Die for Me Darling

by Caroline Clark

  “We found your husband’s den, which funnily enough had very little of his DNA and none of his fingerprints. We found the fridge with the tub and its contents. It may take us a while, but we will find how you did this. Your husband never left that room from before Detective Inspector Merlin died. So, Mrs. Bellamy, you are under arrest.

  ***

  It was three weeks before Nick started to feel like himself again. Blood tests showed nothing wrong, but they had found a small bottle in Sadie’s clothes. So far, no one knew what it was. He was no longer weak and no longer falling asleep all the time. Things should have been good, but guilt and despair filled him in equal portions.

  Nightmares haunted his sleep. In them, he was the hunter he stalked women. Their hair color no longer mattered as he followed them, breath held, heart-pounding he knew he had a solution. They would all look like Sadie. There was heaven and hell in the hunt. Creeping up on them, closer and closer while they were blissfully unaware. Guilt made him want to shout out, but something held him back. The day times were a world of misery, betrayal, and guilt. The only time he felt whole was when he stuck the knife into their back and felt their blood warm and suggestive as it ran over his hand.

  Every morning, when he woke, the first thing he saw was a box of blonde wigs. He had bought them online but did not remember doing it. He wondered then if he should hand himself in, but so far there had been no mud on the carpet, so far there had been no murders, so far it was only a dream.

  Don’t Close Your Eyes Preview

  25th April 1582

  The basement of the cage.

  Derbyshire.

  England.

  3:15 am.

  Alden Carter looked down at his shaking hands. The sight of blood curdled his stomach as it dripped onto the floor. For a moment, his resolve failed, he did not recognize the thin, gnarled fingers. Did not recognize the person he had become. How could he do this, how could he treat another human being in this terrible way and yet he knew he must. If he did not, then the consequences for him would be grave. For a second he imagined a young girl with a thin face and a long nose. Her brown hair bounced as she ran in circles and she flashed a smile each time she passed. The memory brought him joy and comfort. Brook was not a pretty girl, but she was his daughter, and he loved her more than he could say. He remembered her joy at the silver cross he gave her. The one that he was given from the Bishop, the one that cost him his soul.

  Rubbing his hands through sparse hair, he almost gagged at the feeling of the crusty blood he found there. How many times had he run those blood-soaked fingers through his lank and greasy hair? Too many to count. It had been a long night, and it was not over yet. This must be done, and it was him who had to do it.

  Suddenly, his throat was dry, and fatigue weighed him down like the black specter of death he had become. A candle flickered and cast a grotesque shadow across the wall. Outside, the trees shook their skeletal fingers against the brick and wood house and he closed his eyes for a moment. Seeing Brook once more he strengthened his resolve. The trees trembled, and the wind seemed to whisper through their leaves, tormenting him, telling him that he was wrong but he would not stop. Could not stop. Taking a breath, he felt stronger now, and with a shaky hand, he picked up an old stein and took a drink of bitter ale. It did not quench his thirst, but it gave him a little courage. He must do this. He must go back down to the cage and finish what he had started, for if he did not Brook would not survive and maybe neither would he?

  The kitchen was sparse and dark and yet he knew he was lucky. The house was made of brick as well as wood. It was three stories’ high and was bigger than he needed. This was a luxury few could afford. As was the plentiful supply of food in the pantry and work every day. The Bishop had been kind to him, and he knew he had much to be grateful for. Yet, what price had he paid? As the wind picked up, the trees got angry and seemed to curse him with their branches. Rattling against the walls and making ghostly shadows through the window. Alden turned from them and up to the wall before him. The sight of it almost stopped his heart and yet he knows he must go back down to the cage. If the Bishop found him up here with his job not done, then he would be in trouble... Brook would be in trouble. A shiver ran down his spine as he approached the secret door. Reaching out a shaky hand he touched the wall. It was cold, hard and yet it gave before him. With a push, the catch released and the door swung inward. Before him was a dark empty space. A chasm, an evil pit that he must descend into once more.

  Picking up the oil lamp, he approached the stairs and slowly walked down into the dark. The walls were covered in whitewash, and yet they did not seem light. Nothing about this place seemed light. Shadows chased across the ceiling behind him and then raced in front as if eager to reach the hell below. Cobwebs clawed at his face. These did not bother Alden, he did not fear the spider, no, it was the serpent in God’s clothing who terrified him.

