Charlotte (10 page)

"No. She didn’t."

"I'd get her back in if I were you." Bruce winked at Moore, who stifled a smile. Both men stood up. Moore looked at Catchpool, who was closing his briefcase. "Catchpool, grab a coffee and hang around. We might need you yet."

"I doubt it."

Maybe you can have a sleep now. Bruce won't mind. He can’t leave until you come and pick him up anyway. Mike can stay a little longer to look after Amy. He won't mind the money.
Patricia felt a sense of possible relief building inside her.

Just four hours, it's all you need.

He'd understand.

Patricia took her phone from her pocket and her fingers danced across the keypad as she composed a text. She read it back:
Home now. Going to get a little shuteye. See you in a few hours with clean clothes. Love x

Patricia hit send. She smiled weakly and sniffled.
Got a cold coming
.

Then she remembered Bruce's phone was in her purse. As if to confirm it, the mobile vibrated under her arm.

Shit
.

Suddenly, her warm, comfortable bed seemed like the only thing in the world that mattered.
Bruce would understand. If not, tough, it's his fault we're in this mess.

She opened the car door and the cold air nibbled at her skin. The dark evening was fresh and chilly. She could see a light fog beneath the orange streetlights. A plume of steam escaped her lips as her feet scrunched in the snow beneath her. She closed the door, hit the alarm fob—sending an echoing beep into the atmosphere—and walked to her front door. She placed her hand on the door, sighed, and slid the key into the latch.

Patricia entered her house.

The door slammed behind her and she leant back on it. She sighed deeply. "Home sweet home," she uttered to herself. Kicking her shoes off, she stumbled forward, straight between the living room and dining room and started climbing the stairs. Her aching thigh muscles almost gave up as she reached the upstairs hallway. Heading to her room, she pushed through the door, saw the shape of her bed and flopped forward, landing on the soft mattress.

A huge splash jerked Patricia out of her stupor. For a moment, she thought she'd heard something. She buried her face in the warm, comforting sheets below, swinging her arms up and down, feeling the comforting place, her one solace in the world. She sighed, finally relieved to be home. Fatigue began to shut her down, to provide relief to her aching body. She moved her head sideways.

A cold finger slid up her nostril. The sudden invasion made Patricia retch and flinch; she batted at her face with both hands. She leaned up on her elbow, but her elbow wouldn’t support her, it slipped and skidded on the wet surface, and her face fell flat on the blood-soaked sheets. Another splash sounded, followed by a soft pattering of liquid. A warm, wet sensation coated her cheeks.

Patricia felt a slick, oily substance all over her. She slid backwards, off the bed and landed on her feet. She raised her hands in front of her and began to shake. Had she been able to cry—if not for the absolute terror that stroked her body—she would have.

Her hands were drenched in blood. Black blood and red blood, old and new, congealed and slick. It ran down her hands and between her fingers like water on a pane of glass. A few droplets of black sinew stuck to her palms. One long sliver of ragged flesh hung over the curve between her thumb and forefinger. Patricia slowly lowered her hands and looked at the abattoir before her.

Her bed was sopping with blood. Every inch of it was a shade of red, slow rivulets were dripping onto the laminate floor, leaving pools of crimson all around. In the centre, now, was a twisted, evil blood angel, where Patricia had dived on the bed in exhausted abandon. She could see the tracks of her arms, which had splashed the excess blood all over the bedside cabinets, the curtains, the paintwork, the upended pillows, and the headboard.

She sniffed, dislodging the snot in her cold-induced throat.

The copper smell hit her hard and she gagged, wanting to hold her hand to her mouth, she went to and saw the blood, stopping herself. For a moment, she felt utterly helpless. She looked down and yelped. She had blood all over her. It smothered her front, stained her clothes, legs, arms, and chest. She touched her face and her fingers came away slick with even more blood. She felt it trickling down her face, like perspiration. It felt uncomfortable and slippery in the crease beneath her chin. She felt vomit rising in her throat.

