Psychopathia: A Horror Suspense Novel (36 page)

It didn’t light up. But her bedroom windows did. Light spilled through them, pinned her there for a long moment,
then flicked off. The growl of the car engine continued a moment longer, then that too was turned off.

He was there. Right outside. In the car. Back from looking around. All that creeping around the house she’d done had been for nothing, because here he was, sitting outside in the car, in the driver’s seat, hand on the ignition key, looking straight in the window where a moment before she’d been brilliantly illuminated.

The headlights flicked on again and she threw herself to the ground. Crawled on her belly like a salamander, like a chameleon, towards the bed, pressing herself closer into the floor and under the bed, edging to the centre, turning her head to the side and looking out with wide eyes. The lights went out again and she gripped the knife tighter. Knife in one hand, phone in the other.

He thought he’d seen something. A silhouette through the windows when the headlights had hit them, but when he’d flicked them back on, nothing, just a vague shape, the dress dummy she had in her room, draped with scarves. He squinted at it, wrinkled his nose, turned the lights off again, proud of himself again for figuring out the vehicle. Driving was very convenient. He could take her anyplace in this, anyplace at all.

But he thought of the little house in the clearing, already painted with blood from the other girl, and wanted to take her back there. The basement room called to him. It needed another layer of blood on the walls. She needed to lie there on the bed, the one that had squeaked and sighed as he’d knelt on it, drawing his marks on the other girl.

First though, he had to find her. He stared at the house. Such a long night it had been already. After such a long day. But it was his fault. If he’d thought about it, he would have realised she was suspicious. All her questions, her squinty little eyes following him around the house all the time, the pointed remarks. He should have known.

So it hadn’t been a surprise when he’d felt her behind
him on the path to the house. When he’d felt her watching from the trees. He’d stopped on the doorstep, holding the other girl’s clothes, so she could see. So she’d know what he was doing, want a closer look. It had been easy to sneak up behind her, wrap a strong arm around her neck. She’d looked at him with such surprise he’d wanted to laugh out loud. He thought he might have laughed out loud. He remembered the birds taking off from the trees, squawking and fretting, and then he’d carried her down to the basement, taken her clothes off her so carefully, so caringly, better than she deserved. And then he’d tied her up and left her so he could go get his knives.

That had been the big mistake. But what option had there been? He couldn’t slice into her ripe and lovely skin with a fingernail, now could he?

But she’d been gone by the time he’d walked all the way home and all the way back. There were only rats in the basement room, and he’d kicked one so hard its spine had snapped against the wall. Then he’d gone to look for her, kicked through the bloody bush for hours, and even though he had a superior ability to see in the dark, he couldn’t find her anywhere. So he’d come back to the house, and she wasn’t there either.

Perhaps she was at the police station, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, telling her little sob story, bleating like a little lamb, one that had narrowly missed the slaughter house. He could imagine the policemen’s
response. They would puff out their chests in their blue uniforms, flex their meaty fists and vow to protect the helpless female from the big bad wolf prowling around out there. Tobias sniffed, his lip curling. They wouldn’t take him alive, this time.

But maybe they wouldn’t take him at all. He had one advantage – the girl herself. His
sister.
She didn’t know she wasn’t his sister. There was a good chance she wouldn’t have gone to the police yet, because – and this was where it got really pitiful – she
loved
her brother. She might not love him quite so much since the incident in the basement, but he had some small hope that she would hesitate before taking her sob story to the country’s illustrious boys in blue.

He slammed his hands against the steering wheel, then picked the knife
up from the seat next to him, and held the blade up, watching the moonlight caress the sharp metal, and licked his lips. Where was his little lamb? Running around naked in the bush still? He didn’t think so. Opening the car door, he stepped out into the ragged remains of the night and looked at the little house cringing away from him in the darkness. He thought she would be home by now.

The front door opened under his hand, but he’d left it unlocked. He’d also left the house dark, and dark it remained. The shadows had shifted slightly, as the moon rode the sky towards dawn, but that was as expected. The door
snicked quietly shut behind his back. All was still, holding its breath, and he leaned forward, narrowing his eyes, an unconscious smile quirking at his lips. The hunt was on.

He could smell her. Somewhere in the house she was crouched in the darkness, trembling, maybe even holding some sort of weapon, a knife of her own perhaps. A couple of steps and he was at her bedroom door, leaning close to the wood, flaring his nostrils as he sniffed the air. Blood. The tang of it made him tip hi
s head back, eyes closing in ecstasy. His heart pounded his own blood around his body, and he felt the swirling rush of it in his muscles, hand tightening on the knife.

More fun though, if he made her wait. She was a poor little rabbit now, shaking in her hidey-hole, her own heart taking frightened leaps around her chest, while her ears twitched at the sound of him outside her door. She would be biting her lip, trying to hold in the screams.
Under the bed, likely. A little dust bunny all aquiver. A little dust bunny with blood all over her. Not her own blood. Not yet.

Soon, though.
He pressed his palm to the door and blew her a kiss, his little bunny, his little sacrificial lamb. But first the hunt. A game of hide and seek, before cut and slash, slice and dice. He made sure the floorboards squeaked under his weight when he moved away.

There was a knife missing from the kitchen. He ran his hand over the empty space in the knife block and grinned, winced at the pain in his jaw, grinned anyway. She would fight back, this one, and wouldn’t that be fun?
It wouldn’t be a long fight, or a fair one, not when one considered how proficient he was with a blade, but he’d let her play a short while anyway. Let her think she had a chance, and then he’d take the knife from her and use it to make the first cut. His fingers curled around the handle of his own blade and he brought it up to his face and licked the cold metal, imagining it dripping with her sweet elixir.

