He's Watching Me (10 page)

Now she was only a few steps away, commotion thrived in his heart. He was overpowered with homicidal urges and desires, he crept forwards. Now standing over Laura he withdrew a knife from his pocket. The same one he'd severely wounded Laura with once already. That thought gave him great pleasure. He imagined the blade piercing through his daughter as she sat seizing against the computer room door, no doubt crying.

A thrill yammered in his head, a stirring rumbled in his groin; he could do anything. He was in the cover of darkness, clouded by the night sky, with only light of the moon and a few nosey stars along for the show. He could rape, molest, and abuse until his sack had been emptied. Then destroy her. He stood, looking down at the blonde hair, shredded and stained clothing, flesh bruised and badly cut. He prayed Laura was still conscious, and that she wouldn't pass out after too much physical misery had been inflicted. But he was hopeful, and believed his God would help him in his time of need.

“Hello there precious, are you ready for this?” laughter broke the cold bitter air.

Rain poured ferociously. Heavy blobs of wetness shot from the murky clouds hovering in the night sky like wet bullets. The rushing of watery pellets was all that could be heard. A fuzzy sound that was everywhere. The violent waves could be seen in the ocean below. Huge splashes of salty foam in an ominous mystic blue. Waves whipped the cliff, eroding and whittling away the rock face. It was then that Laura responded.

“Are
you
?” but the voice didn't come from the body in front, it came from behind.

This threw him off-guard.
A ghost?
Then he noticed a wedding ring glimmering in the darkness. That body was not his daughter's.
What the hell is going on here?
Then a hot sharp twinge ran down his spine. Already wet but a thicker liquid trailed his spinal cord. The substance was like that of mud: lumpy and thick, barely holding onto its liquid form. It kept seeping, filling the clown outfit. Something had punctured his back.

Then the blonde girl in front rolled over. It wasn't his daughter, it was his wife.
What the fuck?
Bruce was confused beyond explanation. A million questions joined the rush of gales and drizzle. Dizziness crept into his consciousness. Bruce then saw that his wife
was clenching a shard of glass, palms smothered in blood. Before Bruce could react, it was plunged through his stomach. He roared at the top of his lungs. But of course, no one was around to hear it. Not that the weather would allow anyone to hear it. Instantly the overwhelming agony made his legs cave, leaving no choice but to slam into the ground. But as Bruce fell there was a force from behind. Someone pushed. Destination sea in sights. He flung his hands out but they only punched air in the attempt to buffer the fall. His upper half was over the peak and he was almost vertical. The tufts of grass at the cliff's tip stroked him as he fell. They taunted, mocked with their soft bristles, fooling Bruce into thinking the nose dive will be just as soft as the bristles.

The night sky was heinous, it admired this event. A reprehensible human in mid air, over the peak, in the throes of gravity. An invisible hand grasped at the mortal coil, pulling him. But for the first second he appeared to be floating, being shown what his fate had in store. It scared him, as he had scared Laura and Toby. And apparently Sandra.

The air bit all of them with its icy fangs, pierced their exposed flesh and dimpled it. Laura and Sandra were watching in disbelief.
How had it come to this?
The downfall of a man who at one point in their lives was a great father and loving husband, but had been transformed into a monster. His brain had began rotting like expired fruit, the brown inside of an apple, the squishy texture to an old banana, that was how his brain had become. It had mutated black and evil, covered in murderous impulses.

The moon was also along for the show, like a flood light on a construction site, but exposing the destruction of a man, metaphorically, mentally, and literally. Now science refused to be so kind, they began to tug at him, bringing him that much closer to a rock littered grave. The sea lapped the base of the cliff, chipping like a pickaxe, gradually whittling them down to toothpick replicas. The white froth of the waves hit the pebbles and seeped into caves. Slithering, hissing, riving, an orgy of venomous white circling the surface of the sea. All waiting for the clown, preparing to consume him.

