The Housemates: A Novel of Extreme Terror

by Iain Rob Wright

Chris blew Damien a kiss. “Just you and me, little lady. Can’t wait!”

  And he calls me a poofter?

  Damien said nothing. He wasn’t going to waste his breath talking trash with an imbecile. Whatever happened, one of them was leaving the house very soon, so there was no need to tolerate each other much longer. Certainly no need for a confrontation.

  “DAMIEN, CHRIS, PLEASE ENTER THE ELIMINATION CHAMBER. THE OTHER HOUSEMATES CAN WATCH YOUR PROGRESS VIA THE LIVING AREA’S VIEWING SCREEN.”

  Damien stood up and walked towards the door. A moment later, Chris overtook him and bumped him aside with his shoulder. Damien scowled.

  Bloody wanker!

  The two of them stopped in front of the door marked ELIMINATION CHAMBER; the one that had been previously locked.

  “Is it open?” Damien asked.

  Chris tried the handle and it turned. He stood aside as the door opened. “Ladies first.”

  Damien huffed and shoved his way through the door. Inside was a stark white room that hurt his eyes with its brightness. There was no furniture or fixtures of any kind. The space was an empty cube.

  Except for a small table in the centre of the room.

  The steel table was on wheels, like the kind of thing you saw on forensic cop shows next to a dead body during an autopsy, usually with a whole host of bloody tools on it. This one, however, held only a pair of pistols. Damien stared down at the handguns with concern. Chris went to pick one up, but The Landlord’s voice interrupted him.

  “ON THE TABLE IN FRONT OF YOU ARE TWO BB GUNS. THEY ARE LOADED WITH PLASTIC BALL BEARINGS AND ARE NON-LETHAL. HOWEVER, PLEASE REFRAIN FROM AIMING THEM AT ONE ANOTHER. DOING SO WILL RESULT IN DISQUALIFICATION FROM THE TASK.”

  Chris winked at Damien. “Might just be worth it,” he said.

  There was a whirring sound and a compartment on the back wall opened up. A pair of marksmen targets appeared inside. Damien relaxed as he started to understand the task ahead of him.

  It’s just target shooting, nothing sinister.

  Then The Landlord said something which confused Damien all over again.

  “YOUR BRACELETS CONTAIN ENOUGH NEUROTOXIN TO KILL YOU A HUNDRED TIMES OVER. YOUR NECK COLLARS CONTAIN A COUNTER-AGENT.”

  Chris’s eyes narrowed and his shoulders hunched up. “The fuck he just say?”

  “I don’t know,” said Damien, unsure if he’d just heard correctly. “It must be a wind-up.”

  “IN ONE MINUTE YOUR TASK WILL BEGIN. EACH TIME YOU HIT THE TARGET ON THE OPPOSITE WALL, YOU WILL RELEASE NEUROTOXIN INTO YOUR OPPONENT’S BLOODSTREAM WHILE RELEASING THE COUNTER-AGENT INTO YOUR OWN.”

  “The hell are you talking about?” Chris shouted at the ceiling. “Nobody is putting anything into my bloodstream. Let me the hell out of here.”

  “FAILURE TO PARTICIPATE WILL RESULT IN EXPULSION FROM THE HOUSE.”

  “Fine,” said Chris. “EXPEL ME. I QUIT.”

  There was silence in the room. Chris looked around anxiously. Damien expected men in the eyeball-logo jumpers to come piling in any second to remove them.

  But no one appeared.

  Then Chris cried out.

  Damien stared at the other man. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Chris’s entire face was beetroot red and drool spilled from the corner of his mouth. A vein throbbed on his forehead.

  “Jesus,” said Damien, rushing over to help him. “They’re poisoning you. They’re actually doing it.”

  “It…burns! I feel like I have fire in…in my veins.” He scratched at his wrists around the bracelets like a heroin addict seeing imaginary spiders on their skin.

  Damien spun around in a circle, looking for an exit or something to help, but the room was closed on all sides. “Stop this,” he screamed. “Stop this right now.”

  Chris’s agony continued to grow. The man dropped to his knees and bellowed in agony. He sounded like a wounded bear.

