More Horowitz Horror

by Anthony Horowitz

  Kate froze. Mr. Spencer was outside the dining room. He was looking in through the empty door. And maybe because the school was empty, maybe because there were no distractions, it wasn’t just his thoughts that were being transmitted to her. She could also see with his eyes.

  “Listen? Nothing! Is she in here? No. She wouldn’t go in here. But she can’t be far. Find her. Kill her. Cut her throat and bury her. No one will know.”

  Kate took a couple of steps forward.

  She could see nothing. Nothing at all. She had only been in the basement once before . . . she had gone down there as a dare. She remembered a long, low-ceilinged room with archways leading off it, a bit like a wine cellar. There were machines. She could feel them humming now. A bank of electric generators on one side and a tangle of wires and pipes. It was very warm in the basement. There were heating systems too. She wanted to turn the light on but knew that she couldn’t. That would bring him to her. And there was no way out.

  Somewhere, above her, she heard a floorboard creak. No. She couldn’t have heard it. But Mr. Spencer had. She was hearing with his ears! He had reached the stairs.

  “Where is she? Did she go up? Upstairs . . .”

  Another creak. He had taken the stairs. He was climbing up. Kate swayed in the darkness, almost faint with relief. But then he stopped.

  “No! I’d have heard her! No carpet on the stairs. If she’d gone up, I’d have heard her. She must have gone down.”

  She heard him turn. Heard him come down.

  Kate was petrified. In science class she’d once seen a bug, millions of years old, caught in a piece of amber. That was how she felt now. the inky darkness was crushing her. She couldn’t breathe.

  Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. The French teacher, wearing his new shoes, moved slowly down the stairs. Kate backed away. Her left hand touched a wall and there was a clink as her watch came into contact with something, metal against metal. The sound was tiny. But he’d heard it.

  “She’s here. Where’s the light? I can’t find the light. Wait . . .”

  He found a switch outside in the corridor and turned it on. Yellow light spilled in through a doorway, only reaching halfway into the room. Kate squeezed herself backward. She was between two bulky machines. Thick cables pressed against her back. The air smelled of hot metal. She tried to make herself as small as she could. What was Mr. Spencer doing? Kate closed her eyes and concentrated.

  Think!

  And suddenly she was seeing what he was seeing. It was as if she were inside his head, looking through his eyes. She could see the knife that he was holding in his hand, the long, evil blade slicing through the air as he carried it ahead of him. She could see the narrow basement with the cables snaking along the walls. She could see a patch of dark shadow between two of the generators and knew, with sheer terror, that this was where she was hiding and that he was looking straight at her.

  But did he know she was there? She could only see the pictures. She couldn’t hear any words.

  He began to walk toward her and for Kate it was as if she were watching herself on television. There was nothing she could do. She was about to be killed but at the same time she was the killer, watching with his eyes. She couldn’t scream. She couldn’t run. She could only wait.

  He stopped in front of her. But she knew he hadn’t seen her because she couldn’t see herself. He was hesitating, uncertain. If she was going to do anything, she would have to do it now.

  Kate screamed and lashed out with her foot, kicking Mr. Spencer with all her strength.

  Mr. Spencer swung with the knife. And now Kate felt the movement. She felt the signal from the brain to the hand. She knew what he was going to do at the very second he decided to do it.

  She dived down. The knife missed her.

  And then there was a brilliant flash. A scream. Sparks exploded all around her and the link between her and the French teacher was ripped apart. The knife had gone over Kate’s head and into one of the cables behind her. If she had been reading Mr. Spencer’s mind at that moment, she would have known what it was like to be electrocuted. The teacher was still standing. Electricity crackled and flared. A smell of burning filled the air. Then there was a bang as the generator shortcircuited and he toppled to one side.

  Sobbing, Kate dragged herself to her feet and, half-blind, with smoke in her eyes and the smell in her nostrils and a scream still trapped in her throat, she staggered out of the room.

  Her hearing aid had been knocked out of her ear. Automatically, she pressed it back in again. It was silent. She could hear nothing. It was finally over.