That’s when she saw it.

Two bloody sets of pillows, usually reserved for husband and wife, were forced sideways. In the centre of these was a pile of body parts. Patricia's eyes widened, two bloodshot, white orbs in a mask of red. She inched closer. She spotted a kidney, a stomach, a roll of rippled intestine, and a heart. Resting before it was a bloody hand, severed at the wrist, its fingers stretched out. A black pool of blood had formed below the monstrous art. The heart had toppled from its resting place and was leaning on the hand. Patricia looked at the items and tried to scream. She backed away and trod on an eyeball, which popped beneath her bare foot. Yellow fluid squelched between her toes. The strong smell of copper pushed her over the edge.

Patricia vomited on the bed, the dark, coffee blended bile splashing into the blood, creating a morbid colour collage of bodily fluids. The sound reverberated through the springs of the mattress and Patricia, exhausted and petrified, fell to her rump on the wooden floor. The excess fluid started to sluice off the bed and splatter the surface below.

Amy.

Where's Amy?

Patricia struggled upright, ignoring the wet, sodden lumps on the sole of her foot. Once standing, she screamed for her daughter. "
Amy!
"

No answer.

Patricia shot a look at the bed. She groaned at the thought of the finger up her nostril. However, the hand was adult, male, not female or that of a child. She wasn’t an expert, but Patricia knew those organs were too big for a body of Amy's size. Patricia gagged again at the sight of the bedroom slaughterhouse before her. The stench was getting worse.

So where was she?

"
Amy!
"

Patricia's throat burned. She touched her slick neck gently and staggered to the doorway. She glanced into the hallway, her eyes searching for Amy's room. The door was wide open. The dark window beyond was black, dawn having already passed. The familiar brightness of Amy's night light filled the room, casting shapes of animals onto the ceiling. The faint, familiar tune lingered, almost comforting Patricia.

"Mummy?"

Patricia snapped from her reverie and listened. The sound came from downstairs. Patricia ambled to the top of the stairs and started climbing down, the steps groaning beneath her unbalanced weight, her aching back against the wall for support. She reached the hallway, her feet landing on solid ground.

Amy was standing before her, her back turned.

"Amy?"

"Hello, Mother."

Goosebumps prickled Patricia's flesh. She felt it rising beneath her blood-soaked clothing.
Amy never calls me Mother.

"Where's my daughter?"

"I'm right here, Mother."

Amy turned around and Patricia screamed. A guttural, howling scream.

Her daughter was covered in blood, from head to toe, every inch of her child was dripping with dark crimson. However, the blood wasn’t the issue. It was the face. More specifically…the eyes.

Yellow orbs of pure horror, webbed with black evil and sin. They throbbed in their sockets, moved in and out and sideways, sometimes disappearing behind the skin that surrounded them. The sneer on her daughter's face was vehement, her ashen lips stretched back over yellow, pointed teeth. Skin around the mouth was taut, cracked and frayed, as if the teeth were too big for her daughter's mouth.

Patricia closed her eyes and shook her head. "You're not real, this can't be happening?"

"Mummy?"

Patricia opened her tired eyes and Amy stood before her. She was still blood-soaked but her eyes and mouth were normal. Patricia groaned in relief. She stepped forward. Amy smiled and held her hand out. "Come play with me, Mummy?"

"Sure, darling." Patricia reached out and reluctantly took her daughter's bloody hand. She smiled and Amy pointed into the living room. "Look what I made for you."

Patricia looked up and groaned. She felt her brain pounding in her skull and her eyes trying to rip themselves from their sockets. She tried to tear her eyes away, but couldn't. Her stomach was on permanent rotation.

Sandy's severed head was on top of the Christmas tree. The tip of the tree spiked through the bloody stump of the neck and protruded just behind the left eye, pushing the dead orb to the side. Blood and muscle had dripped down the tree, splattering several of the branches and decorations. Below the tree were several objects—probably boxes—wrapped in parched, dead skin. Stitches made of brown hair kept the skin in place around the objects within.

