and he shivered again.
“Dean?” Gwen hissed. “He’s got a knife! The first person was crying, begging the devil-voice to stop hurting people... Should we call the police?”
Gwen’s hysteria was starting to become contagious and Dean found himself peering around the room with the same sense of apprehension he had when he was nine years old and had just watched ‘Poltergeist’.
“I just heard the devil-voice again”.
He wished Gwen would stop going on about it.
“He’s going into the bedroom, Dean. I don’t like this”.
Dean didn’t answer.
“Dean… Dean, can you still hear me?”
Dean’s phone dropped to the floor.
“The line’s breaking up again…” Gwen yelped. “There’s screaming’s! I think something bad has just happened… Dean? I can’t hear you anymore”.
Dean’s shocked cries gurgled into silence as his throat opened up in a wide red grin. His lifeblood gushed out in a crimson waterfall, splashing onto the clean white bed sheets as the unseen intruder sliced open his throat.
Then the phone line went dead.
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Eight - Dinner Guest
Samantha Jones or Sammy as she liked to be called never liked returning to her cottage after dark. She had inherited the home from her granny a couple of years ago and just like her granny had done, the cottage also creaked and groaned with age. These sounds wouldn’t ordinarily bother the twenty two year old. However, because the cottage stood deep in Ringwood Forest the night brought a heavy silence that amplified these sounds. As a result Sammy felt it was natural to feel a little spooked at times, especially as she had no neighbours for over a mile in any direction. It was always worse at this time of year, as autumn turned to winter and the trees cast long shadows that crept up to the cottage like the long black fingers of some terrible woodland spirit. Sometimes her imagination got the better of her and more than once she felt as if she was being watched. But, she firmly told herself, she was just being paranoid.
Sammy had just got back from her evening class and casually plonked her sports bag down at the bottom of the stairs. Then she turned back to the front door to make sure she had locked it securely. Living here had made Sammy very security conscious and she often laughed at how easily she managed to frighten herself. Already the stillness of her quiet home was beginning to press in around her and she needed the
reassuring babble of the radio to bring some life to the cottage. She could already feel the anxiety in the old house like a phantom materialising around her and trying to grab her with its icy hands. Quickly she made her way into the kitchen. In the reflection of the kitchen window she caught herself tucking her funky pink hair behind her ears again. She always fiddled with her hair when she was nervous and it irritated her no end. She hated that annoying habit nearly as much as she hated to see any kind of mess or clutter around her home.
Sammy took pride in having a clean and tidy home. For one thing it helped to deter any bold woodland creatures from nosing around her bins or venturing into her house. Why her grandmother had thought to buy a house out here, Sammy had no idea. She would much prefer to be living in Ringwood itself, or Bournemouth, or even Verwood, if she really had to. At least she wouldn’t be so isolated and alone then.
Sammy quite liked the forest in the day time though, you never knew what you would find and it sparked her sense of adventure and rebelliousness. When she was younger her granny and her parents would always tell her to stay away from the forest because it was not a safe place to go on her own. Anyone could get you in there, they would warn her time and time again.
Her parent’s advice came back to her again as she glanced out through the kitchen window. Outside in the garden it was