  X.

  Nobody ever found out what happened that night.

  Heidi was the only person who saw Kate when she staggered out, pale and trembling, from the empty school. Of course she was worried. Kate didn’t say a word as the two of them drove home. She sat hunched up in the backseat of the Nissan, her arms crossed and her hands clutching her shoulders. Looking in the rearview mirror, Heidi could see that she was crying. When they got home, the German au pair wanted to call a doctor but she let Kate dissuade her. After all, her English was so poor. And she had already decided to return to Heidelberg. She didn’t want any trouble.

  Kate dealt with it her own way. She didn’t sleep that night, or for many nights to come. But she had decided not to tell anyone about her involvement in Mr. Spencer’s death. There were too many difficult questions. All her life she had battled against the idea of being thought different. If the truth came out, she knew people would treat her like a freak. She didn’t even tell Martin what had happened. When he asked, a few days later, she told him that when he had failed to show up outside the school, she had left too.

  Nobody ever found out.

  Brierly Hall was closed for three days after Mr. Spencer’s rigid, blackened body was discovered by the school janitor in the generator room. In that time, Kate was able to recover. And the police were able to begin their investigations—even if this was one mystery they soon decided they were never going to solve.

  They must have realized that Mr. Spencer had, after all, killed his wife. How else could they explain the fact that the murder weapon had at last been found—still gripped in the dead man’s hand? But they never managed to explain what he had been doing in the basement—or why he had plunged that same knife into the main power cable in what looked like a bizarre form of suicide.

  The police examined everything. They asked questions. They examined everything again. And eventually they went away. Nobody at the school ever heard anything more. Presumably the case was shuffled away into some filing cabinet marked UNSOLVED.

  Meanwhile, Mr. Spencer was buried at St. Mary’s Church, Harrow-on-the-Hill. At the last minute, it was decided that the school should send a small deputation. Two teachers and three children would attend the funeral, as a sign of respect. Mr. Fellner, the principal, asked for volunteers at morning assembly, and to her own surprise, Kate found herself raising her hand. She didn’t want to go. She wanted to forget all about him. But at the same time, it seemed somehow right that she should be there. A final curtain. A chance to say good-bye forever.

  And that was how she found herself on a brilliant winter’s day, standing in a cemetery with Martin at her side and Mr. Fellner wrapped in a thick black coat just behind her. The sun was shining but there was a deep chill in the air and the ground was icy hard. Martin was shivering, stamping his feet and wondering why on earth he was there. There were only a handful of mourners clustered around the open grave. Kate noticed the detective among them. The last time she had seen his face, it had been on TV.

  A bell began to toll and four men in dark suits appeared, walking out of the church with the coffin stretched out on their shoulders. Kate looked away, wishing more than ever that she hadn’t come. A rosy-faced vicar led the way, his prayer book clutched against his chest. A blackbird dropped out of the sky and perched on a gravestone as if interested in what was taking place.

  The coffin drew closer
. Dark brown oak with brass handles.

  “Ashes to ashes . . .” the vicar began.

  Kate’s hearing aid crackled.

  And then the voice.

  “I’ll come back. I’ll get you one day . . .”

  And Kate began to scream.

  Burned

  July 10

  Three weeks in Barbados. A fancy hotel on the beach. Surfing, sailing, and waterskiing. All expenses paid. It sounds like the star prize on a TV game show and I suppose I ought to be over the moon. Or over the Caribbean anyway. But here’s the bad news. I’m going with Uncle Nigel and Aunt Sara.

  Mom told me this morning. The new baby is due in the middle of August and she’s not going anywhere. There’s no question of Dad going anywhere without her. He’s gone completely baby mad. If he spends any more time in Baby Gap they’ll probably give him a job there. The point is, if I don’t go with Nigel and Sara, I’m not going to get a summer vacation and Mom thinks it would be easier for everyone if I was out of the way. This is what comes of having another baby thirteen years after the last one. The last one, of course, was me.

