She nodded, walking as casually as she could towards the kitchen even though every fibre in her body told her to run. “Take a seat, I’ll put the kettle on and go get dressed.”
She half expected some suggestive remark from Donovan, but he simply nodded.
“Thank you, Mrs. Samson,” he said as he sat in the rocker beside the fireplace. “I’ll be fine here. You take as long as you need.
He flashed his grin at her again, but she did her best to ignore it and walked into the sanctuary of the kitchen.
Although she immediately felt better away from Donovan’s leering gaze, her hands still shook as she filled the kettle and set it to boil. She walked back to the sitting room and made sure just to poke her head around the corner so that Donovan couldn’t get another look at her.
“I’ll just be a few minutes.”
“No rush,” Donovan replied. She thought that he was going to say something else, but instead he turned his gaze to the window and set the rocking chair swinging back and forth.
Something about that image, of Donovan sitting in that chair by the window alarmed and frightened her, enough to make her skin prickle and for the warnings in her head to go all the way up to eleven. Without waiting, she hurried upstairs to dress.
***
Donovan continued rocking back and forth, his eyes fixed on the tree line. His brow furrowed into a frown as he listened to the house. He knew of course that all houses made sounds. Wood contracted and expanded according to temperature, foundations settled, even more so with a house as old as this one. Even though he had received an unexpected look at the woman, enough at least that he could imagine the rest, he was keen to be on his way. He knew the history of this place and what had happened here.
He supposed he should feel guilt for hiding it from the Samsons, but like everyone else he had a job to do., bills to pay, ends to meet, and even though he had to be nice to people even when they were rude and arrogant, or pushed him around because they knew that as the agent who was desperate for his commission, he would take it.
He had always considered himself thick-skinned, able to roll with the punches and take whatever life threw at him. But deep down—when he went home alone to his apartment full of luxurious furnishings which meant nothing to him, where he was finally able to drop the act and be himself—he would find himself miserable and unfulfilled.
He’d continued to rock and listen to the strange groans and creaks of the building, and the subtle whispering rustle of the trees outside. He smiled. He could easily understand why the house had such a myth around it. If a person were to listen for long enough, Donovan surmised that they could easily interpret the house sounds as the voices and whispers that previous occupants always insisted that they heard here.
And what would they say? Donovan asked himself. Would they recognise him as the insecure, miserable waste of a man that he knew hid below his flashy exterior? Would they tell him to take control of his life and stop being so pathetic?
Probably.
The wind whistled and the trees shook, and he closed his eyes. As he listened, he thought that he could hear voices, subtle and secretive whispers buried under the wind. They were hard to make out, but the more he concentrated the clearer they became. The things they said, the things they told him to do were disturbing, and yet they made sense.
He needed to make an example. He needed to show the world that he wasn’t just a pushover, that he was a man to be taken seriously.
That was the problem, he mused as he stared out of the window. People never really took him seriously. Women were the worst, pushing him away when he tried to be nice or to get to know them—even when they were flirtatious bitches like this one, answering the door half-naked and then looking offended when he happened to take a quick look at what she had to offer.
He shook his head slowly as the rage stirred within him.
And why shouldn’t he look? After all if she’s willing to flaunt it, then surely she can’t blame him for looking. The voices listened, whispering and coaxing him to continue.
Women like her—the ones who used their sexuality to get what they wanted—were the worst kind. They would give out all the signals, and then the second he would go in and make his move, they would shut up shop and look at him like he was wrong, like he was some kind of perverted monster.
Sluts.
All of them the same. He thought he must have the patience of a saint to put up with them, to cope with their incessant overuse of their bodies to get what they wanted. The house creaked its agreement to his unspoken thoughts.
How was a red-blooded eligible bachelor like him supposed to know when they were up for a little bit of action? How could he tell the difference between the willing, and those who would turn their nose up and look at him as if he were some vile piece of shit that they’d just stepped in and couldn’t get off their shoe?
Over time, he’d taught himself to learn their patterns, but unfortunately, it wasn’t an exact science. On the occasions when he got it wrong it would often only end with a slap across the face, or a torrent of unwarranted abuse hurled in his direction, but sometimes they wouldn’t let it go.
The intern drifter that had come to work for him back in 2007 (strictly off the books of course) had seemed willing enough, responding to his flirtatious and suggestive comments in kind, but when he crept up to her in the office one night when they’d been working late and put his hand up her skirt, she didn’t seem to see the funny side. He’d apologised even though he was raging inside—after all that was what society would demand—but she wouldn’t listen. She was one of those independent stubborn bitches that thought they were going to change the world. He offered her money, but despite his noble efforts to smooth it all over, she kept threatening to report him to the police, and he knew he couldn’t have that. He had a job, a business—a respected position in the local community—all worth more than some stuck-up drifter bitch that had somehow got the wrong end of the stick and was accusing him of being some sort of vile sex pervert.
