E is for Exterminator (A-Z of Horror Book 5)
Page 2
Treadwell picked out a book at random and read the spine. It was an old medical diary. It may have been worth something, if not for the fact the pages were warped and yellowed from mould. In fact, the book looked brittle enough to snap.
As he looked around, Treadwell saw that just about all the books were medical in nature, but not always in relation to human anatomy; there were also tomes upon tomes of books about entomology. From books about butterflies and other flying insects to journals about scorpions and arachnids, there was a vast knowledge base. It was creepy. As much contact as Treadwell had had with insects, and as much as he understood them, he had no intellectual interest in them. All he needed to know about specific creatures was how they acted and whether or not they were dangerous. What went on inside a cockroach’s belly held no import to him besides knowing a way to kill it.
He put back the book he was currently holding and went about his work, trying not to itch or rub at the stings on his face. He could feel his heartbeat pulsing in his ears and a headache approached like a faraway train, but he kept his mind on task. He didn’t spray around the books for fear of causing further damage, but coated the bottom and top edges of the bookshelves where they met the floor and ceiling. Then he headed on over to the large window to coat the windowsill and deter anything from creeping in from outside. In front of the window lay the large oak desk and as he stepped around behind it, he found something lying on the carpet beneath the foot well.
“Fuck me!”
Treadwell stumbled back and struck the windowsill behind him. Lying at his feet was the body of a man, long dead and little more than parchment over bones. So dry was the body that no insects covered it, even in this place. The oak desk was riddled with termites.
Despite himself, Treadwell knelt down next to the body. It was so old that it lacked the ability to disgust. The only smell it gave off was a faint mustiness. He noticed the dead man wore overalls like his and he slid his hand carefully into each of the pockets. In one he found a wallet and opened it up. The man’s name was Robert Costa and he lived locally. There was a business card along with the man’s ID.
Costa Critter Control.
The man was a pest controller like Treadwell. Treadwell frowned. What the hell? Why had a pest controller been sent in before him, and many years ago by the looks of things? Had somebody tried to renovate before, but gave up? Why had nobody come looking for poor old Bob Costa?
Treadwell had a bad feeling. He got up quickly and almost tripped when his foot stuck something. He glanced down to see that it was just a book, but the cover caught his attention. It had an illustration of a large, hairy spider, just like the one he had encountered in the cellar. He picked the book up and started leafing through it, but quickly discovered that it was written in a foreign language. He muttered a few of the words and thought they sounded Latin, not that he was any expert. He saw lots of words ending in um and us. When he turned the page again, he was most distressed to see a symbol that needed no interpretation. A pentagram. It was scrawled in blood red and in its centre was a golden crown. At each of the pentagram’s points was the image of an animal. A wasp, a spider, a frog, a snake, and a rat. All of the writing was in Latin again, but Treadwell was sure that the spider in the picture closely resembled the spider that had attacked him – big, brown, and hairy.
He threw the book down on the ground and kicked it away.
“What the hell is this place?” he asked out loud. Who the hell had lived here back before the place was deserted?
Ribbit!
Treadwell glanced up and saw an army of frogs sitting in the middle of the library. They were huge and tough-looking with what appeared to be horns on either side of their heads. As they looked at him, their gullets expanded and depressed rhythmically like balloons filling with air and then leaking.
Treadwell sprayed his chemical at the frogs, but they leapt aside out of the way. It left a corridor in their ranks, though, through which he could pass, so he wasted no time in hurrying for the door. Almost out the room, one of the nearby frogs leapt for him and managed to clamp down on the back of his ankle. The pressure was immense, like a vice. He howled out in pain and almost fell sideways into the group of croaking frogs, but he managed to limp out into the hallway with the crushing jaws still attached to him.
Once outside, Treadwell stumbled up to the balcony railing and turned his leg so that he could point his hose at the clamped frog. He pulled the trigger and let out a caustic spray right into the thing’s eye socket. It released its grip immediately and leapt away.
“Screw you, Kermit!”