Laura and Sandra were now both stood, able to see the entourage of colours all on one man, plummet to the sea. A psychotic skydiver in a bright jumpsuit, only minus the parachutes, not being safe and prepared, but being injured and knowing the Grim Reaper was hanging around.
This would be a long downward journey for dad,
Laura thought. From the dropping off land's end to a watery grave, then from the liquid coffin straight to the burning depths of hell. An eternity of slavery for the devil himself. How ironic, people who commit murder, adultery, rape, molest, maim, perform terrorist acts and generally mimic the ways of Satan, end up being punished for it. Their worldly sins aren't celebrated in hell, for their tribute to the most evil being known in every dimension, they are subjected to manual labour in scorching hot temperatures and skin-dissolving steam that cooks their flesh.

Then like a penny plopping into a wishing well, one of Adam's many billion descendants dropped into a vast sea of navy. But not before hitting a rod of rock poking from the cliff's wall, puncturing and sending him somersaulting quickly to a sloppy demise. Sandra, down to her last reserves of energy, decided to do something. Still dangerously close to the peak she pulled off her wedding ring. She wriggled and twisted it until it slid off into her right hand. Laura was about to ask, but then understood what she was doing. Sandra looked at the ring intensely, eyes watery and nose flaring. She was recalling all the good times. The wedding, the marriage, the birth of Laura with a subtle smile on her face. But then at the memory of finding out of Bruce's indiscretions her teeth gritted. Sandra's jaw clenched, feeling betrayed and angry. But a part of her felt foolish. How hadn't she seen it? Not just the affair, but the mental decline of her husband. Was he a terrific actor? Or was she the world's most gullible woman? But either way, it was over now. She had her daughter and would hopefully survive this, given that her injuries hadn't caused severe internal damage. She was a fighter, and so was her daughter. So squeezing the ring in her fist, Sandra set her arm back, and then launched it into air. Both women watched it fall from the edge and head for the sea. A glistening ring flying through the air, twirling in the wind, sparkling in the night sky.

“And it's done,” Sandra exhaled, turning from the cliff and holding her daughter.

The two women trudged from the disaster area, exhausted and wounded, headed to the castle. Survivors, warriors, soldiers fresh from battle. Injured, bleeding, and limping, but determined to live. Intent on breathing, loving, laughing, and together they would destroy anything, or anyone that attempted to ruin that.

***

An hour later Sandra and Laura sat at the back of an ambulance outside the castle, their lesions being stabilized by paramedics until they could get to a hospital. The weather wouldn't permit a safe journey so they had to wait until the downpour relented a little. The doctor parents had returned, riled with grief at the discovery of Toby's death. Laura wept into her mother's soggy shoulder, devastated at the killing of an innocent young boy. Officer Thompson finally saw Laura face to face. He repeatedly told her she had been remarkably brave, more so than most adults. And that unfortunately people die in horrendous circumstances. But when it's a child, it makes things dramatically worse. The officer continued to console Laura, along with Sandra. It was then it occurred to Laura just how delicate life was. This was a wake up call for her. Live each day as if it's your last.
Live your life, if not for my sake or my mother's, then for Toby's.

While ambulances and police cars were strewn across the front of the Anderson's home, red lights flashed into the early morning hours, wounds were tended to, coffee and water was consumed greedily, and cops were bustling around with detectives trying to find out what exactly happened, not one of them knew just how angry Dr Anderson was. Not even his wife. He held back utter fury at the death of his son, and blamed Laura. If only the young girl had delved into the basement and dug under floorboards to hide. Then she would have known it would have been far better to sacrifice her own life, than to let the son of a doctor die. Especially a doctor whose basement was brimming with bodies. Bodies of the people he'd killed for his own pleasure. But Doctor Anderson managed to see the silver lining. No one knew he had worked with Bruce in his mission to kill his daughter. And no longer would he have to patrol the streets for hookers to kill. His next target had already been decided. He would seek vengeance for the death of his young boy. Bruce may have failed. But Dr.Anderson would not.