In the end, the choice was taken out of his hands, and the rage forced him to silence her.
The house creaked, and the wind whistled.
He’d tried to tell himself that he hadn’t wanted to kill her, but he didn’t believe it. Not really. He knew how messy it could become if word started to spread that he was some sort of sexual deviant. He wouldn’t be able to walk down the street without people calling him a pervert, never mind the impact on his business.
So he’d strangled her. She’d stared at him and died with open eyes; he’d wept for them both, because it was his first human kill. For a time, he hadn’t known what he would do with the body, and had left it in the trunk of his car for five days, rotting and stinking whilst he struggled to decide one way or the other. The funny thing was that nobody asked. The locals had seen her kind before, drifters who stay in a place just long enough to save up the cash to move on to the next town, or the next city.
He’d taken her body out into the hills, a vast open range of rolling green. During the summer time, the various nature trails were frequented by walkers—ramblers keen on getting back to nature—but this was January and the hills were icy cold, and they were shrouded in a low-lying mist which hung in the air and made the grass slick with dew.
With some effort, he’d found what he was looking for: a stinking peat bog. The stagnant water looked dark and ominous and yet entirely suitable for his needs. He’d parked the car—a rental taken out in her name—by the edge of the track and had carried her corpse across a mile and half of rough terrain to the black, festering waters and had thrown her in, watching as she slowly sank into untraceable oblivion, and with her, any problems that she may have otherwise have caused.
He had half-expected to feel different because he had moved on from animals to humans, perhaps guilt or sorrow, but found that his life went on for him as if nothing had ever happened. On the few occasions when people did ask about his former employee, he would
shrug and say she had moved on to pastures new, and they would nod knowingly and move on to talking about the weather or whatever small-talk came to mind.
As far as he knew nobody had ever even filed a missing persons report. Some might say he got away with murder, but his defence was that she’d left him no choice.
What else could I have done?
He asked the room, and listened to the soothing creaks and groans, which drifted in and out of his mind.
Exactly.
Nothing at all. I did what I had to.
He nodded, folding his arms across his chest.
Did what I had to in order to survive. Did what anyone else would do because…
He paused, listening intently.
Really? Do you really think so?
It began to rain, the droplets tapping on the window and giving him his answer.
But she seems so nice, so accommodating and helpful.
The house shook, the wind gusted, and Donovan frowned.
Surely not, she’s married after-all. But then again… she did answer the door half naked. Surely, she wouldn’t do that unless… unless she wanted me to see her like that…
He waited and listened to the old house’s symphony of tiny noises.
“Tell me what to do,” he muttered under his breath.
22. ATTACK
DRESSED IN HER OLD jeans and a grey t-shirt, Melody felt a little more in control and a lot less exposed. She came downstairs, went into the kitchen and grabbed two cups from the draining board. “Do you take sugar?” she called over her shoulder as she added a large scoop of instant coffee into her own cup.
Donovan didn’t reply.
“Mr. Donovan, do you take sug…?”
She almost screamed outright as she turned around. He was standing behind her, his brow furrowed and eyes glaring. She wasn’t sure what to say or how to react, but she knew she was in danger a split second before he slapped her across the face.
She staggered back into the counter, dropping the mugs, only distantly aware of them smashing on the kitchen floor.
“You cock-teasing bitch!” he spat, grabbing her by the hair and throwing her roughly to the ground. She landed hard on her knees amid the shards of the cups, and somewhere in her head, she wasn’t quite able to acknowledge that it was really happening to her.
Donovan loomed over her and although her brain was screaming at her to get to her feet and run, she found that she was frozen in place, her face stinging from the slap.
“You think you can get away with flaunting yourself? I won’t have it, they won’t have it!”
He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her to her feet, slamming her into the side of the refrigerator. The impact itself didn’t hurt her, but the shock of the situation filled her with terror unlike anything she’d ever felt before. She looked at the snarling, glaring Donovan and tried to make sense of what was happening. Donovan paused and tilted his head, then nodded.
“Yes,” he said to the empty room, and struck her again, this time it brought her back to reality, and she lunged towards the kitchen door. However, Donovan was too quick. He grabbed at her shoulder, lost his grip then snatched a handful of her t-shirt. She squirmed and twisted, but Donovan’s grip was tight.
“You know what they want! Why can’t you keep out of their business?”
Her throat was dry, and she squirmed and twisted as she attempted to free herself. He took a quick step forward, and shoved her hard in the back. Combined with her own momentum, she smashed face- and chest-first into the door-frame, spinning around and landing on her back in the short hallway between kitchen and living room.
White spots danced in front of her eyes and she tasted blood in her mouth. She wanted to run, but couldn’t convince her body to co-operate. Instead, she gawped at Donovan, who stood over her.
“They want me to show you, they want me to teach you a lesson,” he said calmly, as if they were discussing the weather.
She watched as he unbuckled his belt, and flashed his grin, which was now more manic than sleazy.