He looked down at his ankle and saw that he was bleeding badly. Although he tried, he could not take his whole weight on his injured leg and was forced to limp down the landing towards the stairs. It was time to get the hell out of there. Something wasn’t right with Antworth Manor. The previous owner must have been some mad scientist doing experiments on frogs and insects, but his experiments had got out and started killing people. The dead exterminator under the library desk was evidence enough to confirm that.
Treadwell was leaving. The client would probably still pay him for his troubles, but right now he did not care one little bit. As he hobbled for the stairs, he kept looking back over his shoulder. The frogs were following him, leaping and croaking calmly as if they had all the time in the world to catch him. He wasn’t going to oblige them.
He started down the first steps, trying to keep his balance on the railing, but so focused was he on keeping upright that he lost sight of where his feet were going. His shin struck something extended across one of the steps and, before he knew it, he was flying head over heels. He came down hard on his side and tumbled down the unforgiving stone steps. When he finally came to a stop, he lay sprawled in the hallway, surprised to still be alive, although he could barely move. In fact, the only thing that obeyed him was his head and neck. No other part of him would mood. He was paralysed.
He rolled his eyes towards the stairs and saw what had tripped him. The python was at least eight-feet long and it now slithered down the steps towards him, its black eyes expressionless. Its darting tongue curious.
There was something else moving, too. Treadwell managed to lift his head and look to his left and found not one thing moving but many. A pack of rats had appeared and were creeping towards him.
Treadwell tried to swallow, but couldn’t even do that. He managed to mutter a pleading moan, but it did not stop the approach of the rats.
The first rodent to reach Treadwell settled next to his limp left hand. It was a dirty, brown beast with wet fur and visible fleas. It opened its mouth wide and then clamped down on the delicate flesh. What alarmed Treadwell most was that he felt nothing, even when the rat tore free a chunk of bleeding flesh from the back of his hand and held it between its front paws.
The rest of the pack descended on Treadwell quickly, encouraged by their leader, and started digging in, feasting on his flesh like those ticks had back when he was twelve. The python joined them, making it over to his legs and snaking around his knees, clamping them together and squeezing. He felt not a thing at first, until one of the rats came and took a chunk out of his ear. That, he felt with exquisite clarity. He wailed in agony, tortured by the sight of his own body being devoured by vermin.
“What a mess.” Came a voice behind him.
Treadwell managed to crane his neck to see the suited gentleman standing over him. It was the client, the businessman who had paid him to be there.
“Oh…oh, thank God. Please, help me. Help me!”
“No, no, Mr Treadwell. You are here to help me. You are a killer of Mother Nature’s gifts, which is why I will be so greatly rewarded for gifting you to them. I will receive vast fortune for your sacrifice and I thank you, even if Mother Nature does not. I suggest you close you eyes, Mr Treadwell.”
Treadwell’s eyes did the opposite and went wide as he tried to understand what was happening. One of the rats seized on the opportunity and
clamped down on his eyeball, popping it like blister between its wicked fangs.
Treadwell continued screaming for as long as it took him to die. The very next day, all of his client’s investments suddenly paid off all at once. He became a very rich man overnight. It was almost like witchcraft.
END.
About The Author
Iain Rob Wright is one of the UK's most successful horror and suspense writers, with novels including the critically acclaimed, THE FINAL WINTER; the disturbing bestseller, ASBO; and the wicked screamfest, THE HOUSEMATES.
His work is currently being adapted for graphic novels, audio books, and foreign audiences. He is an active member of the Horror Writer Association and a massive animal lover.
Check out Iain's official website or add him on Facebook where he would love to meet you.
www.iainrobwright.com
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Reality TV turns deadly. 12 competitors but only 1 winner.
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Copyright
* * *AN SG HORROR RELEASE* * *
Part of the SALGAD PUBLISHING GROUP
Redditch
UK, Worcestershire
www.SALGADPUBLISHING.com
E IS FOR EXTERMINATOR copyright 2015 by Iain Rob Wright
www.IAINROBWRIGHT.com
Cover Art Copyright 2015 Iain Rob Wright
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.