  Damien took shallow breaths as he tried to think of something he could do. But how could he do something when he didn’t even understand what was happening?

  Then he had an idea.

  Damien picked up one of the BB pistols and aimed it at Chris’s target. He pulled the trigger rapidly, missing with every shot, but gradually adjusting his aim. Finally a ball bearing hit the target. It flashed green and let out an audible ping!

  He fired several more times until Chris’s bellows of pain became shallow whimpers.

  He’s getting better. The counter-agent is working.

  But then Damien was struck by an unbearable pain. It started in his wrists and seemed to shoot right up into his skull. His chest went tight and his stomach distended. He dropped to his knees and began panting. His fingers seized up, locking the BB pistol in his hand.

  “Help…help me,” he begged Chris.

  Chris had risen back to his feet unsteadily and, while still in obvious pain, he seemed to be doing much better. His cheeks had lost their redness and the vein in his forehead had stopped throbbing. He went over to the table and looked down at the remaining gun.

  “That’s it,” Damien said. “You need to shoot my target. I need the counter-agent.”

  Chris looked down at Damien and nodded as if he understood. He picked up the gun and raised it towards Damien’s target.

  Yes, that’s it. God, please hit the target.

  Then Chris adjusted his aim and fired several shots upon his own target.

  More burning hot agony flooded through Damien’s wrists. He cried out for mercy, but Chris continued to fire at his own target.

  More of the neurotoxin entered Damien’s veins.

  He felt himself dying. It wasn’t a feeling of fading or slipping away, but more an immense pressure building to a crescendo that would ultimately reach a breaking point and end his life.

  Damien collapsed onto his side.

  He’s going to kill me if he keeps firing.

  God…it hurts so bad.

  Damien realised that there was only one way to stay alive. He raised his BB pistol up, tried to aim it, but his hand was shaking. Tremors wracked his entire body.

  He managed to fire the pistol, but got nowhere near the target.

  Chris’s target pinged and went green again.

  Damien’s agony increased.

  He gritted his teeth and tensed every muscle in his body. He fought with everything he had to keep his hand from shaking for just one single fleeting second while he aimed.

  Just…need…to…keep…still….

  Aim…carefully…

  He squeezed the trigger slowly.

  The gun fired.

  Then fired again.

  Both shot’s hit the target, lighting it green. Ping! Ping!

  Damien felt a pinch in his neck as the counter-agent entered his system. He felt better immediately. The tremors stopped. The pain in his muscles subsided.

  He rose gingerly to his feet, breathing deeply to deal with the lingering pain, but knowing he had to move fast if he had any chance of staying alive.

  Chris continued firing wildly and managed to hit the target again. Damien’s agony increased but he ignored it, pushed it out of focus. He took careful aim at his own target and let off another three shots. Two of them hit. Ping! Ping!

  Chris cursed loudly. His face was growing beetroot again. He continued firing his pistol rapidly, but was now shaking too much to hit the target.

  Damien aimed carefully again, taking his time, controlling his breaths. He let off two more shots. Both hit.

  Ping! Ping!

  Chris screamed in agony and fell down to his knees. He placed his pistol down on the floor and put his hands up in surrender. “I give up. Please, Damien, stop. I’m sorry, just don’t fire anymore.”

  Damien took his finger off the trigger. He looked down at Chris and wondered how the guy had ever seemed so imposing. He was just a trembling mess now, whimpering on the floor like a wounded kitten.

  Damien lowered the pistol to his side and looked up at the c
eiling. “Landlord, this game is over. Chris quits, so let us out of here.”

  “THE TASK WILL END WHEN ONE OF YOU IS DEAD.”

  Damien shook his head. “Are you insane? You can’t just kill people for…what is this anyway, entertainment?”

  “THE TASK WILL END WHEN ONE OF YOU IS DEAD.”

  “Then you’ll have to kill me. I won’t be responsible for taking another man’s life. Not even a snivelling piece of shit like Chris.”

  Chris leapt to his feet and roared. The BB pistol was back in his hand. “Screw you, bitch!” He fired his weapon at Damien, again and again and again.

  Something sharp bit Damien’s left eye, sending him spiralling to the ground in shock. He cried out as half his vision suddenly disappeared.

  Oh shit, oh shit. I’m blind.