Epilogue

The brain is a playground, a magnificent one, capable of millions of wonderful thoughts, ideas, emotions, and reactions. But when too many children frequent this playground, all those cognitive actions: swinging, sliding, twirling and playing hopscotch, become too hard to control. You have to decide who enters this exclusive area, and have complete power over their actions. They can break equipment, bully other children, cause themselves harm, and scream into infinity. This can disparage sanity. And little by little, piece by piece, begin the road to insanity. Where you see fatality as a gift you want to share, pain a pleasure you want to spread, and mercy....well, mercy soon becomes a five letter word, and nothing more.

Sample from Frightful Tales #1 Rose's Thorn

He had only been allowed to watch a few horror flicks as he was very young, but he knew about possession and that in order to cleanse the spirit and rid the evil, an exorcism was needed. He also knew about voodoo dolls, but he doubted Rose was one, as those types of dolls were used to inflict pain on someone you knew by jabbing the dolls with needles. As Rose was of a porcelain construction, needles and such would prove pointless.
Research!
The thought sparked inside his psyche like a firework hissing at the beginning of its journey of continuous explosions. He just needed to get online and find an answer to ignite these explosions!

Maybe there would be a blog where people who have dealt with this situation before have advised of ways to rid the doll or dolls from their existence. He could only hope at this point. As his body was loosening and heart rate was slowing, he began to feel more optimistic that he would be able to find some useful information to help this situation. Maybe he was acting rash or perhaps a little melodramatically, but someone would no doubt see this inanimate object if it kept randomly appearing at various points in the house, and if his father saw it, a demonic fury would crawl up from the pits of hell. He could not just simply smash it, as it was his best friends and he felt that would be disrespectful, even if she had given it to him. He had considered for short lived instances of telling Emily about the doll that seems to be alive, if it was acting in this absurd way when it was in her possession.
Is that the reason she gave me it? No, she would never do that!
But if it was a normal doll in her presence then he didn't want to worry or alarm her, so as usual Declan suffered in silence. Just when he was building brick by brick the confidence to walk over to his desk and research on his ancient computer, he noticed that Rose was not laid on the bed after he'd thrown her there, she was somehow stood, on the uneven crumpled quilts.

Had she landed stood?
Not a chance
, Declan thought. There was no way, or an incredibly low percentage of a chance that she would land standing, balanced, and stay that way. Rose was stood as if being held by an invisible force, or by puppet strings of someone much more fearsome. He envisioned a spirit holding her, which sent chills up his arms. Although technically Rose's expression had not been altered or changed, as how could it, she was a doll. But he could swear that her eyes were staring with such hatred and fury attempting to pierce him and breakdown the last slivering slice of bravery that he had. Step by step, breath by breath, tremble by tremble he walked over to his desk, incredibly cautious and aware of this porcelain peeping tom.

This journey was only a few steps, but it felt like a lifetime's supply of courage and gall was needed to reach the final destination. The desk was like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, a finish line at the end of a race, but unlike those two, the computer was not the conclusion to a race or treasure hunt, it was the beginning of a voyage of abhorrence. Was he ready for this? Not that it mattered, he had no choice.

He loaded up this technological definition of failure, it took many hums, buzzes and clacks, but soon the green logo flashed across the computer screen signalling that soon the programmes would start to load. Whilst he sat waiting for this electrical deficiency to start, he was incredibly aware of Rose's tingling company. He could see her reflection in the darkness of the computer screen while it chucked up the screensaver. He could feel metaphorical bugs crawling on his shoulders, shivering his skin, and pricking the hairs to stand hard, protruding from his pores.

How she was able to stand on the uneven surface of a bed quilt after launching through the air was beyond his comprehensions, it both baffled and unnerved him. Then through the nightmarish thoughts his brain produced, the sound of footsteps shattered his racing thoughts. Someone was coming upstairs.

