He's Watching Me (9 page)

However she was still discombobulated and weary so Laura remained vigilant; trust was a luxury she couldn't afford. This person stepped in front in a Gothic ensemble. A black jacket, jeans, and shoes. The drably dressed person tugged Laura towards an open door: the computer room.

Officer Thompson had mentioned the heated object downstairs, in the computer room, maybe it was her? The phone!
Where was her phone? It could be anywhere after the recent plummet. It could be on the stairs, thrown onto the second floor landing, or even tumbled down the stairwell to the ground floor. Or even further into the hellish basement. The woman continued to yank, taking Laura from racing thoughts. Soon enough they were safely locked in the room, technology and fear everywhere. The rescuer paced to the corner as a flash of light struck upwards and broke through the darkness. This ray shone and exposed the woman's face. Blonde hair, similar to Laura's. Blue eyes, strong jawline, but slightly older than Laura with the addition of a few lines around the eyes. It was an older version of Laura. It was her mother.

“Mum?” Laura asked, astounded.

Her mother, Sandra, stormed forwards with a finger pressed tightly against her lips, indicating silence.

“Yes honey it's me,” the soothing, known voice enveloped Laura in comfort.

“What are you doing here?” Laura was utterly stunned, eyelids hid behind wide eyes.

“I came to save you,” she smiled, stroking Laura's cheek.

“What? How did you know about this? Did the police call you?” Laura was puzzled.

“No, I know who the man is,” she announced.

“Who?” Laura was becoming tense, bursting at the seams to know who it was.

“Bruce.” Laura was momentarily stumped. Confusion fogged her mind as those letters sparked recognition. That word meant something. Until clarity came, followed by understanding. Breath was stolen from Laura as realisation struck.

“Yes, your father,” Sandra confessed, guilt tainting her face.

My father? My dad? My own flesh and blood? The one person in all the world who is supposed to protect, guide and help me? Why would he do this? He had been so caring and considerate in the car. Which was unusual for him. He had expressed interest and emotion.
Enigmas grew as idle questions transformed into mystifications that needed answers to safeguard her mental health. Just as her mouth parted open and words were about to stutter out, she paused. Laura considered if knowing why, at this point, would be worse. Maybe it would be best to wait. Then the downside to being in a catastrophe occurred, survival wasn't guaranteed. If Laura was going to her grave soon, she needed answers. That was one thing that was compulsory if she was to make the voyage to heaven tonight, or more specifically, the early hours of the morning.

“Why? Why would he try and kill me?” red rings appeared around Laura's eyes as tears filled the bottom eyelids.

Sandra was preoccupied, staring at the latch on the door as if it were a vicious dog snarling, ready to attack at any moment.

“MUM!” a loud whisper broke Sandra's focus from the lock.

“I don't wanna talk about this now Laura, we need to stay quiet and wait until more police come. I think there is one trying to get in at another part of the castle. We just need to stay here, out of his way, and wait....” Sandra responded uncharacteristically calm.

“Mum! I need to know, if I die-”

Sandra cut her off, “You won't d-”

Laura then cut
her
off, “IF I die, I want to know why my father would do this, I have a right to know!” the piled salty tears broke free and trailed down to her chin, leaving tiny streaks of moisture behind. 

Sandra was becoming nervous. A glossy layer of perspiration already glazing her rosy skin.

“Fine....” droplets broke from the film of sweat. “I went to his apartment to talk about things earlier today. But when I got there he was in the shower. I hadn't told him I was coming round. I wanted to surprise him, partly because I wanted to catch his slut and give her a piece of my mind.” Laura's face dropped as he hadn't mentioned another woman, to her knowledge. Also hearing her mother use that word made her feel very uncomfortable. Mothers were supposed to bake cookies and help with homework, not speak like that. But Laura wasn't naive, she knew her parents were people, just like everyone else, they had personal lives. Plus the fact that fathers weren't supposed to become homicidal maniacs either, and slaughter cops and children, all in an attempt to murder their daughter. So one naughty word compared to the brutal deaths of two innocent people, Laura could look past.

“Anyway, there was an open journal on his bed. I got tired of waiting, and became very curious, so I started to read it. And thank God I did!” Sandra's eyes became intense, reliving it in her mind. “He spoke about how he blamed you, and he was going to make you pay, kill his own daughter.” Sorrow wriggled onto her face as Laura remained mortified. “He had found a doctor who lives in a castle, very rich and wealthy and had begun making preparations for your last night on earth. But how, just in case he didn't accomplish this the first time, he had to wear a disguise. One that covered his face.” The ghastly, petrifying costume came into Laura's mind.