  Chris continued to fire the pistol, the ball bearings bouncing painfully off Damien’s skull as he covered up as much as possible.

  There was a hiss and the targets on the wall disappeared back behind the sliding panels from which they had appeared. The Landlord came back over the speakers.

  “HOUSEMATE, CHRIS. YOU WERE INFORMED THAT AIMING YOUR PISTOL AT YOUR COMPETITOR WOULD RESULT IN DISQUALIFICATION. HOUSEMATE DAMIEN IS THE WINNER.”

  Damien was still on the floor, clutching at his eye as it wept an ocean of salty liquid down his cheek. He needed a doctor. The damage could be severe.

  Chris continued aiming the pistol at Damien and was snarling like a mongrel. “You piece of shit,” he shouted. “You don’t deserve…”

  Chris’s voice trailed off as his eyes went unnaturally wide. He dropped to his knees and began wheezing. His red face now went a deep purple and blood vessels began to break apart in his eyes. Damien watched in horror as the man’s nose exploded in a torrent of blood and he collapsed face down on the floor like a beached whale.

  “Jesus Christ. Chris, are you okay?”

  Chris didn’t move.

  Behind Damien, the door to the living area reopened automatically.

  “YOU ARE FREE TO JOIN THE OTHER HOUSEMATES, DAMIEN. CONGRATULATIONS ON WINNING THE FIRST TASK.”

  Damien remained on the floor for a while. He was panting and moaning in pain as the counter-agent took its time doing its job.

  Congratulations? A man is dead.

  What have I got myself into?

  5

  Damien stumbled out of the Elimination Chamber and fought the urge to vomit. Everybody stared at him with wide, unblinking eyes as he re-entered the living area. Behind him, the door to the white cube room closed on its own and locked.

  “Please tell me that was all one big joke,” cried Jules. She pointed to the large television screen. “What we just saw isn’t real, right?”

  Damien shook his head. He wanted to say something, but there were no words that could adequately explain or even make sense of what had just happened. His one eye was still closed and he might be partially blind, but even that, right now, seemed inconsequential.

  “What happened in there?” Jade asked. For once, her voice was softer and less sure of itself. She folded her tattooed arms around herself tightly, almost as if to stop herself from shaking. A cigarette burned down to the nub between her fingers.

  Damien moved over to the sofa just as his legs failed him. He dumped down against the cushions and lay back. He shook his head over and over, and didn’t blink for what must have been several minutes.

  “Is Chris really dead?” Tracey eventually asked him. “Did they really just poison him?”

  “Course they didn’t,” said Richard. “No bleeding way.”

  Damien looked at them all, making eye-contact with each of them in turn, and then said, “They killed him. I know that for sure, because they almost killed me. Whatever is in these goddamn cuffs is lethal.”

  There was a frightened squeal from one of the group, but Damien didn’t see from whom. What he did see was the ashen, terrified expressions of his companions.

  “This can’t be happening,” said Jules. “It makes no sense at all.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Alex agreed. “Why would they kill Chris?”

  Damien shook his head. “I don’t know, but I think one thing is for sure – none of us is on television right now. This whole thing must have been some kind of scam.”

  Everybody groaned as the reality of the situation sunk in. Jade had already gone and grabbed a bottle of red wine and was now gulping from it loudly.

  “So, there’s no prize money?” said Sarah.

  “What a crock of shit,” said Tracey. “The money was the only reason I’m here.”

  Richard hissed at her. “Bitch, that’s the least of our worries.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Then don’t act like a bitch.”

  “There’s no point falling out with one another,” said Danni. “We have to figure this out together.”

  “Figure what out?” Richard flapped his hairy arms like a flustered bird. “We’re stuck in the middle of God-knows-where with a madman injecting poison into us whenever he feels like it! We’re screwed; totally effing screwed.”

  Damien had a headache and his wounded eye had begun to throb. The older lady, Catherine, seemed to notice his discomfort and sat down beside him. “Let me take a look,” she said.

  Damien allowed the woman to prod her fingers around his cheek and then slowly ease his eyelid open. The pain wasn’t too bad, but the tears were unending. It was like a faucet had been turned loose inside of his eyeball.

