by Sam West
VICTIM
AN EXTREME HORROR NOVEL
by
SAM WEST
VICTIM
AN EXTREME HORROR NOVEL
by
SAM WEST
COPYRIGHT SAM WEST 2016
COVER IMAGE [email protected]
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced or used in any way without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews. The characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.
“The show must go on
I'll face it with a grin
I'm never giving in
On with the show”
– Queen. The Show must go on.
CHAPTER ONE
Greg sat on the edge of the bed, his heart hammering at the enormity of what he was about to do.
You can’t read her diary, it’s deceitful, it’s a breach of her trust, it’s horrible, it’s…
Necessary.
The hiss of the shower coming from the en-suite bathroom did little to soothe his jangled nerves – just because she wouldn’t know he had had read it, it didn’t make it right.
His fiancée’s diary – although it wasn’t strictly a dairy and more of a personal account of ‘that night’ – rested accusingly on his lap, taunting him, daring him to open it. His ran a trembling fingertip over the cheap, cardboard-like cover, hating himself for being so bloody weak.
I’ve only read the first page, I don’t have to read the rest.
But after reading the first page, he knew that he didn’t have a choice. Written on that page were the words: May 31st 2015: THE NIGHT MY LIFE CHANGED FOREVER.
On reading that, he had slammed shut the exercise-book, his heart pounding like a heart-attack victim.
But I have to know what really happened, what she went through and how she feels about it…
Yeah, okay. Or maybe you’re just a nosey, snooping shithead.
Sighing deeply, he stared at the offending diary.
I wish I hadn’t found it. It was a stupid place to leave it, anyway. I mean, who leaves something so private just sitting there on the bedside-table? This is her fault, she should’ve remembered to hide it.
Fuck it, was his final thought before he opened it and began to read…
May 31st 2015:
THE NIGHT MY LIFE CHANGED FOREVER
My therapist thinks that writing about that night will help. I guess it’s worth a try, it’s what I do, after all. I write therefore I am… God, that sounds so lame. (What would my darling Greg think of me if he knew what I really went through that night?)
I thought it might be a good idea to write about it in the form of fiction. I thought that maybe, if I attacked it like I would one of my novels, it will be easier for me to come to terms with what happened. This way, perhaps I will be able to make sense of it all, I’ll be able to look at it objectively. Maybe, If I’m really lucky, I might even find some kind of closure.
Who’d have thought that when I started writing extreme horror fiction, my life would turn into something from straight out of one of my novels?
I feel sick at the thought of writing this down, but here it goes anyway. This is what really happened that horrible night exactly one year ago today…
NEW BEGINNINGS
“So, here we are,” Scott said, silencing the engine of the blue Audi A3.
It was so quiet here.
Too quiet. Spooky quiet.
“Yeah. Here we are,” I said.
“Hey, you’re not nervous are you? Just relax and be yourself, they’re gonna love you.”
His hand on my knee did little to soothe my nerves and I let out a shaky breath. “What’s not to love, right?”
“Exactly.”
My smile felt tight and unnatural as my gaze flitted from my fiancé’s warm brown eyes to the imposing barn conversion in the middle of nowhere. It looked like the ‘after’ of some property-conversion, dream-home documentary that seemed to be on every TV channel going nowadays. I mean, when Scott had said his parents lived in a barn conversion, I had pictured a converted row of stables or something, not this glass-fronted, architect’s wet-dream.
The big glass window which was divided into eight panels that ran from floor to ceiling was easily as big as our terraced house in the heart of Canterbury. And it still only made up less than a quarter of the property’s frontage.
With a shiver, I thought about Mr and Mrs Jones waiting for me inside.
They’re gonna hate me.
No, they’re not.
How can his dad not love me? He writes, I write, we have so much in common…
Yeah, keep telling yourself that. You write extreme horror, his dad writes Philosophy text books. He’s gonna hate you…
“Ground control to Chloe Fox? Are you receiving?”
I dragged my gaze away from the imposing building and forced another rictus of a grin. “I’m receiving just fine. Just a bit nervous, that’s all.”
“I told you, don’t be. You’re gorgeous, funny, intelligent, kind… I could go on.”
“Then what’s stopping you?”
“The fact we have to get inside and meet my mum and dad. Come on, I’ll grab the bags.”
“No,” I said, a little too sharply. I softened my voice for him. “I have a present for you I just dumped on the luggage, I didn’t have time to wrap it.”
“What kind of present?”
“I guess you’ll just have to wait ‘til later to find out.”
“I love surprises.”
I giggled and coquettishly batted my eyelashes, twirling a strand of long blonde hair around my forefinger. “You’re going to love this one.”
Just then, my mobile rang inside my shoulder-bag. “Sorreee,” I said, fumbling for the offending machine. “Shit, it’s my agent, I have to take this. Hello?”
“Darling, great news, you’ve been optioned,” said the incredibly camp, speed-talking male voice on the other hand.