On the fireplace were two skin stockings, stitched with hair, much the same as the presents. Patricia held a scream in as she realised they were the bottom half of a boy's foot, severed at the shin and skinned. The crudely stitched stockings wobbled, ambient in the glow of the orange, fake fire. Candy canes and sweets protruded from the tips of the stockings, which swung gently with any slight, nearby motion. A smell of heated flesh caught Patricia's nostrils and she gagged once again. 

Just to the left of that was a dolls' tea party.

"C'mon, Mummy, we can have a Christmas tea party." Amy dragged her unbelieving mother over to the tree. Gecko, soaked in blood and with a slit in his throat—spilling pink stuffing—sat at one table. Fluffy, minus an arm and both ears, sat in another. He had flecks of blood on his fur too. Opposite Gecko was Molly.

Patricia recoiled and screamed.

Molly wore a fur coat, Sandy's fur, the dog's skin had been removed and placed over Molly's unsuspecting shoulders. Lumps of viscera rested on her chest and legs. A single fingerprint of blood smeared her cheek. Molly, and her toy friends, all stared blankly; unaware of the graphic massacre they were a part of. Behind the toys, Patricia eyed the remains of Sandy, headless and skinned, laying on top of the TV remote. It looked like raw mincemeat.

Patricia gagged for the third time, but held the bile back.

"One lump or two, Mummy?"

"I don’t take sugar in my tea."

"Yes, you do. One for you."

Amy placed an imaginary lump of sugar in an empty cup. Patricia eyed the catastrophe before her and glanced around. The stench of dead flesh and blood was fierce in the room. Everywhere she looked; there was a dead body part. She already knew the answer but she hoped Mike was okay. It was clear the organs and skin belonged to him.
Small hopes,
she thought. Patricia looked behind her and grabbed her dressing gown from the chair. She whipped the large belt from its loops and placed it to her face, covering her mouth and nose.

It helped a little.

"Now, Mummy, you know Gecko and Molly and Fluffy. I want you to meet Charlotte." The name sent shivers up Patricia's spine. "Drink the tea, Mummy!"

"I'm not thirsty, darling…"

"Drink it, Patricia."

The voice was a mature, female voice, tinged with vehemence and malice. It was dominant in its conviction. Patricia felt her scalp tighten and her sphincter seize at the sound of it. The gravelly voice sent shivers down her spine and she jumped. Her shaking hands picked up the tea, held it in the air, and hesitated. She gulped, lifted the cup, drank some imaginary tea, and sighed. "Nice tea, Amy. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Beside Amy, a mist started to appear. After a couple of seconds, it took the shape of a girl but never solidified. The haze started to move, but was concentrated to one spot. Then, a pair of yellow eyes appeared. They immediately shot to Patricia, watching her.

"Hello, Charlotte." Patricia said, defeated.

"
Finally, we meet." Amy said it, emotionless and calm, her eyes staring at a spot down to her left. Patricia frowned and realised Charlotte was communicating through her daughter. Patricia cleared her throat. "I wish it were under better circumstances."

Patricia shivered. Amy chuckled, her laugh one of age and experience. It sounded wrong coming from such a young child. "There were never going to be better circumstances. Let’s face it; you've wanted me gone from day one. You tried replacing me with false parental bonding, puppies and, my favourite, you tried beating me out of your daughter."

"Hey, that wasn’t me—that was Bruce. Not one of his finest moments…but…I would never hit Amy."

"Not your style? Getting involved isn't part of your parental repertoire, is it?"

Patricia shook her head. "What do you want?"

Amy pretended to drink imaginary tea again, oblivious to the deep voice resonating from her mouth. "I want what's best for Amy. Clearly you have plans to obstruct that in any way possible."

"I do no such…"