  A NOTE ON SARA HOWARD

  She’s quite a bit older than Mom and looks it. Forty-something? She’s fighting a battle with old age and I’m afraid she’s not on the winning side. Gray hair, glasses, a slightly pinched face. She never smiles very much, although Mom says she was a hoot when she was young. She has small, dark eyes that give nothing away. Dad says she’s sly. It’s certainly true that you can never tell what she’s thinking.

  She has no children of her own and Mom said she was happy to take me with her to Barbados but I know this is not true. I overhead them talking last night.

  SARA: I’m sorry, Susan. I can’t take him. The thing is, I have plans.

  MOM: But Tim won’t get a vacation if you don’t help out, Sara. He’ll be as good as gold and we’ll pay his way . . .

  SARA: It’s not a question of money . . .

  MOM: You said you wanted to help.

  SARA: I know. But . . .

  And so on. I wondered why she was being so difficult. Maybe she just wanted to be on her own with Uncle Nigel.

  A NOTE ON NIGEL HOWARD

  I don’t like him. That’s the truth. First of all, he’s such an awkward, ugly man that I feel embarrassed just being with him. He’s tall, thin, and bald. He has a round, pale face, no chin, but a very long neck. He reminds me of a diseased ostrich. All his clothes came from Marks & Spencer and none of them fit. He’s the headmaster of a small private school in Wimbledon and he never lets you forget it. All in all, he has the same effect on me as five fingernails scratching down a blackboard. I wonder why Sara married him?

  August 12

  Stayed last night in N&S’s house in West London. A Victorian terrace with rising fog. Cases packed and in the hall. We’re waiting for the taxi that hasn’t arrived. My uncle and aunt had quite an argument about it. He blamed her for not calling the firm that he always uses.

  NIGEL: Speedway is much more reliable. Why didn’t you call Speedway?

  SARA: Because you’re always telling me they’re too expensive.

  NIGEL: For God’s sake, woman! How much do you think it’s going to cost us if we miss the plane?

  Then they argued about the packing. It turns out that Uncle Nigel is absolutely determined to get a suntan. I wouldn’t have said this was possible as he has pale, rather clammy skin that looks as if it’s never even seen the sun. Dad once told me that his nickname at the school where he teaches is Porridge . . . which is, I’m afraid, more or less his color. Anyway, Nigel wanted to be certain that Sara had packed his suntan oil and in the end she was forced to open the case and show him.

  He had six bottles of the stuff! He had those bottles that come locked together with different sun-protection factors. The higher the factor number, the greater the protection. He had oil to go on first thing in the morning and more oil for last thing at night. He had water-resistant oil, hypoallergenic oil and UVA-protective oil. But he still wasn’t satisfied. “Have you opened this?” he asked, taking out one of the bottles. “Of course I haven’t opened it, dear,” Sara said. She put the bottle back in the case and closed it up again.

  The taxi has just arrived. Uncle Nigel was so angry about how late it was that he smashed a vase in the hall. It was the vase Mom gave to Aunt Sara for her birthday. She’s sweeping up the pieces now.

  August 15

  Things are looking up.

  Barbados is a really ace place. Palm trees everywhere and sea so blue it’s dazzling. When you go swimming you see fishes that come in every shape and color and the night is filled with steel drums and the smell of rum. The beaches go on forever and it’s boiling hot, at least ninety. Our hotel is on the west side of the island, near Sandy Lane Bay. It’s small and modern but right on the beach and friendly and there are other boys of my age staying here so I’m not going to be on my own.

  Anyway, N&S have more or less forgotten me, which suits me fine. Sara has spent the last two days by the pool, under a big sun umbrella, reading the latest Stephen King. Nigel doesn’t like Stephen King. He gave us a long lecture over dinner about how horror stories are unhealthy and pander to people’s basest instincts . . . whatever that means. Apparently he banned Goosebumps from his school.