Judging by the slow and heavy steps, he knew instantly it was his wretched father.
The doll!
He hadn't locked the door! He jumped from his chair, grabbed Rose and flung her under his bed, letting her skid on the wood until she clunked the skirting board at the bottom of his wall, then frantically concealing her with his rucksack. He would have locked the door but this would have appeared more suspicious and he wanted to remain inconspicuous. If his father heard the click of a metal contraption he was sure to be curious like a creeping cat, only his reaction would contrast greatly to that of a cat, his ogreish reaction would be a wave of knocks and punches on the door, demanding he unlocked it and let him in. Paranoia was just one of the side effects of this raging alcoholic, along with violent outbursts and a lazy attitude. So Declan simply sat back down at his desk and pretended to do school work, this would bore his father and if he did come inside controlled by his meddling impulses, he would leave almost immediately at this vision.

Most dads would be bursting with pride at this sight, feeling honoured to have such an industrious and intelligent son, but not him, he left such chores to his wife. Just as the steps slowed outside his door Declan stopped breathing to heighten his ability to hear and anticipate his father's next move.

Each second dragged on like a Sunday shopping trip, each second appearing to last an hour. His nerves were being sliced with a blade and his lack of breathing was causing dizziness and a throbbing migraine. He daren't take a breath and risk being caught off guard. But soon the steps continued and went past the outside of his door, and his drunk of a dad went into his bedroom to sleep off a hangover no doubt.

Once he had calmed down and recovered, Declan spent the next few hours researching online. His fingers tapped the keypad like a psychopath repeatedly stabbing his victim. His eyes skimmed text on the luminous screen. His rump soon began to go numb at the bone of his butt squashing down on the skin and trapping nerves, creating a tickling sensation on his cheeks. Most information had been useless: rants of crazed individuals, blogs of disturbed people, incredibly intellectual and pompous explorations of the history of dolls and their symbolism. Some of which were fascinating, but never the less, it would not help his situation. Then out of the pages of pointless considerings came a website that stuck out from the rest. The words were informative, and very useful. Including everything about dolls, and the insertion of first hand accounts of people that have experienced hauntings and strange phenomenon.

One man whose screen name was 'I.knw.my.sh*t' which made Declan chuckle, had posted his own real experience of dealing with a doll which he had bought on holiday. He had taken a trip to Spain and explored the entirety of the place, and found a shop that sold strange occult items and antiques, a doll caught his attention. He wasn't usually one to be drawn to that kind of thing, but for some peculiar reason this doll had captivated him so much that he purchased it, taking it back to his home in England. Weeks had gone by and nothing strange had occurred, but then after a month of having the doll in his possession an avalanche of mishaps began to happen.

He had explained away so many strange situations, his denial had overpowered his logic, at first. But eventually his logic sneaked in a devastating blow and blew his denial out of the water, giving him no choice but to face the facts, something was very wrong with his Spanish souvenir. So he took to the internet just as Declan had, and found a very easy ritual that could be done. Some dolls can be 'active' as the man called it, meaning spirits can become trapped inside them, or some intentionally use the pottery bodies as a vessel they can occupy. Most spirits are nocturnal, during the day they usually remain dormant, but at night come alive and explode like volcanoes spurting out lava. The ritual he was referring to was the resting of a spirit. The doll had to be placed in a bag, and buried in the garden of its current residence of more than a month, after midnight. Declan assumed the home was the place it resided, which would be his house, as it had been given to him as a gift and been living with him for over a month.

So that night when his parents slept blissfully unaware, he would  creep out of the house, dig a small hole and put Rose to rest. This task in itself was so scary it was beyond any depictions, just the mere concept of taking a creepy doll out into the darkness and burying her in the garden. But this heart racing mission came with one huge risk. If he was caught by his father, with a doll, sneaking around the house in the middle of the night, he had no disbelief in his mind that he himself would be the one that would end up under the soil.