Rape.
The word was the only one that filled her mind—filled her life—as the beastly Donovan stalked towards her. In an ideal world—where people react like they do in the movies and fight off their attacker—she would be okay. However, here in the real world, she was too terrified to do anything but lie there and wait as Donovan knelt beside her and tried to push her legs apart.
“You know this has to happen,” he said as she fought against him.
He was crazy, or at least now he was. He had seemed fine when she had first let him into the house, but now he was changed and he was going to rape her right there in her own hallway.
It was then that another word sprang to mind. One which also comprised of four letters but with only one vowel, although the power it had on her ability to react surprised even her. That word was baby, and as she thought of her unborn child, a sudden rage at this man’s attempt to defile her overwhelmed her, and she screamed out, driving her knee as hard as she could into Donovan’s groin.
He let out a grunt and rolled to the side, and even though her limbs felt as if they wouldn’t be able to sustain her weight, she lurched to her feet and charged into the living room, heading for the door. She opened it so hard that it bounced off the wall, almost slamming closed again, but she grabbed it and squeezed through and then was outside.
She ran, the cold air needling her skin and wet hair with the same sharp intensity as the slap administered by Donovan. She didn’t look back but heard the door slam again, and knew he was chasing her. She veered off to the right, towards the side of the house, hoping to make it to Steve’s studio, where she would at least be able to barricade herself away from Donovan.
She stole a quick glance over her shoulder, and saw him charging towards her in an odd, loping run. She charged around the side of the house, the white roof of the studio visible now as she headed for it.
Donovan was catching up, closing the ground quickly between them. She reached the studio door and wrenched at the handle, but it was locked, and in terror, she realised that Donovan must be close by now. Without looking back, she headed towards the water at the end of the garden, to the place where in seemingly another lifetime, she’d seen her husband almost throw himself to his death in an out of character sleepwalk.
She knew the safe route across, hoping that Donovan didn’t, and if she could buy herself enough time then she prayed she might be able to hide from him under cover of the trees. She reached the swirling water, and spared its grey depths only a glance as she made for the place where she knew it was shallow enough to cross to the other side. She risked another quick glance behind, seeing that Donovan was now no more than ten feet away, eyes wild and arms outstretched towards her.
She angled away from her pursuer and aimed for the part of the water that she knew was shallow. Doubt overcame her, as the water looked deeper—no doubt due to the amount of rainfall over the last few days—and which was now swollen and churning.
She knew that there was no time for caution, and half-fell, half-slid down the banking. Her foot lost purchase, and she had a horrific image of it twisting under her and rendering her immobile, but somehow she made it into the water. She drew breath as the cold hit her. Unlike the first time she crossed, the water went almost to her knees, and she felt the intense cold pulling at her limbs and trying to drag her away downstream.
The memory of Steve’s accident was fresh in her mind as she moved quickly against the freezing currents. She heard Donovan’s splash in after her, risking a quick glance, she saw that he was neither put off nor dissuaded by the cold of the water enough to abandon his pursuit.
She reached the other side, her jeans now heavy with water below the knee. Donovan was close behind; his eyes fixed on her and a horrible wide grin on his face. She turned and plunged into the woods.
Everything seemed unreal. Her breath came in
ragged, gasping heaves as the cocktail of fear and adrenaline coarsed through her body. She knew that Donovan would easily catch her here on the path, plus she was already feeling her stamina ebb as she grew tired. She plunged into the dense forest, zigzagging in the hope of losing her pursuer. However, ever determined, Donovan followed, pushing branches aside as he crashed through the trees.
She felt something snarl her hair, and knew it was him, that he had grabbed her and was about to finish what he started, but a quick look told her that it was only a branch, its thorns stubbornly clinging on to her. She didn’t slow, and winced as she pulled free, leaving the thorny branch with some prize strands of hair as she plunged deeper into the undergrowth.
Somehow the trees themselves seemed denser and more tightly packed, which slowed her progress. For every root that snagged her foot, every branch that scratched at her arms and face, and every pothole she stumbled over, she was certain she was going to fall, but nevertheless she somehow managed to stay on the razor’s edge of balance and keep upright.
Frightened and disorientated, she charged blindly ahead, hoping to put some distance between her and Donovan, but he was still there, only a few steps behind. She could hear him bulldozing his way through the branches. Sudden bright light filled her eyes, and that was all it took to finally make her stumble. She thought that she was going to recover, and took another few steps as she tried desperately to regain her balance, but her momentum sent her to the hard ground on her hands and knees with a grunt. She scrambled to her feet and charged forwards, certain that Donovan was inches away from grabbing her hair and pulling her back. She flicked a quick gaze over her shoulder, but discovered her pursuer wasn’t following.
He stood just outside the edge of the circle, panting and watching her with a horrible, wide grimace. Melody waited, separated from her attacker by only twenty feet of open ground.