Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #20 November 2015 | Page 77

hurry to catch up with Susan and Darren as they slink around to the back of my killer’s dilapidated home. Here, Darren pulls a set of keys from his pocket. He fumbles through them with his gloved hands as Susan illuminates them with a torch. “Ha!” He holds up a key triumphantly. It gleams in the torchlight like a prize. “Shine the light on the door,” he commands. Susan throws him a dark look. “Please,” he adds as an afterthought. Still scowling, she follows his amended command. A couple of clicks and we’re in. The ether shimmers around me, disturbed by the memories that invade as we step over the threshold. I shrink away then force myself forward, determined to see this through to the end. It’s a movie, I tell myself. Nothing but a bad Hollywood dream. Only, not so long ago it was real. It’s hard to let that go. The cords that tie the dead to the living are strengthened by fear and love. There are those on the other side who feed on fear. They drink it in, strengthening their tenuous spirits on the darkest, innermost pain. When he was cutting me, I felt them around me, growing strong on my fear, whispering in his ear, taunting, cajoling. It’s a movie… more, I try to get Susan’s attention but her focus is elsewhere. “L et’s take a look upstairs.” She waves her torch towards the narrow staircase. No, no! I scream uselessly. Move the cupboard! She doesn’t hear me and starts up the stairs. Darren follows her. I miserably trail behind. I’ve never been upstairs. All I ever knew was his cold, damp basement and the lumpy mattress he provided for rest and recreation. No pillow. No such luxury! I was his possession, of little importance beyond serving his twisted needs. I don’t want to see his room. I don’t want to see the bed where he sleeps or the clothes in his wardrobe. I know enough about him. I don’t want to know any more. Of course, Susan and her partner do not share my feelings. They are consumed with curiosity as they rifle carefully through his wardrobe and drawers. “Well, looky here!” Darren shines his torch on the plastic bag dangling from his hand. The white crystal contents glisten under the light. “Look what our boy does for recreation.” “Great! An anonymous call to the drug line, a warrant to search the premises - who knows what else they’ll… ” Susan stops mid-sentence and holds up her hand, beckoning Darren over. We move to the hallway. The basement door is on the wall to our right. They can’t see it because there’s a heavy cupboard covering it. I don’t remember the cupboard being there when he dragged me down the basement stairs by my hair. How did no one hear my screams in such a peaceful neighbourhood? How did no-one know? “Come take a look at this.” He carefully replaces the plastic bag as he found it, shuts the wardrobe door and joins her at the dresser. There, in the open drawer, is a small locket. Suspicion and gossip isn’t enough. We need evidence, the police told my mother when she begged them to search my killer’s house. I try to grab Susan, pull her back to the cupboard. I miss and she keeps creeping forward behind Darren’s massive form. He looks like a hunchback with the back pack. His torch lights the way, flashes of memories in LED. We retrace our steps, passing the cupboard again. Once I feel violated all over again. My locket, shoved in a drawer with his underpants and socks. A trophy, a testament to the pleasure my pain brought him. My locket, with my initials - L.R., entwined with a long stemmed rose. Darren fishes a small camera from his backpack. He snaps a few shots of the locket before Susan closes the drawer. They find nothing else  77