“And he spoke of ideas. Then a clown was the perfect solution. Painted face, bulky wig, colourful clothing, it was what he called, 'the resurrection of a kid's nightmare'. I panicked and ran when I heard the shower stop. I got to my car, but it wouldn't start. It was then I realised I had dropped my phone inside his apartment.” Laura had never seen her mother speak so fast, buzzing through speech barely breathing, eyes darting all over the place. “I have been trying to get here for hours. Eventually a nice man helped fix my car and had me on my way, but I knew I would have to park away from the castle in case he saw me coming, and that was a very difficult walk, the weather didn't help. Not to mention getting inside the castle,” Sandra had finished her monologue, ravaged by jitters, holding her face as if still in disbelief that this was all happening.

“When, exactly, did you go and speak to him, or try to?” Laura asked, face beet red.

“This morning before work.” She lowered her hands to Laura's cold shoulders. “I am so sorry you have been through this sweetie. I am here now, and we will get through this.”

Laura's head drooped as she broke out in a fit of sorrow. She stared at the floor, tears streaking her cheeks yet again, overcome by sniffles, wheezing loudly.

“This is not your fault sweetie. He was cheating and he thought I didn't know. You are the perfect daughter so don't you dare think for a second it's your fault. He has clearly gone insane,” Sandra held her daughter, as Laura wept into her jacket, distraught. Laura struggled to stand, her legs weak and stomach squirming.

“Toby....” the insides of Laura's mouth were fashioning strings of saliva as she pulled away from Sandra, even that one word made strings stretch from one lip to the other.

“What? Who's Toby?” Sandra asked gently.

“The boy I am here to babysit, he's dead, he is dead because of me. If I weren't here with my dad trying to kill me, then he would still be alive...” she became hysterical. Responsibility crippled Laura as she sank to the floor in an outbreak of remorse.

The slumping noise worried Sandra, she was concerned it may attract Bruce's attention. But regardless, she knelt and took Laura into her chest, rubbing her back affectionately as they gently swayed.

“Do you really think that policeman will find us before dad does?” Laura asked as Sandra ran fingers through her hair. In a strange way Sandra liked this. Laura was growing up, soon to be leaving high school and heading off for college. The moments where Laura needed consoling or a shoulder to cry on were few and far between. Soon she would be alone in a big house with her child off at college starting her life. That thought had depressed and upset Sandra. Which made her think hard about forgiving Bruce and trying to work it out. Perhaps it wasn't too late, they could see a marriage counsellor. Of course this was before she found his journal expressing his wishes to kill their only daughter. Now if she were to see him, Sandra wanted nothing more than to kill him.

“I hope so, but I am having my doubts to be honest. Do you think we should try and get outside?”

“I think we should try and find my phone,” Laura protested, her weeps settling.

“Why? The police are already here, what good will it do?” Sandra used her sleeve to wipe tears from her daughter's face.

“I had an officer on the phone helping me get away, he has access to all the cameras in the house and can see every room,” Laura combed hair from her eyes.

“But we are in complete darkness, how would that help?” Sandra questioned.

“He has a heat detection thing that can sense body heat,” Laura pulled away, explaining.

“Oh...” Sandra was being persuaded. “Why can't we use the house phones?”

“I assumed they would have been cut off by dad, not wanting me to call out for help. Did you see or hear him kill that cop out there?” Laura asked, rather bluntly.

“I heard it happen, yeah,” now Sandra was the emotional one. A role reversal was in progress.

“Oh God,” Laura now held her mother, being
her
support in this trying time.

“I heard the officer shoot, he must have missed......” Sandra became still as her eyes glazed over. “Then a ripping sound, then a gargling, and...... a smack when he hit the floor.” Sandra was staring, in a trance, replaying the memory of hearing an innocent man being butchered at the hands of her husband.

“Mum, we have to get out of here. We can't keep hoping someone will find us. You drove here yeah? Is your car close by?”

“No, not really, it's about a mile away as I wanted to turn up undetected. But in order to get to my car we need to go out to the foyer and unlock the door, which will take a while, and then run. Are you in a fit state to do that?” she frowned.

“What do you mean?” Laura was disconcerted.