  With each step, the temperature dropped. He had never understood why it was so much colder down here. Cellars were always cool, but this one… with each step, he felt as if he was falling into the lake. That he had broken through the ice and was sinking into the water. Panic clenched his stomach as he wondered if he would drown. The air seemed to stagnate in his lungs, and they ached as he tried to pull in a breath. It was just panic, he shook it off, and was back on the stairs. His feet firm on the stone steps he descended deeper and deeper. He shrugged into his thick, coarse jacket. The material would not protect him, of that he was sure, but he pushed such thoughts to the back of his mind and stepped onto the soft soil of the basement floor.

  There was an old wooden table to his right. Quickly, he put the oil lamp on it. Shadows chased across the room. In front of him, his work area was just touched with the light, he knew he must look confident as he approached the woman shackled to the wall. Ursula Kemp was once a beauty. With red hair and deep green eyes. Her smooth ivory skin was traced with freckles, and she had always worn a smile that had the local men bowing to her every need. Seven years ago she had married the blacksmith, and they had a daughter, Rose. Alden felt his eyes pulled to his right… there in the shadows lay a pile of bones. A small pile, the empty eyes of the skull accused him. Though he could not look away from that blackened, burned, mound… the cause of another stain on his soul. Bile rose in his throat, and the air seemed full of smoke. It was just his imagination, he swallowed, choked down a cough and pulled his eyes away. Blinking back tears, he turned and looked up at Ursula. Chained to the wall she should be beaten, broken, and yet there was defiance in her eyes. They were like a cool stream on a hot summer’s day. Something about them defied the position she was in. How could she not be beaten? How could she not confess?

  “Confess witch,” he said the words with more force than he felt. Fear and anger fired his speech and maybe just a little shame. “Confess, and this will be over.”

  Ursula’s eyes stared back at him cool, calm, unmoving. She looked across at the bones, and he expected her to break. Yet her face was calm… her lips twitched into a smile.

  Alden’s eyes followed hers. The bones were barely visible in the dark, but he could still see them as clear as day. A glint of something sparkled in the lamplight, but he did not see it. All he could see was the bones. Sweat formed on his palms as if his hands remembered putting them there. Remembered how they felt, strangely smooth and powdery beneath his fingers. Ash is like silk on the fingers… a sob almost escaped him, and for a second he wanted to free Ursula, to tell her to run… and yet, if he did then the Bishop may turn him and Brook into a heap of ash like the one he was trying to not look at.

  In his mind, he heard the sound of a screaming child, the sound of the flames. Smelt the burning, an almost tantalizing scent of roasting meat. Shaking his head, he pushed the thoughts away. Now was the time for strength. Biting down on his lip, he fought back the tears and turned to face her once more.

  “You will not break me,” she shouted defiantly. “Unlike you, I have done no wrong.
Kill me, and I will haunt you and your family until the end of time.”

  Alden turned as anger overrode his judgment, striding to the table he picked up a knife. It was thin, cruel, and the blade glinted in the lamplight. Controlling the shaking of his hands, he crossed the room and plunged it into her side. For a second it caught… stopped by the thickness of her skin. Controlled by rage, he leaned all his strength against it and it sliced into her. Slick, warm blood poured across his fingers. “Confess, confess NOW,” he screamed spraying her face with spittle.

  A noise from above set his heart beating at such a rate that he thought she must hear it. It pounded in his chest and reminded him of his favorite horse as it galloped across the fields.

  The Bishop was here.

  Without a confession, he was damned, but maybe he was damned anyway. Maybe his actions doomed him to never rest, yet he must save his daughter, he must save his darling Brook.

  As he heard the door above open, panic filled his mind, he must act now, or it would be too late. Then he saw it in her eyes, Ursula knew what was coming. She knew she would die soon and yet she did not fear it. Maybe she thought she would meet her daughter, that they would be together again. He did not know, but the calm serenity in her eyes chilled him to the bone.

  In a fit of rage, he struck her on the temple. The light left her eyes, her head dropped forward, and she was unconscious, but it no longer mattered… he had a plan.

  “You have confessed,” he shouted. “You are a witch. By the power of the church, I sentence you to death, you will be hung by the neck until you die.”

  Before the Bishop reached him, he pulled back his hand and slapped her hard across the face. The slap did not wake her, but the noise resounded across the cellar. As the Bishop stopped behind him, he felt an even deeper chill. This man had no morals, no conscience. Alden knew what he had done was wrong, but he did not care. If it kept his family safe, he would sacrifice any number of innocents, and yet his stomach turned at the thought of what was to come.