  He’s bagged a sun lounger out on the beach and he spent the whole day out there, lying on his back in his baggy Marks & Spencer swimming trunks. He made Sara rub Factor 16 all over him and I could tell she didn’t much enjoy it. Without his clothes on, Nigel manages to be scrawny and plump at the same time. He has no muscles at all and his little potbelly hangs over the waistband of his trunks. He has a thin coating of ginger hair. I suppose he must have been ginger before he went bald. I watched Sara sliding her hands over his chest and shoulders, spreading the oil, and I could see the look on her face. It was as if she was trying not to be sick.

  While she read and he sunbathed, I went out with Cassian, who’s thirteen and who’s here with his family for two weeks. They come from Crouch End, which isn’t too far from where I live. We went swimming and snorkeling. Then we played tennis on the hotel court. Cassian’s going to ask his mom and dad if we can hire a Jet Ski tomorrow but he says they’ll probably only pay for a pedalo.

  Dinner at the hotel. Uncle Nigel complained about the service and Sara asked him to keep his voice down because everyone was listening. I thought they were going to argue again but fortunately he was in a good mood. He was wearing a white polo shirt, showing off his arms. He says that he’s got a good foundation for his tan. I’ve noticed that whenever he passes a mirror he stops and looks at himself in it. He’s obviously pleased, although if you ask me, he’s looking rather red.

  He says that tomorrow he’s going to move down to Factor 9.

  August 16

  Uncle Nigel has burned himself.

  He didn’t say as much but it’s pretty obvious. We had lunch in a café on the beach and I could see that his skin was an angry red around his neck and in the fleshy part of his legs. He also winced slightly when he sat down, so his back is probably bad too. Sara said she’d go into Bridgetown and buy some calamine lotion for him but he told her that he was perfectly all right and didn’t need it.

  But he did say he’d move back to using Factor 16.

  It’s very strange, this business of the tan. I don’t quite understand what Uncle Nigel is trying to prove. Sara told me (while he was in the toilet) that it’s the same every year. Whenever he goes on vacation he smothers himself in oil and lies rigidly out in the open sun but he never has much success. I suppose his obsession must have something to do with his age. A lot of parents are the same. They get into their forties and off they go to the gym three times a week, pushing and pedaling and punishing themselves as they try to put a bit of shape back into their sagging bodies. Uncle Nigel’s body is beyond hope as far as muscles are concerned. But at least he can give himself a bit of color. He wants to go back to school bronzed and healthy. Perhaps f
or one semester they’ll stop calling him Porridge.

  They didn’t let me hire a Jet Ski even though it’s my own money. Mom and Dad gave me a hundred dollars to spend. So Cassian and I went for a walk and then played football with some local kids we met. Before we left, I saw Nigel, stretched out in his usual place. He was reading A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens but the oil and sweat were dripping off his fingers and blotching the pages. He also had the sun in his eyes and was having to squint horribly to read the words. But he won’t wear sunglasses. He doesn’t want them to spoil his tan.

  Got back to the hotel at six o’clock. Uncle Nigel was taking a shower by the pool. I could see that he’d fallen asleep in the sun. He was very red. At the same time, he must have left the Dickens novel leaning against him when he dropped off because there was a great rectangle on his stomach—the same size as a paperback book—which was as white as ever. The sun lounger had also made a wickerwork pattern on his back.

  I waved to him and asked him how he was. He said he had a headache. He also had a heat blister on one cheek.

  August 17

  Cassian’s parents took me out for the day. We drove in an open-top jeep through the center of the island. Lots of sugarcane and old plantation houses that make you think of pirates and slaves. We visited a cave. We had to wear plastic hats for protection and a trolley took us deep down into the ground, through amazing caverns with petrified waterfalls, stalagmites, and stalactites. I can never remember which is which. Cassian’s dad is a writer. His mom is some sort of TV producer. The two of them didn’t argue, which was a change.

  I was sort of dreading getting back to the hotel, wondering about N&S. No surprises there. He was still out on his sun lounger and Sara was sitting next to him, reminding him to turn over every half hour . . . like a chicken on a spit. She told me that he had decided he would be all right with Factor 9 again but I wouldn’t have agreed. His shoulders were badly burned and there were two more blisters on his nose.