“The fall you had, I heard it, wasn't sure who it was, but I thought it could be you so fortunately I checked.”

Laura had almost forgotten about that, currently preoccupied with the new unsettling information that the psycho killer was in fact her father, and also forging a way out of this entrapment.

“No, I feel fine,” as if to prove a point Laura stood by herself leaving Sandra slouched with her back propped against the door.

“Now come on,” Laura encouraged. Sandra looked up, proud of Laura's will-fullness. Even in such utter pandemonium her daughter was still fighting. Strong, wilful and brave. Sandra could not have been prouder. She may have lost her husband to infidelity and insanity, but somehow in the struggle she had managed to raise an incredible young girl. Sandra brought her legs in and began to stand.

Barely two inches from the floor, Sandra's chest convulsed as she smacked back down on the floor; spasms tore through her torso as her head flopped backwards thumping the door. Laura was startled, and bewildered. Her mother looked odd. Shaking. Eyes wide. Sandra's jaw tensed as she spat blood in globules like a newborn spitting out baby food. Crimson fluid drooled from her mouth.
Was she having a severe panic attack?
Redness trailed down flesh and soiled clothing. Laura was at a total loss as to what was happening, as blood dripped from Sandra's chin and showered her chest in burgundy. Then realisation came as her eyes noticed something. There was a knife protruding from Sandra's abdomen. Someone had plunged it through the door and punctured Sandra's stomach.
The clown!
Also known as Bruce.

Chapter 9

The same shrill giggling echoed, their safe haven had been compromised by a kitchen utensil. The shiny metal was glazed in blood, dripping red onto the wooden floor between Sandra's legs. No sooner than it ploughed through Sandra did the blade disappear, vanishing from the bloodshed with a sloppy squelch. Sandra's head bopped with the motion of the knife's withdrawal.

“Mum, get up quick, mum hurry,” Laura was trembling, devoured by panic, a pulse booming at her eardrums. The look in her mother's eyes was almost as scary as the situation itself. As if she was intoxicated on liquor or had been bashed on the head with a hammer leaving disorientation and discombobulation in its wake. Sandra continued to imitate a zombie. Or worse, a corpse.

“MUM! You have to get up now!” Laura was becoming frantic.

Time eluding them, patience escaping, racing against the clock, Laura lifted Sandra. Flinging an arm around her shoulder, Laura stabilized her mother.

They hobbled towards a window. Tall, colour stained, with yet more Christian related illustrations.

“Stay here,” Laura sat her mother gently on a chair.
Oh God Oh God
. Laura paced back and forth, desperately willing an escape plan. The rain pitted against the windows, helped by the ferocious wind. The green surroundings were moist from the horrendous downpour, trees thrashing, bushes shaking. Nervous, Laura moved away from the window. But she stroked the back seat of a chair and felt something lumpy, but soft. In the murkiness she managed to make out that it was a jacket. It must have been Toby's. It hung over a chair motionless, like its owner. Laura yanked it from the seat and wrapped it around her mother's stomach, squeezing tight to stop the bleeding as best she could. As she bound Sandra amidst an almost apocalyptic rainfall, an idea blossomed. Without missing a beat Laura climbed onto a desk. The wood squeaked slightly, bowing down at the pressure of a human being rather than lightweight technology. Laura clung onto the window frame as she brought herself up, avoiding contact with the computer at her feet. As she straightened up a bang almost made her stumble backwards. The boom ricocheted from the walls, vibrating.

The banging of something against the door, which Laura had anticipated.

“Come on Laura, I know you are injured. Slippery slip, then a stabbery stab. You may as well give in, come to me, I will make it quick, I will have some mercy on you,” the eerie voice moaned.

Laura couldn't decide if animosity was the stronger force wriggling in her, or unease. Now that she knew the identity of this manic, it was much worse. Bruce's twang in the speech being obvious now, but also very manipulated. It was altered through a high pitch, with prolonged words. And his laughter that had never been heard before, that was his inner demons surfacing.

“You are all alone now darlin' come to me, embrace your destiny.”

Laura smiled at that moment, as something dawned on her. He was unaware of Sandra's presence. This could work to their advantage somehow. But she could barely yield a simple thought, let alone construct an intricate plan of survival using that leverage. But when key jingles resounded in the room, she worried less about the future and more about the present. Relying on instinct and self-preservation, Laura hurled a computer screen against the window with all the clout she could muster.

