by West, Sam
He’s gone mad, she thought with conviction. Or he’s pure evil and you never even had a clue…
“My children are adopted, you foul piece of shit, you abomination of fucking nature. So you raped my daughter? So what. She’s not your fucking blood.”
Claire held her breath as she watched the three of them. Her dad sat in the chair, grinning like a lunatic. Paul stood there, the gun which was pointed at her dad quivering, the axe still dangling from his other hand.
And throughout it all, Ryan remained silent and unmoving.
Claire closed eyes.
Adopted?
Perhaps, under normal circumstances, such an admission wold have upset her. Now, it offered a tiny ray of relief.
“You’re lying,” Paul said in a small voice.
“Am I? Are you sure about that? I was eighteen years old when my mother raped me. Believe me, I made sure that I could never have kids again, I thought I was too fucked-up to raise a family of my own. I never expected to fall in love. I never expected to want a family, to change my mind. And I never told Mary, but as luck would have it, she was infertile anyway. So we adopted.”
“You’re lying!”
Claire flinched at Paul’s raised voice, watching how his whole body trembled with whatever inner turmoil raged within him.
“Look at my children, Paul. Do you think they look like me or Mary? Or even each other? I mean, really?”
Somehow, she wasn’t surprised. It was like she had always known.
“I’ve always known,” Ryan said quietly, still with his back to her, giving voice to her very own thought. “When I was seven, I overheard you and Mum talking about it.”
Suddenly, the puzzle that was her entire life made perfect sense. So that was why Ryan had always been ‘off’ with her. The Big Secret had eaten away at him, and hurting her had been some sort of catharsis for his pain.
Yeah. But what about all those sexual innuendos over the years? Maybe he just felt like it was ‘okay’ to fancy me…
The thought made her feel ill.
“I’m so sorry,” James was saying, snapping her back into the moment. “Your mother and I thought it was for the best. We made that decision, rightly or wrongly when you were both babies. We did it out of love…”
His voice trailed away, choked by tears.
“This is all very touching, and everything, but change of plan. Fuck you, Dad.”
Claire screamed into the gag until it felt like her throat was on fire, watching helplessly as Paul swung the axe at James’s head.
“No…” her father bellowed.
Her heart leapt into her throat when Ryan pounced as the axe came down. Instead of the axe-head hitting James in the face as planned, both men staggered sideway in an ungainly tangle of limbs. The axe clattered to the floor and the gun went off.
“Ryan,” she screamed, but it came out as a moan.
For the briefest of seconds, she allowed herself the luxury of believing that Ryan was the victor. But alas, it was not to be. Paul stood over his almost-brother, his chest heaving.
“Dumb cunt,” he panted. “I thought you were different. Well, fuck you.”
Ryan moaned on the groaned, curled up in the foetal position, clutching his left shoulder.
The bastard shoved the gun into the front-pocket of his glistening red apron and went to retrieve the axe.
“And fuck you, too,” he screamed at James.
For the second time, he swung the axe at the man that was both his father and his brother.
“No, Paul, don’t…” James began, but his pleading was cut dead by the axe hitting him square in the face.
The thunk of the axe was atrocious; it reverberated through every inch of her body and she wailed in despair.
A great spray of blood erupted from his face, and she twisted her head away from the ghastly spectacle. Hot blood splattered her thighs and a groan of utter disgust was wrenched up from the depths of her being.
Something snapped inside her head.
“No, no, no,” she sobbed, arching her back, tugging at her wrists, no longer caring that the cross might topple over, now welcoming that it might.
Sure enough, her efforts were rewarded with her crashing to the floor. The air knocked out of her lungs in an agonising rush when the cross fell sideways. By some miracle, she landed on her side, awkwardly propped up against the wall, rather than on her front which surely would have caused a broken nose at the very least.
Pain blanketed her and her vision swam in a grainy black and white, the ringing in her ears deafening as the noise of her surroundings diminished.
“….to do. Really fucking stupid,” Paul was saying.
The ringing in her ears subsided and the noise in the room jumped to full clarity, like somebody had turned up the volume on the radio. The noise her father was making curdled her blood – a kind of wet, groaning wail.
Experimentally, she tugged at the rope which bound her wrists, and her right hand – the one which was pointing towards the floor – was free. Despite the agony she was in, she felt a primal stab of satisfaction. It was the most beautiful feeling, but instantly shattered when Paul kicked the cross out from under her and she went clattering onto her back.
Once again, the air knocked out of her and the world span.
I can’t take much more of this.
Through her swimming vision, she saw that Paul was on his knees, straddling her thighs, the axe raised high above his head. Her mind lurched in terror, but she was powerless to stop the inevitable.
So this is how I die, came the strangely detached thought.
The axe came down and her world exploded in a blaze of agony. The unspeakable pain radiated out from her middle, both hot and terrible. Her mind untethered and her surroundings dimmed. She welcomed in the blackness, and the ringing in her ears that thankfully drowned out all else.
Yet as much as she craved it, she couldn’t quite let go, her mind clinging resolutely to consciousness. She began to shiver uncontrollably, her teeth chattering behind the gag.