“Hang on, Justin,” I said, clamping my hand over the receiver. “It’s about the film-rights, I’m sorry, I really do have to take this.”
“I know baby, it’s fine. I’m gonna go in, give you some privacy. Come in when you’re ready?”
“Sure. I love you.”
“I love you, too, my brilliant, writer fiancée.”
I blew him a kiss and turned my attention back to Justin who was rabbiting on about my book, an incredibly fucked up version of Aladdin and the Lamp.
“…so they’re dead keen, this is very exciting…”
I only half listened, as thrilling as the news was. Instead, most of my attention was focussed on Scott, who had disappeared through the opened, heavy oak, front door.
Didn’t they lock their doors here? How could they be so trusting?
For fleeting seconds I glimpsed Scott through the window that was as big as my house. This part of the house was in darkness, and I watched his shadowy figure walk straight past the window and into the unseen room beyond.
The conversation took the best part of fifteen minutes and I drummed my fingers impatiently on the dashboard.
Taking a deep, shaky breath, I got out of the car.
This is it, I thought in horror. The moment of reckoning.
I walked to the door beneath the darkening sky, a friendly smile plastered on my face.
I knocked on the door before entering.
“Hello?” I called out tentatively.
Where was everybody? I took a wary few steps inside until I was in the part of the house I had seen from outside. Now that the sky was darkening it was hard to make out Scott’s car and the woods beyond
though the glass.
Nice space, I thought, turning round slowly on the spot. It was a mix of old and new, a perfect design marriage that must have cost many thousands to execute. The high, vaulted ceiling with criss-crossing oak-beams was the nod towards ‘the old’ and the minimalist, modern furnishing was most definitely ‘the new’. I wandered into the gorgeous space, trailing my fingers over the long red sofa in the middle of the room. Big, abstract oils that looked like they belonged in the Tate Modern adorned the white-painted, pointed stone walls and my gaze was drawn to one in particular – a huge canvas over the post-modern, blocky fireplace that looked like a sea of blood.
Hey, perhaps these guys will be cool with me being an extreme horror author, after all...
Suddenly, the vast room was plunged into light and I jumped in shock, spinning round.
“I see you admiring my favourite painting. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Beautiful yet ugly, repulsive yet compelling, a real juxtaposition .”
The man extended a hand and I took an awkward step towards him to shake it. So this was Mr Thomas Jones. The love of my life’s father. All I could think in that moment was he was so much younger than I was expecting.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Chloe. Scott has told us so much about you.”
I realised I was staring at him; I could feel myself going bug-eyed being caught off-guard like that. He was a good-looking guy. I had been expecting some fusty old fart in a tweed jacket with round spectacles and white hair; instead I was met with a man that couldn’t have been a day over fifty.
Scott never mentioned his parents were so young.
But on reflection, it wasn’t entirely out there. Scott was thirty to my twenty-seven, so his dad could easily be a youthful looking fifty. And according to Scott, they had a ton of money tucked away so were able to take early retirement.
“It’s lovely to meet you, too,” I gushed, finding my voice at last. “I’ve been looking forward to it all week.”
“Oh, so have we.”
His gaze slid down my body in a not-exactly paternal way and I felt myself blush. With hindsight, maybe the knee-length, black dress I had opted for had not been the best choice. It had seemed a good idea at the time – classy, grown-up and just on the right side of slutty – but now it felt too clinging.
“Scott also never mentioned how beautiful you were.”
I blushed all the harder and waved my hand in front of my hot cheeks to deflect his compliment. “Oh, stop, really. You have a beautiful home.”
“Thank you. Would you care to take a seat?” he said, gesturing to the long red sofa. “Can I get you a drink? I’m having a whiskey.”
“That sounds nice. I’ll have one too.”
“A girl after my own heart,” he said with a wink.
I watched his broad back as he busied himself pouring the drinks over by the art-deco, glass cabinet which was next to the huge window.
How on earth can they be father and son? I found myself wondering. They were just so different. Both men were tall, but that’s where the similarity ended. Scott was blonde, with friendly brown eyes and a lanky body that never seemed to gain an ounce of fat despite his voracious appetite. His dad, however, was thick set, just on the right side of fat. His wide shoulders strained against the plain black jumper and every inch of him looked solid and worked out. His hair was black and cropped close to his scalp. I found myself wondering if he dyed it – it was strange that a bloke his age didn’t have a single grey hair.
“So, Scott tells me you’re a writer,” he said, spinning round suddenly and catching me staring at him.
I felt my cheeks heat again under his gaze; he was going to end up thinking I fancied him or something with the amount of times I kept blushing.
“Yeah, I just self-publish, nothing grand,” I said, cringing at my false modesty. “Not like you.”
He raised one thick, black eyebrow. “Like me? How’d you mean?”
“You know, an academic. I’m no retired university professor who writes high-brow literary articles and academic textbooks. I write to entertain myself, and hopefully to entertain others. But I’m no Hemmingway, put it that way.”
Shit, my mouth was running away from me.