Prowling the rest of the house, he had a delightful idea. To let her think that he’d left. Get in the car and drive away, park down the road, double back, catch her just as she bolted.

No. He crept instead back to her door and leaned against it, listening to his breath entering and leaving his body, feeling it mist on the varnished wood. Would she be able to hear him breathe over the beating of her own heart? Would she know he was at the door? Smiling, he breathed in the scent of blood drying on her skin and reached for the door knob.

Toby lay on the padded floor and struggled against the strait jacket. There’d been no need to truss him up in it, he’d been good, he’d stopped fighting, kept his eyes lowered, took the punches, the pinches, he’d been good. And still they’d pulled him from his bed, laughed at him, bounced him between the two of them, grabbed at his arms and stuck them in the sleeves, wrapped the canvas jacket around him, laced it up tight tight tight, bound his arms so he couldn’t move, and brought him here. Back here.

Of all the things they’d done to him, he hated this room most.
There was nowhere to go in here, nothing to do but lie on the floor and look at the padded darkness, smell the mould, listen to the mice in the padding, nibbling and gnawing, nesting in there. Maybe they weren’t even mice. They sounded too big to be mice. They were rats. Rats in the walls, sharp teeth biting and tearing, and soon, this time for sure, they’d chew through the walls and find him helpless on the floor, and they’d swarm over him, all claws and teeth, biting and chewing. He kept his eyes wide, afraid to blink, afraid he’d miss them bursting forth, eyes red beacons in the blackness, coming straight for him, and one would climb over his face and he’d open his mouth and at the same time as it bit into him, he’d sink his teeth into it and warm blood would rush to fill his mouth, hot, gushing blood and he’d drink it, and listen to the rat scream while he did.

Rolling over onto his side, Toby spat hot bile onto the floor. Where was he? He could taste the rat’s blood. Feel it as it ran down his throat and filled his stomach. He was supposed to laugh, he was supposed to laugh as he bit into the squirming rodent, but he couldn’t do
that, he had self-control, so where was he? Who was he?

There was a door in the room. Blinking sweat out of his eyes, he stared up at it
, seeing light spilling from behind it. There had been no door there a moment ago, no door there any other time he’d been trapped in this room.

It was a way out. What else would it be but a way out of this nightmare? He rolled over further, drawing his knees up under him, face smashed into the floor as he levered himself onto his feet, and th
en he was staggering, stumbling towards the door, falling against it, feeling the rough wood against his cheek, a splinter digging into the soft skin under his beard, and then the door was opening and light spilled out over him and he took a step forward, into the room behind the door and recognised it.

There was the bed, headboard against the wall, the comforter a bright flower garden under the ceiling light. He turned his head and saw the desk under the window, text books still sprayed across it, waiting for Tully to sit down to study. Toby narrowed his eyes and squinted. Actually, he didn’t recognise the room, only the things in it.
Why didn’t he recognise the room? The things though, he knew her things. On top of the dresser was the jewellery box he’d given her for Christmas. Something he’d found in an antique shop and thought she’d like. He smiled. Tully had squealed in delight over it.

Where was Tully? He missed her. She hadn’t been to visit. All this time, and she hadn’t been to visit. Or maybe she had, and they’d not let her in. He straightened and
tears stung behind his eyes. Of course they hadn’t let her in to see him. Then they’d be found out. She’d see the bruises, she’d listen when he told her about the force feeding, the padded room, she’d listen and do something about it. He squeezed his eyes shut. Where was she?

He stepped into the room and realised he was no longer stitched into the jacket. Looking down, he saw his hands flex, and in one of them was a knife. Toby gaped at it in surprise – where had he got a knife from?

There was a small noise, like an animal would make, and he moved further into the room, bent over and stealthy. He wanted to call out, cry out for his sister, but his vocal chords wouldn’t work. He looked down at the knife again and wanted to drop it, but it stayed in his hand, stayed there and shone in the light. He heard himself laugh.

Then he was kneeling on the floor, lifting up the comforter on the bed, breathing heavily, and peering under the bed.

Tully stared back at him. Tully! He cried out her name but she scooted farther away, slithering on the floor away from him, twisting her body and scrambling out the other side, up on her knees and then her feet, and when he stood back up, she was running for the door, casting a look back at him, her eyes wide, and she was screaming. Why would she scream at the sight of him?

He was running after her, and his hand was still holding the knife. He wanted to stop and look at the knife properly, figure out why he was carrying it, but his feet were moving, and his mouth was moving too, laughing, he could hear himself laughing.

She was scrabbling at a door, and something glinted in her hand. Another knife. He could see the blade in the light from her room. Her fingers were white around the handle. Then the door was open and she was through it, darting away from him and he was chasing her, he could smell her fear, hear her panting, squealing breaths, and he was going to catch her, she was only a few steps away, making for a road, running from him.

He caught her, leapt so suddenly, wrapping an arm around her waist that she stopped, legs flying up into the air as he swung her around and flung her down on the gravel. The knife she held flew from her hand, but he – he still held his.
Why was he still holding his?

Tully stared up at him for a moment, then turned to scrabble on the driveway, trying to get back to her feet. He caught her by her hair and jerked her to her feet and she screamed. Toby screamed back at her. He saw her li
ft her hands to scratch at his holding her by the hair, but he couldn’t feel her nails on his skin, couldn’t even feel his fingers wound tight in her hair.

Tully! What’s going on?

He thought she paused for a moment when he screamed at her, but then she was fighting again, and his hand brought the blade to her throat and she was abruptly still. The knife pressed against the whiteness of her throat, and he thought he was going to be sick when a bead of blood welled up against the point, but instead of throwing up, he could hear himself laughing.