“…going to fuck your new hole, baby girl…”
The pain crashed over her in great waves that ebbed and flowed, washing over her in levels varying from agonising to unbearable. When it was unbearable, her vision dimmed and her thoughts stilled.
Hovering somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness, she closed her eyes and prayed for death. Mentally, she braced herself for the pain to intensify. She didn’t think it possible, yet understood that it was to be so.
During a blacker moment of pain, she became dimly aware of movement above her. It took a second to register that she wasn’t seeing double, but there were now two men on top of her. They fell away from her field of vision, and the gun went off.
Apart from the music and the laboured breathing of her father, everything fell silent.
Gingerly, she raised her freed hand, holding it in front of her face. When she gently waved it before her eyes, the movement left a trail of hands in the air. She blinked to clear her vision. On automatic pilot now, she reached for her other hand, fumbling blindly at the rope that bound her wrist to the cross.
With every last ounce of strength she possessed, she raised herself up onto her elbows. Paul and Ryan lay next to her. Paul was on his front, the back of his skull a bloody mess of shattered bone and lumps of brain. Ryan was on his back, his eyes wide and staring vacantly upwards. Just when she thought that he too, was dead, he blinked.
“Ryan,” she sobbed, then remembered the gag.
She peeled it off, barely even registering that she had also peeled away the skin of her lips. Absently, her tongue dabbed at the coppery blood.
When her brother smiled, his mouth pooled with blood, which led to a weak bout of coughing. He still clutched the wound in his shoulder and Claire saw the way the blood was pumping out of him around his hand, like a leaky garden hose.
“Fucker’s dead,” he managed to say.
“Thanks,” she said, wincing
in pain. “Dad.”
She looked over at her father, a cry of unimaginable sadness wrenched up from her guts. His head had flopped forwards on his neck, rolling slightly on an invisible breeze. His face was caved in, a red, seeping crack running down the middle of it.
A grotesque, rattling, bubbling sound escaped the ruin that had once been his face. She turned her face away in disgust, ashamed that she couldn’t bring herself to look at him.
So she looked down at herself instead. She let out a small cry, staring in disbelief at the open-wound that was her stomach. Her hands fluttered over the gaping hole and the slowly, rhythmically pumping blood. She glimpsed something pink in there, a coil of intestines perhaps, and she flopped back down on her back, overcome with dizziness and horror. All thoughts of untying her feet were forgotten as a welcome numbness seeped through her.
“You did good, Ryan,” she said in a slurred voice.
But there was no answer. She strained her ears, trying to hear above that incessant, internal ringing, but she heard nothing, not even the disgusting, wet rattle of her father’s breathing.
“I love you Dad. I love you Ryan.”
She gasped her final breath, the cold numbness curling gently around her brain.
And then there was nothing.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Fay heard every word. Every cry of terror, every scream of agony, every last plea to be spared.
And now they were all dead. All except her.
The pain caused her to drift in and out of consciousness, and sometimes it felt as if she were floating above herself.
James, she thought sadly, her heart breaking. Oh God, I love you so much…
The only man she had ever loved, slaughtered before her very eyes. It wasn’t fair. She knew that tonight had been a bad idea, she should’ve never let Louise talk her into it. She still wasn’t sure why she had agreed to it, not really.
I guess I just wanted to get to know my future son in law better. Or maybe I just wanted to make James jealous. Or maybe I was going to break the news to Ryan, get the ball rolling…
The truth was, she didn’t know what she had wanted. These thoughts tumbled together in her mind, a big, incoherent muddle of longing and regret.
The only thing she knew for sure was that she wanted the baby; she wanted that with every fibre of her being. Ever since she and James had begun their affair a month ago, she had fallen hook, line and sinker. He hadn’t said it in so many words, but she knew that one day he would’ve left his wife for her. Now all that she had left of him was his unborn child.
What had happened tonight was not James’s fault. Paul was a liar, a psychopath, nothing more than a heart-breaking intervention that had cut her and James’s life together tragically short.
Fay patiently waited for the morning, for the rest of her life to begin.
Hers and her unborn child’s.
The End.
Hello, thanks for sticking with me to the end. I hope you enjoyed the story. Below, I have enclosed the first chapter of my novel, ‘The Collection’. If you liked ‘Her Father’s Mistake’, be sure to check out my author page over on Amazon for the full list of titles. Sweet nightmares to you all,
Sam West.
THE COLLECTION: AN EXTREME HORROR NOVEL
Helen Clarke stretched out on the long, red leather sofa, her gaze drawn to the clock above the bookcase.
It’s only half-seven, what am I going to do with myself for the rest of the night?
Sighing heavily, her gaze travelled down the six shelves that made up the bookcase. Absently, she considered finding a film on Netflix, but she felt too on-edge to concentrate on the TV. Outside, a thunderstorm raged and she lay there listening to the rhythmic pitter-patter of the torrential rain lashing against the window.
Flumpy, the black cat jumped up onto her pink, pyjama-clad thighs, startling her. Helen scratched her behind her ears, forcing herself to relax.