Way to go, Chloe.
“What do you write, Chloe?”
Shit, I thought, hadn’t Scott told him? Had he made me out to be more mainstream than I actually was? Was Scott ashamed of me because of what I wrote?
“Horror.”
His blue eyes flashed something, although I wasn’t sure what.
“I know that, but I don’t know the details, Scott just said I’d have to ask you.”
Thanks a lot, Scott, I thought, somewhat uncharitably. You could’ve warned them…
“I write extreme horror, I guess you could call it pretty dark stuff.”
“I have a soft spot for extreme horror.”
I looked at him in surprise. “You do?”
“Sure, I love a dose of guts and gore now and then.”
This conversation was not going as I expected it to. Scott had painted his parents to be kind people, but somewhat staid and old-fashioned in their values. He said they were cool with what I did for a living, but at the same time they wouldn’t want to actually read it.
“I’m surprised,” I said.
“Why would you be surprised? People are multi-faceted, do you not think, Chloe? No one is ever quite as they appear.”
“No, I guess not.”
“I’m thrilled my son has met a girl like you, you are perfect for each other; his practicality and your creativity go so well together.”
“Yes, I suppose so. I think Scott’s quite brilliant doing what he does. Being an electrical engineer is nothing short of genius as far as I’m concerned. He’s so clever.”
I was gushing smarmy crap again, but the truth was, my future father-in-law was making me distinctly uncomfortable. I shifted slightly on the red leather sofa, conscious that the edging of the cushion might ladder my black tights.
He is very clever to land a girl like you.”
“Where are Scott and his mum? I’m so looking forward to meeting your wife” I said to deflect the compliment.
Or come-on, whichever way you looked at it.
I was in a quandary over whether to call Scott’s mum ‘Mrs Jones’ or ‘Elizabeth’. The first was too formal, the latter too familiar, hence the generic ‘your wife’.
Oh god, Scott, where are you? Please save me from this awkward social hell…
Yeah, well, maybe if he hadn’t given you completely the wrong impression of his dad then this wouldn’t be so bloody difficult…
“Scott and Elizabeth had to pop to the shops.”
“What? Really? When? I didn’t hear them leave.”
“They went in our car, we keep it parked round the back. They went just before you came in. Scott said you were likely to be on the phone for a while and he’d probably be back before you were finished talking.”
I stared at him in confusion, my heart suddenly thumping. He was still standing over me and for some reason that made me nervous. I took a large gulp of whiskey and savoured the soothing heat slipping down my throat.
“I thought there weren’t any shops around for miles.”
“Yes, four and a half, to be exact. We may live in the Lake District, but there’s still an Asda superstore on the outskirts of town.”
I laughed, but it sounded hollow to my own ears. “We’re more about the Tescos down south.”
Why did I say that? I thought. It sounded so god-damn lame.
“Indeed. Elizabeth forgot the ingredients for the salad. Speaking of dinner, I promised I would keep an eye on the casserole while they’re gone. I’ll be back in a moment.”
He stood up and strode over to the door that I had watched Scott disappear through earlier. I breathed a shaky sigh of relief; it was nice to be left alone for a moment to collect my thoughts. Mr Jones, or Adam as I supposed I should call him, sh
ut the door behind himself and I jumped to my feet. My tumbler was empty – I was sure he wouldn’t mind if I helped myself to a refill.
Over by the drink’s cabinet my gaze was drawn to a framed photograph, lying face-down next to the silver drink’s tray. I frowned at it, suddenly more uneasy than I could say. My hand trembled and my breath caught in my throat as I picked it up and turned it round to look at the photograph…
I just managed to catch the scream in time and swallowed it back down. But inside I was screaming my fucking head off.
Oh shit, was all I could think, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
The snapshot taken on a sunny day was old; Scott couldn’t have been a day over twelve. His blonde hair, broad grin and lanky body was unmistakable. With her matching broad grin and sparkling brown eyes, the blonde woman on his right could only be his mother.
Unfortunately, the laughing man on Scott’s right with the greying, receding brown hair was not the man who had gone to check on dinner. I stared in disbelief at the stranger squinting into the sun, my mind whirring.
Perhaps it’s an uncle, or something?
But as nice as the thought was, I couldn’t quite bring myself to believe it.
“Helping yourself to the whiskey, I see?”
I dropped the frame like it had scalded me and grabbed the whiskey bottle. Composing my features into what I hoped was a passable imitation of a normal, calm human-being, I twisted my head round to smile at him.
“Sorry, I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Of course I don’t, you’re obviously a girl after my own heart. I think I’ll have another one, too.”
He came up behind me and I willed my hands not to shake. A whiskey was a bloody good idea right about now. When he plonked his empty glass down next to mine I tried not to visibly cringe at his nearness. I could feel him directly behind me, in my personal space. I pretended it didn’t bother me and poured out two generous measures of whiskey.
It took every inch of willpower not to breathe a sigh of relief when he took his drink and retreated to the couch.