The glass cracked upon impact, sending little scratches along the pane like a spider's web. All it would take now was another strike to knock the glass out. Laura dropped the screen and let it clatter to the beechwood. The screen blasted into pieces as it fell hard, plastic chunks exploding into the air. A firework of computer mechanisms dispersed everywhere. Pieces clanked against walls, and danced on the floor as they skidded throughout the room. Not wasting time, she assaulted the fragile glass with her foot. It smashed through the window, sending tiny shards crumbling from the frame and to the grass below. Tiny sparkles descended in the dusk as wind tore through the now empty frame. Although some shards still clung to the corners, stubbornly refusing to fall. One thing she hadn't thought about whilst seeing this new plan through, to barrel away from the mad man also known as her father, was that they were on the first floor. If they were to leave through the window, they'd have to jump. But after the epic plunge, considering both their injuries, as well as the cliff's edge worryingly close, was it a suicide mission? But, their shortcoming was a lack of options. Laura knew this was the only way out, the only chance at living. This awry idea was their last hope.

Laura spoke hastily but quietly to Sandra and explained this was the only option. It was either plummet and maybe live, or stay and most likely die. The threshold that held the door in place was shaking with the collision of Bruce bashing away. The key she heard must have been a fabrication of her worst fears.
Or maybe none of them worked to unlock the door?
Thinking hard and fast, they concluded it was their only real option. So Laura helped a groggy Sandra onto the windowsill as they prepared to flee. The grass below, the trees around like members of the public witnessing a suicide jumper, the ominous dark sky above insisting on this act. Rain clouded their vision, unable to focus properly; just a vague blur of Mother Nature encompassing them. But in with all this was the cliff's end, just beyond the grass and partially camouflaged by a line of oak trees.

Laura tried to overlook that, but it was like a red button, knowing you shouldn't push it summons an immature urge to disobey. Laura turned to the door. The wood was splintering as a heavy, blunt object began to smash through. Their time was up.

“Mum, we have to hurry, the door's about to give way.”

Sandra, who was formerly in a place of bewilderment, baffled beyond any human conception, now held a look of utter antipathy, crippled with terror.

“I love you,” her mother sniffled with truth in her eyes, not like her father. His were filled with lies in their last conversation, looking guilty and sad, when all along he planned to kill her. His own daughter. Rage boiled inside, until Laura realised she didn't want that to be the last face her mother would see. They were not forced to die, but they both knew how desperate their situation was, that it was slightly suicidal. But they refused to die at the hands of an insufferable man. If they were to go to the proverbial 'better place' it would be on their own terms, not due to a mentally-unhinged murderer. “Love you too mum, always have, always will,” she spoke through a trembling lip.

Tears welled in their eyes at the soul crushing likelihood of this being their last conversation. Laura squeezed her mother's hand, and together, as if they were one entity, they dropped.

The wind rushed at Laura fiercely, pillaging hair and slapping iciness into her eyes. Rain pattered their flesh, and the furry sheet of green below was looming. Like the green ground floor of a hotel with the lift tumbling to it, an inevitable collision soon to occur. The drop was only one floor, but a castle's version of one floor was like three levels to a normal suburban house. But with the added bad weather, black cloak, and cliff's cusp, the descent was all the more petrifying. Laura turned mid-descent to see Sandra staring right back at her. It was pointless to portray a brave face, because the inner turmoil was too much to hold inside and not let it leak onto their facial features. Then, they both hit the slimy, stick tentacles of grass and fell on Mother Nature's carpet with a soggy thud.

***

After abrading the door with multiple violent hits, Bruce, a.k.a the clown, finally broke the door with the hammer's twentieth blow. It finally caved in as the wood splintered. A grin smeared across his smug face. He was finally able to kill the girl that ruined his marriage; Bruce was seething with hatred. The innocent looking offspring had gradually hacked away at his life, popped it like a balloon and scattered his insides everywhere. This epiphany had bloomed in his mind several months ago, after moving into his own place, questions poked at him daily.
Why did this happen? He had cheated, but Sandra didn't know that, he had been very discreet,
or so he thought. And her 'taking a break' speech was a tonne of bull, and he knew it. So what else could be lingering on the bridge between them, the heavy weight that snapped their connection and severed their bond?
Laura.