  “Can you see anything at all?” Catherine asked him.

  “It’s all blurry.”

  “That’s okay, blurry is good; better than seeing nothing at all. I think you’re going to be okay. Your eye is pretty inflamed, but it doesn’t seem like any permanent damage has been done.”

  Damien sighed with relief. “Thanks. I hope you’re right.”

  The old woman smiled at him. “Well, I’m not a nurse – just a care worker – but I think it looks okay.”

  “You’re a care worker?”

  Catherine nodded and her glasses bobbed on her wrinkly nose. “I was. Retired last year. I was hoping to win myself a nest egg to grow old on. Guess that isn’t going to happen now.”

  “Can we concentrate on something a little more important than his fucking eye and your career, please?” said Richard. “Like how we’re going to stay alive.”

  There was a sudden flashing that made all of them turn around. The large television screen was alternating between bright green and dark red. The flashing was so rapid that Damien was sure it would trigger an epileptic seizure in those who suffered from the condition. Then the flashing stopped and the familiar logo of the staring eye appeared.

  A video began to play.

  An elderly gentleman in a worn, grey suit and a bright red dickey bow appeared onscreen. His milky eyes held back tears. “My…my son, Graham, supported the Baggies his entire life, ever since I took him to see his first game at The Hawthorns. We used to live in Smethwick back then and could walk to the matches. It kept us close, you know? Going to see the match every two weeks gave us a bond that not every father is lucky enough to have with his son. I miss those days.” The old man began to cry silently. Tears trickled down his weathered cheeks but he continued speaking. “My son was a grown man with children of his own when that vicious thug killed him at the train station. Graham always used to feel guilty for leaving his family on a Saturday to come watch the football, but it was time with his old dad; he wouldn’t sacrifice it. I loved him for that. He grew up to be such a kind man – a man I was proud to have raised.”

  Someone off camera handed the old man a tissue and he used it to wipe at his eyes. “That wicked monster stamped my son’s skull into the pavement, just because he was wearing a West Brom shirt instead of an Aston Villa one. That was it, the only reason. The wretched beast had a few beers before the match, came out the pub, and decided it would be fun to kill my son. And what did he get for it? Four years.” The ol
d man spat on the floor in disgust. “He said my son had started the fight and that the killing was accidental. The drunken louts he was with backed up his story. But I know it isn’t true. I know my son.” The old man stared hard into the camera. “And now I’m going to be the one having fun watching you die, Christopher Maloney. I hope you rot in Hell you thug.”

  The television screen went blank.

  Alex ran his hands through his blond hair and whistled. “What the hell was that?”

  Danni put a finger to her lips. “Shush,” she said. “Something else is coming up on the screen.”

  Sure enough, a new image appeared on the high-def screen. It was a grid of silhouetted faces – three squares by four – twelve people in total. The first silhouette slowly transitioned into a full colour photograph. It had been taken recently. It was Chris’s dead face, taken from inside the Elimination Chamber where Damien had left him.

  “Oh God,” said Jules, covering her mouth with the palm of her hand. “Oh God, oh God.”

  More images began to appear onscreen. This time it was a collection of words. Beneath Chris’s photograph the word THUG began to blink. It was what the old man had called him.

  Below the other featureless silhouettes – unclear even in their gender – were the following words: COWARD, CHEAT, MURDERER, ABUSER, WHORE, TRAITOR, TRICKSTER, PEDDLER, PREDATOR, CRUSADER, and finally the word, THIEF.

  “What the hell is going on?” Richard demanded of no one in particular.

  “I don’t know,” said Damien. “But I think we’re in a lot of trouble.”

  Day 3

  It had been difficult to fall asleep for obvious reasons. Chris’s death, and the inexplicable situation they had all found themselves in, had quickly led to panic. Each of the housemates had tried to force the metal bracelets from their wrists, even going so far as to draw blood as they fought desperately to wrench their hands through the unforgiving steel rings. Damien had worn the flesh almost down to the bone in an attempt to remove his own shackles. But it did no good. They had all searched desperately for a way out of the house. But it did no good. They pleaded and begged to be released. But it did no good. Eventually they had all succumbed to the weariness and fatigue of their shocked minds and given up completely.