Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror (22 page)

He
pulled himself up at the door and felt pain come over him again, this
time in his side as she stabbed him once more with the screwdriver.
He instinctively threw an elbow behind him, rejoicing at the feeling
of bone on flesh. He heard her utter a surprised grunt, and then he
was on his way, door open and into the hallway. His face and side
burned with pain, and as he looked down at his side, he could see an
ugly maroon stain forming on his shirt. But adrenaline was helping
him to keep going. He focused and took in his surroundings as he
wheezed and snatched for breath. Staircase directly ahead. Two doors
to the right, front door to the left. He prayed that she hadn’t
locked it. He thought if she had, he would probably die.

He
crawled on all fours to the door, then grabbed at the handle. He knew
it would be locked. He just knew deep inside. He pulled and rejoiced
as it turned in his grip. He opened the door, his freedom so close,
when he felt a new pain, worse than all the others he had endured. An
inferno of agony in his left leg caused him to lurch forwards and
slam the door closed again, shutting out his freedom.

Blood
pooled around the long slash in his trouser leg, and he knew what she
had done. She had cut something back there, a tendon or perhaps his
hamstring. Something vitally important to his ability to walk. She
hadn’t cut it through full, he could still flex, but it felt
loose and rubbery. He turned and glared at her as she walked towards
him, scalpel blade shining ominously. She swung the blade at him
again and he snapped his head back, wincing at the sickening
swish
sound as it missed his throat by inches. Alex grabbed her ankle, and
drove his shoulder as hard as he could into her knee. She wailed, and
he felt a flash of satisfaction as he heard something break and she
crashed to the floor, banging her head on the wall as she went.

He
hoped it would keep her down long enough for him to escape, but
whatever she had cut on the back of his leg had incapacitated him,
and he could only get to his knees, holding one arm against his
bleeding side. He looked on in dismay as she grabbed the dropped
scalpel and tried to stand, but then rejoiced as she shrieked and
stumbled back onto all fours.

Battle
of the cripples,
he thought to himself as she
shuffled towards him.

“
Tell
me about Victor!” she cackled as she lunged at him again with
the blade, narrowly missing his throat for the second time.
Instinctively he grabbed her wrist, and without pausing to think,
balled his fist and hit her as hard as he could in the face. Guilt
immediately overcame him as she crumbled to the floor. The guilt was
quickly replaced by searing agony, as he felt the tendon or hamstring
or whatever it was snap away wetly as he rolled onto his side and
clutched his leg. As he lay there, he could see the doorknob,
tantalizingly close, yet out of reach. His entire body hurt, and only
his willingness to survive and belief in God allowed him to continue.
He crawled past her, trying to ignore the pain—
perhaps
a back door then
. He dragged himself along,
his left leg limp and useless as it trailed behind him, his right
still functional but trilling with pain from the screwdriver wound.
He made for the slightly ajar door he presumed was the kitchen, and
barged through, falling onto the cool black and white tiled floor.

He
could see clean white tiles and lemon-colored painted walls. He could
see the kitchen work surfaces and the counter that edged the room. He
could see the back door, open and inviting. Outside, he could make
out the tall wooden fence and a flash of green from the oak tree in
the next-door neighbors’ back yard. He could also see a huge
Rottweiler, which was lying in the doorway and looking at him,
growling aggressively.

He
froze, and tried to remember if you should or shouldn’t break
eye contact with an angry dog. He couldn’t remember, but
decided to take his chances. He inched forwards and suddenly it was
up, leaning towards him and drooling, daring him to come closer. He
didn’t like dogs, never had, now cursing this one for blocking
his escape. He wondered if he could take it on, but in his crippled
state, he knew it would be stupid to try.

He
backed out of the kitchen, closing the door quickly. She was there
waiting for him, kneeling at the bottom of the staircase, her mouth
and nose bloody where he had struck her. She had the scalpel in her
right hand, waving it deftly back and forth.

“
Don’t
think you can escape, I have been waiting for you for too long!”

She
slashed at him, and he ducked away, yet already he could feel his
reactions becoming sluggish. He had lost a lot of blood and was
exhausted. He grimaced at her as she gibbered and grinned.

“
Come
on, Victor, let’s see those pearly whites hmmm!”

“
I’m
not Victor, you crazy bitch!”

She
was mad. Not senile, not pleasantly docile, but mad. Crazy. Her eyes
shone wildly as she licked her lips, bloody drool hanging from her
chin. She had completely snapped.

“
Do
you know how many nights I have listened to you eating that slop,
Victor?”

He
had no idea what she was talking about, and that in itself made her
even more terrifying. She licked her bloody lips and rocked from side
to side as she glared at him.

“
Look
at me and take it easy. I’m not Victor, I’m Alex.”

“
Victor’s
dog you are! My dog is better. Ha!”

She
slashed at him again, lightning quick. He couldn’t avoid it in
time and instinctively threw his hands up, the razor-sharp blade
slicing across his palm. He reared back and slammed against the
closed kitchen door. The Rottweiler began to bark and growl as it
scratched at the door, trying to get out.

“
See,
lapdog, not so funny with the red blood anymore is it?”

Her
eyes were vacant pools of insanity, and he wondered who she saw
kneeling in front of her. He felt faint, the world beginning to ebb
and flow as he tried to focus. His life depended on it.

“
I
can tell you where Victor is. I can get close to him. He trusts me!”
he pleaded, aware that he was cornered.

“
Not
the puppet, but the puppet master. His strings I will cut like I will
cut you, yes!”

