Phone the police?
Of course not.
Welcome to club culture.
Inside, the place was jumping. Music boomed, amplified by the compact nature of the club as a DJ relentlessly encouraged the sweaty, writhing mass to sweat and writhe a bit more before he dropped the bass and allowed the music to slow to a crawl just to start all over again.
Max made a beeline through the pulsating crowd towards the bar.
Once there, he was surprised at how empty that area of the club was. Most of the clubbers had congregated on the smoky dance floor in front of the huge stacks of speakers. It took only minutes to get served, and there was even a series of unoccupied barstools neatly lined up in a row. Max chose one and sat down, drink in hand, to soak up some of the lively atmosphere and survey the local talent.
Despite all his charm, charisma and good looks, even Max was surprised when almost immediately he was approached by a stunning, though obviously older and probably married with kids, brunette in a little black cocktail dress with piercing green eyes.
The new arrival politely asked if she could join him, and even paid for his drink. Sex On The Beach, obviously.
She said her name was Lola, but she could have been lying. People often lied in clubs. They lied about their name, their age, whether they had a partner or kids. You could be whoever you wanted to be in a club. The environment was conducive, and positively encouraged dishonesty. Clubs provided a welcome release from the drudgery of regular life, that was part of the attraction. On various occasions, Max himself had been an airline pilot on a stopover, an architect, an Italian fashion designer, and a scout and ex-player for a Premier League football team, visiting the city on business. It often amounted to nothing more than telling people what they wanted to hear. Playing a role in their little fantasy.
Max and the-woman-who-said-she-was-Lola talked and laughed for a while, probing each other skilfully with well-oiled questions and insincere compliments, studying each others reactions and body language with practised ease. For his part, Max found he couldn't take his eyes off her shapely figure and prominent cleavage, leaving the casual observer under no illusions as to what his intentions were.
Soon, it was time to leave and the decision was made to go back to the-woman-who-said-she-was-Lola's place. Maybe she wasn't married, after all. It was closer than Max's place, and the chances of getting a cab home this time of night would be slim. There was only a limited number, and they would all be busy taking drugged up clubbers to after parties. Max could get one on his own later, when the rush died down.
He wasn’t keen on taking girls home, anyway. If you do that, they would always know where to find you. Some were far too clingy, and others made a good living blackmailing or stealing from men they slept with. Better safe than sorry.
'Lola' lived in a large, well-kept three storey house overlooking the river, now swollen by the autumnal weather. This surprised Max, he was expecting a council house or maybe a dingy little flat or bed-sit. This woman not only had looks, confidence, and a body to die for, but money as well!
It just got better and better.
Was she a widow? A divorcee? a lonely spinster?
Whatever. He had all night to find out her marital status and how much she was worth. And he fully intended to enjoy the process of discovery.
She inserted a key into the lock on the over sized porch door, opened it, then retrieved another key from her handbag and used it to open the front door. Flicking on a row of light switches, she motioned Max inside, fixing him with a familiar look of barely suppressed longing. Max was used to that look.
The woman led him down a narrow passage, through an impressive set of double doors, into a small, neat sitting room.
“Would you like a drink?”
Ah, at last!
The old standard, Max thought. Not only the green light but the filter arrow as well! She may as well just strip off now and save all the false flattery and empty promises. But if she wants to play the game...
“Yeah, great. A dry Martini with a splash of vodka would be great, thanks.”
'Lola' momentarily disappeared to sort out the drinks leaving Max alone.
The sitting room was neat, but bare. No TV or DVD player, no Hi-Fi, no home computer, just two plush leather settees, a single wing-backed arm chair, a coffee table and a couple of stools. Sparse, yet very tastefully furnished. What was the trendy name for such décor? Minimalist. That was it. There was a large portrait hanging on the wall showing an ageing couple against a backdrop of rolling hills and streams. The parents?
'Lola' soon returned with the drinks, and gracefully took a seat on one of the twin settees, patting the place beside her with a hand as an indication for Max to join her. He did so, trying not to let his eagerness show too much.
Instead of jumping on her like a horny teenager, he sipped his drink. In his experience, restraint was one of the biggest aphrodisiacs of all.
“Nice picture,” he said to help the conversation along, nodding at the masterpiece on the wall. “Parents, huh?”
“Oh, thanks... yeah, uh... my parents,” Lola stammered slightly before regaining her composure. Maybe she was breaking house rules or something. “They had that done on holiday in Geneva a few years ago, not bad for a local artist. He could be the next Van Gough or something. We certainly hope so, then that painting would be worth a fortune, ha-ha!”
“I like your way of thinking,” said Max, who rarely missed an opportunity to offer a lady a throwaway compliment.
It must have worked, because the next thing he knew they were kissing. Slowly and tentatively at first, then harder and deeper. She moaned and parted her legs slightly as Max expertly slipped a hand beneath her little black cocktail dress.
“Not here,” she murmured, quietly.
“What?”
“Not here. Let's go upstairs. We'll be alone up there. No disturbances. And we'll be more comfortable...”
“But... we're alone now. Right here. And this room is comfortable enough...”
“Please...”