  “You have your confession,” the Bishop’s voice was harsh in the darkness. “Let us hang her and end this terrible business.”

  ***

  Ursula woke to the feel of rough, coarse hemp around her neck. As her eyes came open, she felt the pain in her side and knew it was a mortal wound. The agony of it masked the multiple injuries she had received over the past few days.

  Alden was holding her. Hoisting her up onto a platform which was suspended over the rail of the balcony. The rope tightened as he placed her feet on the smooth wood and fear filled her. This was it, she knew what was coming, and yet she shook the fear away. To her side, the Bishop stood, a lace handkerchief in his hand as he dabbed at the powder on his face. Blond hair covered a plump but handsome visage, with good bones and a wide mouth, but his eyes… they were gray and hard. The color of a gravestone they could cut through granite with just a look. Amusement danced in them, or maybe it was just the lamp flickering. It could not provide nearly enough light for her to really tell, and yet she knew.

  Alden moved away from her and turned to the Bishop. There was a hardness to him too. His lips were drawn tight enough to make a thin line, but he could not fool her. Alden was afraid, and she pitied him, pitied the days to come. For her, it was over. Death would be a sweet release, but for Alden, it had only just begun. As he pushed the table, she looked down to the floor below. The lamp did not light more than half way, and it seemed that she would jump into a bottomless pit. If the rope did not stop her… then maybe she could fly. Down deep she hoped she would soar, away from pain, away from fear and safe in the knowledge she held.

  If only.

  The moon came from behind a cloud and shone through the window at her back. Its light cast shadows through the branches of a large, old oak tree. Sketchy fingers coalesced on the far wall, and her heart pounded in her chest.

  Was this a sign?

  A welcome?

  The shadows danced and then formed and appeared to be a finger pointing to her doom.

  It was time.

  Before Alden could push her, she stepped out into nothing.

  ***

  Get the 4 novel box set Don’t Close Your Eyes for free with Kindle Unlimited or just 0.99 for a limited time.

  Also from Caroline Clark

  Here are a few books I think you might enjoy,

  Caroline

  Never miss a book and get FREE short stories. Subscribe to Caroline’s newsletter for new release announcements and occasional free content: http://eepurl.com/cGdNvX

  ***

  Books are FREE on Kindle Unlimited.

  The Spirit Guide Series:

  The Haunting of Seafield House - Gail wants to create some memories – if she survives the night in Seafield House it is something she will never forget.

  The Haunting on the Hillside - Called From Beyond – The Spirit Guide - A Woman in White Ghost Story. A non-believer, a terrible accident, a stupid mistake. Is Mark going mad or was his girlfriend Called from Beyond?

  The Haunting of Oldfield Drive - DarkMan Alone in the dark, Margie must face unimaginable terror. Is this thing that haunts her nights a ghost or is it something worse?

  ***

  The Ghosts of RedRise House 4 book Box Set:

  Standalone Books

  The Haunting of the Old Box

  Find all my books USA http://amzn.to/2yYL9Pz

  UK http://amzn.to/2z0W1MH

  About the Author

  Never miss a book.

  Subscribe to Caroline Clark’s newsletter for new release announcements

  and occasional free content:

  http://eepurl.com/cGdNvX

  Caroline Clark is a British author who has always loved the macabre, the spooky, and anything that goes bump in the night.

  She was brought up on stories from James Herbert, Shaun Hutson, and many more. Even at school, she was always living in her stories and was often asked to read them out in front of the class. Her teachers didn’t always appreciate her more sinister tales.

  Now she spends her time researching haunted houses or imagining what must go on in them. These tales then get written up and become her books.

  Caroline lives in Lincolnshire with her two boxer dogs. Of course, one of them is called Spooky.

  You can contact Caroline via her Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/CarolineClarkAuthor/

  Via her newsletter: http://eepurl.com/cGdNvX

  Or on CazClark.com

  She loves to hear from her readers.

  Why not follow her on Amazon

  Copyright

  ©Copyright 2020 Caroline Clark

  All Rights Reserved

  License Notes

  This e-Book is licensed for personal enjoyment only. It may not be resold. Your continued respect for author's rights is appreciated.

  This story is a work of fiction; any resemblance to people is purely coincidence. All places, names, events, businesses, etc. are used in a fictional manner. All characters are from the imagination of the author.