She
sounded like a bizarre psychopathic Yoda as she hovered there, just
out of arms reach, waiting for him to make a move. He saw in horror
that she had urinated where she knelt, the carpet below her dark and
yellow and pungent. The foul smell reached his broken nose and he
felt bile rise into his throat. She was psyching herself up to lunge
at him, he could see it in her eyes, and knew he had to act quickly
or he would die. He watched carefully, waiting for her to strike,
knowing that this would likely be his last chance before he passed
out due to blood loss. She slashed at him, and this time he was
ready. He twisted away from the blade and leaned towards her,
grabbing her wrist and biting down hard, ignoring the agony of the
shattered remains of his teeth. She screamed, the sound was
impossibly high-pitched, and she dropped the scalpel. He reached down
and picked it up, almost losing his grip on the handle due to the
hot, slick blood on his hands. With every ounce of strength he could
muster, he jammed the blade into her shoulder and twisted, glaring at
her and smiling his broken, crimson smile. Like the flick of a
switch, he was the Alex of old, the violent, remorseless beast of a
man he had worked so hard to bury away. He felt euphoric. With a
defiant grunt, he shuffled forwards and lifted her frail body by the
arms, slamming her into the side of the doorframe. He heard her head
smash against the wood, and she went limp. Shoving her aside, he made
for the steps, something so simple suddenly looked impossibly high,
especially with legs that didn’t work. He began to drag himself
up on his elbows, keeping his eyes fixed firmly ahead.

His
left leg was quite useless, but his right still partially worked, and
he was able to get some purchase as he climbed. He focused on
ignoring the pain, ignoring the wet squelch of blood with every bend
of his damaged limb, ignoring the bloody handprints he left as he
dragged himself ever up, so bright against the pale crème
carpet.

He
was halfway up the staircase when the world began to shift under him.
He felt sick and black spots began to dance in front of his eyes. He
tottered on the edge of consciousness for what felt like an eternity
before the world came back into focus. He could hear her, stirring
below him and he screamed at himself in his head.
Why
did you try for the stairs, you fucking idiot!
Nobody in their right mind would head upstairs, but he wasn’t
entirely sure he was in his right mind anymore. Breathless and dizzy,
he made the small square landing area before the steps took a left.
Just three more and he would be in the upstairs hallway. Down the
hall there were only three doors, the bathroom being furthest away.
He could see the edge of the bath, white and draped with a black
towel. He looked back down the stairs, past the bloody trail he’d
left, and saw her approaching on her knees, the scalpel still
embedded in her shoulder. He chastised himself for not bringing it
with him, then groaned when he saw what she now had in her hand.

Where
did she get that?

It
was a large butcher’s knife. Black handled, long and sharp.

“
Bad
puppet, Victor, you should control this pet of yours!” she
gibbered.

She
was glaring at him, eyes wild and defiant, face bloodied and
frightening. She got to her knees and then stood shakily, brushing
her hands at the wet patches on her blue skirt.

“
I’ll
clip you, puppet, then his puppet master. Organ grinder not the
monkey, eh?”

He
lunged for the hallway, ignoring the agony as he banged his wounded
leg on the top step. She was coming—he could hear her babbling
as she followed him up the stairs, and it was somehow worse than the
pain.

“
I
told him about you, my dear. I told him his puppet was a bad one, but
he didn’t listen. He never listens!”

He
began to crawl faster, boosted by fear and the accompanying surge of
adrenaline. He tried the first door, but it was shut and he could not
reach the handle.

“
Those
meatballs don’t taste so good now, do they puppet?”

She
was close, and stealing a quick glance over his shoulder, he could
see her at the top of the steps, glaring at him. He turned and
shuffled to the next room, knowing he would never reach the bathroom
in time. He could see that the door was open and dragged himself in,
slamming it behind him as she screamed again.

“
Come
out of there, puppet—eeeee eeeee!”

He
leaned against the door, propping his good (or less damaged) leg
against the chimney wall to hold it shut. She tried the handle, but
didn’t have the strength to get in. He could hear her stabbing
at the door with the knife, babbling and weeping loudly. He turned
his attention to the room, hoping to find something to defend himself
with, or a telephone so he could call for help. He had never been a
fan of the police, and would normally refrain from having anything to
do with them, but if there was ever a time, this was it.

His
thoughts were interrupted as he looked around the room. It was
ordinary at first glance. Pale green wallpaper, single bed pushed
against the far wall. Clean and tidy. All was as you might expect,
apart from the shrine that dominated the wall by the window. Set upon
a large table, it was covered in photographs and candles and
sprinkled with pink and yellow flower petals. The centerpiece was a
large color photograph of a smiling man, perhaps twenty, with blonde
hair and a crooked-toothed smile.

Recognition.

That
horrible sinking feeling of recognition. He knew this face. He’d
seen it before, only not smiling. When he last saw this face, it was
terrified, its owner begging for his life. He searched his memory,
trying to put a name to the face, and then he had it. Billy. Not
William, but Billy. Billy Somers. He recalled the picture downstairs,
the one that crazy old bitch insisted he had recognized, and thought
he understood now. Of course he didn’t recognize Billy from the
photograph. After all, Billy was just a baby, held between his loving
mother and father. A mother and father who had no idea that Billy
would grow up to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, that he
would one day turn to a man called Victor for help. And when he
couldn’t pay his debts, when he couldn’t pay Victor back,
Victor had sent Alex to pay him a visit. The memories flooded back to
him now with sickening detail. Rough handling Billy into the
Firebird, ignoring his pleas, ignoring the desperate tears.

He
remembered meeting Victor by the docks at dusk, the air crisp and
salty with the taste of the sea. He remembered thinking to himself
how ridiculous Victor looked in his white suit, wearing sunglasses
even though it was near dark. He remembered stopping the car and
dragging young Billy to the end of the dock where Victor stood
waiting.

Aleeeex,”
he had said as they approached. “This is why they say you are
the best. I ask you to bring the trash, and you do exactly what I
ask.”