“Okay, lead the way.” Max sighed. Already this woman was becoming too much effort.
“You go first. There's something I have to do...”
“Oh, Jesus. Okay, Where do I go?” By now Max was struggling to contain his impatience.
“Go through those doors, left down the passage, then right until you come to a staircase. The lights are on the landing. Go up the stairs, turn left, and you'll see a door in front of you. Wait in there for me. I won't be long.”
“Promise?”
“Yeah, promise.”
Shaking his head, Max set off, desperately trying to remember the directions. He wished he had to ask her to repeat them. He was certainly feeling that last vodka Martini. How strong did she make it?
Or, more worryingly, what else did she put in it? He was becoming hot, nauseous, weak and confused.
Or was he just high on love?
This thought struck him as hilarious, and he had to ram a fist in his mouth to keep from laughing out loud.
Love, ha-ha! Love was a game only fools played.
Left down the passage, then left again. Or was it right?
Fuck!
He really should turn back and confess that he had somehow gotten lost. But what kind of impression would that give? 'Lola' would either think him a blithering idiot or an incompetent mummy’s boy who's scared of the dark and incapable of following a simple set of directions.
No, he was just going to have to wander around this strange big house alone in the semi-darkness until he just happened upon the staircase. How hard could it be? It was a staircase for Christ's sake, not a needle in a damn haystack.
Max stumbled around for what seemed hours, running his hands along walls in the vain hope of finding a lights witch somewhere. How could one house be this complicated? And why hadn't 'Lola' come to look for him? Maybe she had fallen asleep.
At last, he found the staircase. However, this
one wasn't leading upstairs as promised. This one was leading down. Hadn't 'Lola' specified going upstairs?
Max was dismayed to find that he no longer remembered, or even cared. His once painfully swollen member now swung loosely between his legs, all but forgotten. All he wanted now was a few hours sleep then a cooked breakfast.
Still, it wouldn't hurt to have a quick look for the girl. She did look exceptional in that little black dress, and it would be a crying shame to come all this way for nothing. Besides, he hadn't seen a phone on his travels around this maze of a house, and the battery on his mobile was exhausted.
By this time, his eyes had grown more accustomed to the absence of light. He could make out the first couple of steps before they disappeared into total blackness. Clutching a bannister for support and cursing under his breath, Max carefully started the descent.
Halfway down the stairs he heard a loud thump from somewhere above and a long, high-pitched, feline-like howl.
Great. A moggy.
He fucking hated cats.
It was then that he first noticed the smell. He had been dimly aware of it before, but his subconscious mind had not deemed it important enough to warrant his attention. Now it seemed to be growing stronger with every step. It was a multi-layered smell; rotting flowers, freshly dug dirt, spoiling meat, faeces and piss.
It smelled like death.
He was approaching the bottom of the staircase now, and it was almost in complete darkness.
Where the hell was he, the basement?
He felt woozy, and his head throbbed. If he inadvertently stumbled across an exit in this damned house, he would gladly use it.
Suddenly, he had a brainwave.
Of course! Why had he not thought of it before?
He fumbled around in his pocket for his cigarette lighter. Finding it, he spun the wheel with the ball of his thumb and a bright orange flame sprung into life, creating a small arc of protective light around him.
He found that he was in a large, bare, draughty room with several doors set into the walls. Didn't Lola say he would find a door near the stairs, and to wait for her in there? This must be the place!
He couldn't remember which door, so the obvious thing to do was to start with the nearest and try them all. She must be there by now. Waiting for him. Or maybe she'd fallen asleep. If that were the case, he had just the thing to wake her up...
There was a door directly in front of him. Max pushed it gently, fully expecting it to be locked, but to his surprise the door swung inward on creaking hinges. He stepped inside the darkened room and held up his lighter, which was now hot to the touch.
By the light of the flickering, yellow flame, he scanned the walls near the door. Eventually, he located the light switch and flicked it on, flooding the room with bright artificial lighting.
It was a bedroom, and there was somebody lying on the bed.
Lola?
Max quickly snapped the switch back down, returning the room to darkness and listened intently for signs that he had disturbed the sleeping form. There were none.
So she had fallen asleep after all, the bitch.
Oh well, he could awaken her with a kiss. Max smiled to himself as he started to unbutton his shirt.
But wait.
That smell! It was so strong here that it was almost overpowering. And now that he thought about it, hadn't he caught a glimpse of not one but two people in the bed? What was more, they hadn't looked... right. Something about the position of the bodies, the contours. He didn't know exactly what, he couldn't put his finger on it, but something was definitely wrong. The shapeless forms reminded him of discarded shop mannequins.
It took an eternity for Max to build up enough courage to flick the light switch back on, but flick it he did. The room was once more flooded with light. He stared at the bed, now even more confused than ever. The tangled limbs of the mannequins, the crumpled sheets, the splattered brown and crimson paint. What the fuck?
He approached the bed until he was standing directly over it, shaking his head in disbelief. He searched his mind for a logical answer to this riddle, something that could neatly explain everything.
Suddenly, the penny dropped.