It was as clear as blood oozing through a white shirt. The little bitch had strained their marriage, and repeatedly bounced on the bridge until it snapped. He would not allow this; he would not take this lying down. Vengeance would be sought for this betrayal. He would find her hiding among the mess of technology, trapped, and end her. Beat, slice and dice Laura. Make her beg, and plead, then take immense satisfaction in detaching every limb and organ from the quivering carcass. Bruce would turn her inside out and expose the true evil nature. Removing her from the planet, he considered a duty to the world, ridding them of a demon child. He did feel a twinge of remorse for the demise of the young boy. But that was the price Bruce had to pay in order to reach his goal, kill his target: Laura.

He entered the surprisingly cold room, howls of wind screaming from the gloom. Fragments crushed underfoot as the buzz of electricity hummed. Bruce almost slipped on a small pool of crimson just inside the doorway.
Laura must have been stabbed, I knew I felt contact with something, and blood is covering my blade.
Drips of blood led forwards, towards the windows. Small splotches that came to an end at a broken computer screen. Smashed, dinted and demolished.
That explains the plastic pieces.
But the blood trail actually continued to a corner window, which Bruce noticed, was also destroyed. Small bits of colour stained glass poked from the corners, but the centre was no more. Upon closer inspection strips of clothing flailed in the mighty breeze, swaying on the tips of the glass particles. More blood decorated the windowsill like melted wax from a candle stick.
Craggy edges and shards littered the desks nearby. Until understanding finally struck Bruce.

“Stupid bitch,” he spat with fury echoing in his voice.

He couldn't even begin to conceive a logical explanation for why she would do that.
Is she stupid as well as a home-wrecker? Or so high on arrogance she thinks that landing can be made without dying?
Then his stomach twinged.

“NOOOOOOO!” he roared with rage.

He wanted to kill her. She'd be sprawled at the bottom, already a body. No longer inhabiting a soul, but a lonely vessel, eyes empty and any sign of dismay gone. Laura would be caked in dirt and blood, laid in a muddy grave, speckles of rain washing the gunk from the lifeless corpse. He craved to brutalize, observe the fright, take pleasure in her limbs shake and mouth pour out words of sorrow and plead forgiveness. But now that had been ridden from his wishes. He stormed to the broken window, passing a damp chair on his way, coated in a red liquid that still oozed. Bruce gawked down at the sludgy ground below, leaning over the glass covered desk, and nothing. No one was there.
She had survived! Jesus Christ!
His mind exploded. Without a seconds hesitation he mounted the glass peppered desk and leapt from it.

His flamboyant, pompous shoes cushioned the blow as he landed. He struck the grass and rolled forward instantly. Nothing, no jolting pain or pounding ache; the costume had swallowed any stings or abrasions that could have occurred had it not been for the larger than life frills and material. Not wasting any time he stood and peered around. The moon was a poor source of brightness, but his eyes were already adapting. Scouring every barked stump, every leaf, every twig, puddle of dirt. But she was no where to be seen. His optimism was somewhat fractured. Bruce was aware that the chances of finding Laura with little light, in a vast space, were low. But determination drove him onwards.

The shoes were sturdy and protected his feet, but they were awful to walk in on slippery terrain. The grass may as well have been coated in oil. Soon patience evaporated and he plucked off the shoes, tossing them into the chaotic breeze and sharp speckles of rain. He was becoming petulant, intent on finding the slut and ripping her apart, skin, muscle, bone and organs, every part of the bitch. He would expose the life-ruiner. Then amidst his deranged thoughts he almost leapfrogged for psychotic joy, when Laura came into view only a few steps from him.

Laura was slumped on the grass, curled over on her side, dangerously close to the cliff's summit. A couple of rolls and she'd drop off. But he wasn't going to let her get off that easy. If she was still alive, he would drag her from an easy release and make her experience a new type of suffering. He was getting eager at all the ways he could end her life. Which was odd. In the beginning, when he came to the conclusion he would murder her, he wanted it to be quick, simple, and not leave behind any incriminating evidence. But now a hunger for inflicting agony and torture had spawned. Ideas of burning flesh so it sizzled, peeling it off and force feeding it to her actually aroused him. A hormonal bomb detonated every time one of these concoctions appeared. Pouring acid, ripping off body parts, pulling out intestines and making her choke on them. He could barely contain the buzz. A new notch had been added to the pleasure stick, sex was near the top, but massacring was by far the clear winner. Beyond ejaculation, above money, further than power, a sensation that had no competition. As he gained on her still bag of bones, he was tempted to sprint in anticipation. But he held it in, like a child on Christmas morning.