The furry body felt nice and warm as she settled down against her legs, but she knew that was a lie, seeing as cats only pretended to keep you warm. Yeah, cats are such selfish wankers, she thought affectionately. Instead of creating a nice, warm spot, the little bastards absorbed all of that person’s heat into their own bodies, much like a vampire would suck blood.
“I expect Roger will get soaked-through on his precious pub-crawl,” she said to the purring cat.
The thought cheered her up, somewhat. As much as she professed not to mind him going out with his mates, she was still secretly miffed at being left behind.
What if he starts flirting with other women?
The nasty thought slammed into her mind, causing her heart to twist painfully in her chest.
“He wouldn’t do that, would he, moggy?”
A clap of thunder made her flinch, and Flumpy meowed, digging her claws into her thighs before scrambling away.
“Ow,” she complained, jumping to her feet. “Stupid bloody cat.”
And sure enough, now her legs were bloody freezing.
Muttering to herself like the crazy cat lady she was secretly worried that she might one day turn into, she hobbled into the middle of the living-room, frantically rubbing her tender – and very cold – thighs.
Over the mantelpiece, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. She looked wild, and an equally wild sounding giggle escaped her lips. Her shoulder-length, black hair stuck up every which way and her dark brown eyes were wide and crazed. A flash of lightning illuminated the room, immediately followed by a fierce explosion of thunder. Her skin, usually a rich and deep shade of brown, appeared bleached-out by the brief flash of lightning.
I look like a ghost.
The odd thought made her shiver, despite the warmth of the room. She noticed her arms were speckled with goose-bump and she wrapped them tightly around her torso. All she wore was a white vest-top, and her hard nipples strained against the flimsy fabric. Feeling inexplicably self-conscious, she retreated over to the sofa and grabbed the grey fleece that was flung over the back of it, wrapping it tightly around her shoulders.
Yet again, her gaze was drawn to the bookshelf.
When in doubt, read.
She took a step closer. At exactly eye-level, on the second shelf from the top, a book caught her eye. Unlike the others, it wasn’t neatly lined up with its spine facing outwards. It was propped up in the middle of the shelf, leaning against the row of books.
The cover was a simple affair – the words ‘The Collection’ were written across the front in big, red letters which were set against a mottled, greyish-pink background. There was no author name written on it, just those two words.
She plucked it down to look at it more closely. On closer inspection, the entire jacket of the book was made of some kind of leather – it felt dry and soft to the touch and she ran her fingertips over the raised lettering.
She shuddered when realisation dawned on her. It really looked as if the jacket were made of human skin, and the lettering was jagged marks cut into flesh.
“It’s not real,” she said softly to the empty room. “It can’t be.”
Part of her wanted to throw it the ground with a cry of repulsion, the other part of her clung onto it with morbid fascination.
Of course it wasn’t real. She was an idiot to even think such a thing for a second. But it was pretty gross, and so realistic.
It must be some special edition horror book, or something.
But she didn’t much like horror, so how the hell had it ended up on her bookshelf?
She frowned in confusion. Nope, she didn’t recognise it at all.
Maybe it’s Roger’s.
But Roger wasn’t much of a reader; every single book in the house belonged to her. Helen was a self-confessed book-whore – not a day of her life went by where she didn’t snatch at least ten minutes reading time. Books were her life and reading was her passion. Ten years ago, she had graduated from Oxford University with a first in English Lit, going on to teach English at a
grammar school.
The strangest feeling washed over her.
I shouldn’t be touching this.
But she didn’t put it down.
Where did you come from, strange little book?
Even though she didn’t like horror, she found herself opening the cover, wanting to see the copyright page for information on the author and the publisher. There was nothing. No copyright page. No information. No nothing. The damn thing opened up straight to the first story.
Her frown deepened when she read the title, ‘STICKY-TAPE’. There was no author name there, either. Almost in a trance, she carried the book over to the sofa and wrapped the grey fleece around her body in a tight cocoon.
She began to read….
II
STICKY-TAPE
“Ugh, I hate these places. Remind me why we came here, again?”
Charlotte shot her boyfriend Jason a withering stare. “Because funfairs are fun, dumbass.”
Charlotte took in her surroundings as they wound their way through the crowds beneath the night sky. How she loved the brightly coloured, tacky rides, and the many different pop songs that pumped out from numerous speakers. Funfairs just had this energy about them, and it was infectious.
“Yes, well, I haven’t had this much fun since I had my wisdom tooth extracted.”
Disappointment crashed down on top of her – he was just such a killjoy. Not for the first time, she wondered why the hell she was with him, anyway. In the beginning, it had been their differences that had first so attracted her to him. He was kind of geeky, bookish and introverted and she was a party-animal that had left school at sixteen. He was studying for his PHD in Mathematics, and she was a pursuing a career in modelling. Except the work wasn’t coming in like she’d hoped it would, and mostly she found herself drifting from one shitty waitressing job to the next.
Pompous arse, she thought uncharitably.
“Some of us aren’t fusty and old before our time. Some of us actually like to get out and live a little.”