Max fell to his knees next to the bed and put a hand to his temple, sensing that he was on the brink of a life-altering revelation. Then he retched and vomited streams of foul-smelling hot brown liquid all over the bed, the floor and his smooth new Hugo Boss outfit.
There were two dead people in the bed.
There could even be more. It was difficult to say with all that blood. All that was really visible was a tangle of broken limbs and lacerated flesh. They had been literally torn to pieces, and bits appeared to be missing, as if they had been partially eaten. What looked like claw marks and jagged little bites were clearly visible on what remained of the bodies, carved deep into the flesh to expose the white, virginal bone beneath.
One of the corpses appeared to be that of an elderly woman, whose lips and sagging cheeks had been all but devoured, exposing her jawbone and giving the horrifying impression that she was grinning at him through a mask of dried blood. The other body was a man, his body mostly obscured by gore and his head severed from his body. It lay on the bed next to the tangle of limbs, eyes open and staring.
Max couldn't be sure, but the bodies looked like the elderly couple in the portrait he had seen upstairs. Lola's parents?
Max wondered if she knew about the tragedy that had befallen the old couple. If she didn't, he must warn her! There was either a wild animal or a madman in the house. He felt blind panic well up inside him, and fought to keep it under control.
Then another revelation hit him like a hammer to the skull.
How could she not know about this? Being butchered like that, they couldn't have gone quietly. They must have put up a fight.
She told him they were away.
Max slithered and slipped in puddles of his own vomit as he struggled not only to regain his feet, but also his grip on reality.
How could she do that to her own parents? A woman like that who looked so incapable of committing such atrocities. So warm, so loving, so sensuous...
Then a voice drifted down from somewhere above, splitting the silence and making Max grunt in surprise.
“Oh, Max... Where are you?”
He swallowed hard and held his breath.
Suddenly, the tone changed, “Come to mama, you worthless fucking prick. Don't dwell down there for too long. Come and get it. Come and take me, pleeeeaaaase!”
At first she had seemed to purr, but in the course of a single sentence her voice had turned to anger, encompassing scorn and malicious spite to end in a gurgle of what sounded like absolute, bitter disdain. She made the word 'please' sound like the unearthly howl of a pissed-off alley cat.
Was she doing that on purpose?
Had he let slip at some point in the evening his hatred for cats?
He didn't think so. But one thing was for sure, she knew about the carnage that had confronted Max in the bedroom. He could sense it.
The panic was now surging through him in uncontrollable waves. He must get out of this house! Find a telephone and ring the police. Anonymously report what he had seen, then disappear. Go back to his life. He turned to make his way up the stairs, and came face to face with Lola.
Except now it wasn't Lola at all. At least not the Lola he had met earlier in the evening. Max didn't scream, instead he emitted a low guttural groan as his bowels and bladder simultaneously gave out.
God only knows how she got down those stairs so swiftly and silently. She looked so awkward, so unnatural, illuminated before him in the sombre glow of light from the blood-soaked bedroom. She was hunched over, but her head was tilted up at such an extreme angle that Max could look deep into her eyes, which were now glowing and oval. Her face appeared to be covered in a thin layer of fine brown hairs, and her drooling mouth hung open to reveal dozens of needle-sharp fangs. The fetching little black dress she ha
d been wearing now hung off her in rags, leaving most of her upper body exposed. She was making a continuous low growling sound in her throat that almost sounded like a pained mewing.
Suddenly, as quick as lightning, she slashed at Max with a claw attached to a feline-like arm, and he fell back into the bedroom screaming in fear and pain. It was almost as if she she were holding a fistful of razor blades, judging by how little resistance his face offered to the strike. For a terrible fraction of a second, he could actually feel her inside his cheek.
Mouth filling with blood, he pushed at her as hard as he could, sending the woman-thing reeling backwards into the blackness.
And then he was running...
Up the stairs, onto the first floor.
Where was the door?
The front door?
In his frantic search for an escape route, Max found himself running into furniture and opening and closing doors to empty rooms, all the while whimpering and pleading.
The Lola-thing was coming for him, gaining ground. He could almost feel her disgusting hot breath on the back of his neck. Later, Max came to believe that she, it, could have pounced on him and ended his misery at any moment, she simply chose not to. The harsh truth being that she was just playing with him the way a cat plays with a mouse before finally growing bored and tearing it to pieces.
Eventually, bleeding heavily from his face and reeling from shock and fear, Max located the front door and burst out of the house into the fresh night air. He shambled down the deserted residential road, constantly looking over his shoulder to make sure the Lola-thing wasn't chasing him, only to collapse in a crumpled heap on the pavement a couple of streets away.
He was found barely conscious by a police patrol car a few hours later after a member of the public called them thinking he was a passed-out drunk.
Despite his injuries and traumatised state of mind, Max was able to outline what had happened. At first, the police scoffed. “The hot girl turned into a monster? Like a cat, you say? Of course she did, bud. You just compose yourself and try again. Been out clubbing have we? Care to tell us what you took tonight?”
They took some convincing, and drove around the area several times before Max recognised the house. He watched from the back seat as one of the officers knocked the door. Of course, nobody answered.
X: A Collection of Horror Page 8