Declan lay in bed, anxious, holding Rose tightly under the covers. His heart hammered away, as a result his breathing became insanely fast. He heard pulses on his temples, tapping each side of his head. He had waited patiently for many hours until he was absolutely certain his parents had drifted off. He himself, tried passionately to stay awake, he had used the last remains from his candy collection under his bed. His sugary treats were scattered around his bedroom, hidden in various places like children playing hide and seek. They were plotted at the driest and cleanest of areas, packaged in protective bags to hold onto their flavour. He had eaten several jelly babies, enjoying the fruit juice painting his mouth and the chewy soft texture popping beneath his teeth. Declan had also swallowed several bonbons, exploding with sugar and sending his drowsiness to the back of his mind, and bringing forward an eager, awake, and agile young boy readying himself for the scariest voyage he had ever taken.

He kept glimpsing at his watch, to a yellow and blue one his mother had bought him last Christmas. Head restlessly twitching back and forth every few minutes.

Every present his mother got him was saved in a small wooden box underneath his bed. Everything from toys, books, novelty gifts, DVDs, and stationery. A gift from his mother was heartfelt and thoughtful, she paid very close attention to her son, in specific, his interests, in order to purchase the present of a lifetime, and each year, she somehow managed to outdo herself. Except for this year, when his disgusting and reprehensible father had gotten him no presents, none of the main presents anyway. He could only imagine how guilty his mother no doubt still felt, such a warm, generous and caring person. She works herself to the bone, so left the present buying to her husband for a change. Regardless of Deirdra reminding her oaf of a husband several times a week, he still forgot. And even worse, David expressed no remorse whatsoever. Declan often scrutinized how his mother and father had met, they could not contrast more if they made it their life's goal, but he remembered hearing an old expression from one of the teachers at school, 'opposites attract'. This was factual in science, and often believed was the truth when it came to matters of the heart. The marriage of David and Deirdra was proof enough of this in Declan's eyes.

His mind, in turmoil over the details of his parents' first meeting
, he noticed his small watch read 1:02. Past midnight, they were both sure to be in a meeting with the sandman by now. So, using all the tips and tricks he'd acquired from spy movies, he quietly, but quickly got out of bed dressed in his blue and white striped pyjamas, kept hold of Rose, and headed to the door. The key turned, the bolt slammed back into the door, and it then swung open. He left the door ajar until his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the hallway whilst he surveyed it for any sign of his parents, but could find none. He could however hear his father's oafish snores, echoing through the house, and vibrating every wall like an earthquake. However annoying this sound was, it was a guarantee that his father was definitely asleep. This would act as a warning alarm, if the snoring stopped, his father was awake, and that meant trouble.

He had closed his bedroom door, and fluffed his pillow very quickly to act as a Declan duplicate. While the decoy lay in bed, the actual Declan would be ripping and tearing at the grass in the garden to build a new home for Rose. He held her in the bag, just as the web page had recommended, and it was after midnight, also as the man had advised, and was headed to the soon to be burial ground, to lay Rose to rest.

***

The air was bitter, so sharp he was afraid it may cut his skin, and the grass was soggy from an epic downpour of rain earlier in the night, which made his feet feel like they were submersed in an ice cold lake loaded with seaweed. The intimidating glow of the moon gave the garden a feel of a graveyard, where a hungry zombie craving flesh may break free from a coffin at any moment. Or a blood starved vampire was waiting in the shadows to puncture, drain and devour Declan. He dreaded kneeling in the green moisture of the garden to start digging, but he dreaded being caught by the devil's most recent reincarnation even more: his father.

He had grabbed a large soup spoon from the kitchen in his trek downstairs and held it tightly in one hand, with Rose in the other. Every few minutes he would peer back to look upstairs and see if there were any lights on, or if he could see any shadows moving around.
All clear.
So plucking up his inner warrior he drudged his knees into the grass, feeling their wet embrace, tickling and slapping residual rain onto his thin pale legs. He began clawing to unearth a new home for Rose, he could feel the mud building underneath his nails and the damp grass stroking his hands.