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
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