Running Stupid: (Mystery Series) (17 page)

He reached for a bronzed door handle and then paused, thinking that they could be in the bathroom, or asleep in the bedroom, if there was one. He hesitated and swallowed thickly.

The heavens opened. An uncontrollable loud crack sounded, the roar of thunder ripping open the skies.

Jester jumped in shock, involuntarily looking up. “Shit,” he said, just as the rain started.

The rain fell down hard and fast. A grey mist hung in the air, darkening the sky and the lush forest. The sound of heavy droplets meeting with the masses of leaves and foliage was like an epileptic drum roll. Squirrels scattered, birds hid. Forest animals found their homes and their shelters. A twinkle of bird song, high pitched and erratic, echoed through the forest, first one voice and then two, three, four, then a dozen, all chirping.

A flash of lightening split the sky open, emblazoning a fork of light across the clouded heavens.

Inside the cabin, all was silent and peaceful. No one was at home, no one was there to enjoy the warmth, the leather chairs, the dark, cosy décor. No one was there to light the log burning fire, or sit at the grand piano in the corner of the room, playing sunny melodies. The cabin was at peace, separate from the dark, damp world outside.

As another crack of lightening threatened to open up the sky, the cabin door thudded, shuddering on its hinges. The bang was followed by a moan of discontent. The rain fell harder and faster than before, seemingly taking its lead from the sudden flashes of lightening.

The door thumped again, violently shaking in its frame, threatening to rip from its hinges.  As the rain continued to fall, the cabin remained at peace with the world, offering a tender warmth and solitude, but receiving no takers.

A third slash of lightening coincided with the sound of shattering glass. At the side of the cabin, in the bathroom, a heavy rock lay on the tiled floor; broken glass fragments were dotted around it.

Matthew Jester appeared through the smashed bathroom window, his hair soaked through, his face and clothes dripping. “Finally,” he muttered, relieved to see the window break after failing to barge his way through the locked front door.

He removed his jacket and quickly spread it out on the window frame where splinters of glass still protruded with ominous intent. He used the window frame for leverage as he dragged himself up and crawled through, wincing in pain as the tip of a glass shard poked through the material on his coat and sunk into his hand.

After dropping into the bathroom, he inspected his hand. The glass had pricked his palm Fresh blood rolled from the wound down to the base of his palm before the crimson droplets slowly dripped to the tiled floor.

He wiped the bleeding hand on his trousers, put his jacket back on and then exited the small bathroom, making sure to close the door behind him, keeping the ferocious wind, whipping rain and bitter cold away from the rest of the cabin. He collapsed onto a large sofa, his aching body indenting the plush leather.

On the wall next to the front door, in between the two windows, were various hunting trophies. Jester cringed at the sight of a deer’s head pinned to a placard and stuck to the wall. To the left of the deer was the head of a large fox. It too was glued to an oak background before being drilled into the wall. On top of these was a large set of antlers, protruding through the wall. It looked like a deer had tried to run through the cabin and failed. Next to the antlers was a tusk, elephant or rhino. Jester didn’t know and he didn’t care to know.

Underneath these, just below the fox and deer head, was a collection of large birds. All of them had been stuffed, glued onto wooden bases and placed on the floor, their job seemingly to guard the stuffed heads and unknown tusks.

Jester shook off the images of the taxidermy showroom and continued to scan the cabin interior. He had seen most of it whilst standing outside but there were plenty of blind spots, and most of them, it seemed, had something hideous to hide.

There was a large sheet hanging from the door, filling the width of the frame and draping down past the bottom of the door and onto the floor.  A crucifix had been drawn at the top in thick red letters, covering half of the door. Below the ominous scarlet cross was what appeared – at first glance – to be the Ten Commandments, written in a state of fury or excitement.

Matthew ran his eyes over the list that had been methodically, yet violently, written in thick red letters.

Thou shalt have no other gods than me.

Thou shalt not make for thyself an idol.

Remember the Sabbath and keep it holy.

Thou shalt not commit adultery.

Thou shalt not bear false witness.

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s house.

Matthew Jester stopped reading. The only visible and readable commandments were those six; four were missing.

He dropped his eyes to the bottom of the list and noticed another one.

Thou shalt not steal.

The words had been crossed out with black pen, a straight line through the middle. Further down the sheet were more crossed-out commandments, each one more frantically erased than the last.

Thou shalt not make wrongful use of the name of thy god.

There was a space between the next lines, a large lingering gap. It suggested that the writer had deliberated over his next words, feeling anger that he knew he had to write them even though he would have to cross them out immediately.

Matthew squinted through the heavily scribbled lines that had been crossed out in both black and red markers. When his eyes adjusted and he read the words, his heart sank.

Honour thy mother and father.

Thou shalt not murder.

Both had been madly crossed out in a fit of hatred or remorse.

Jester hissed, “Shit.” He jumped up from the sofa and made his way to the door, inspecting the words closer.

Instinctively he reached out to grab the sheet. It was a bed sheet, cotton, soft to the touch. He pulled it closer to his face, inspected the words again before he allowed the sheet to fall.

He twisted his face in confusion and tried to shake it off. He made his way around the cabin, finding a store cupboard a few paces from the bathroom.

When he opened it the smell inside hit him like a wall. He could practically feel the stench tearing away at his skin. He recoiled, stumbling backwards. He mumbled a few obscenities and then walked forward again.

He found a light switch and clicked it on. Immediately the cupboard exploded into life and exposed itself as more than just a cupboard. Five feet in front of him and to the left, was a set of stairs, declining and entwining.

Before descending the stairs he tried to find the source of the horrendous smell. The room was littered with cardboard boxes, black bin bags (filled), empty paint tins, various tools – both gardening and DIY – and a row of shelves that stretched around the right hand side, curving to a stop just before the stairs.

With his hand over his mouth and nose, Jester began searching through the boxes; some labelled with black markers, but most weren’t.

The first box he found was full of shoes and trainers. A brief look told him to put the box back down and continue searching, but his instinct told him otherwise. He dropped the box to the floor, kneeled over it and began inspecting the shoes. All of them were worn, some incredibly worn – ripped and dirty – others were in near perfect condition.

There were many Wellington boots and hiking boots that had been in storage long enough for the encrusted dirt to form a practically unbreakable shell. Matthew studied them with concern. A life in the forest, surrounded by dirt, moss and rain would wear out shoes easily. You’d go through a lot of pairs, he could understand that, but what he
couldn’t
understand was that all the shoes were in different sizes.

No matter how many pairs he picked up, no two were the same. They ranged from child sizes to clown sizes. Keeping the idea in his head that it was a holiday cabin, and therefore would need to cater for kids, adults and growing children, he put the box to one side.

The smell was so strong that he had to limit his breathing for fear of breathing in any of the toxic stench. He retrieved an ice cooler from the back of the room. The lid slid from the top of the box with ease and Jester, after moments of shock, slammed it shut again and turned away in disgust.

The owner of the cabin was clearly a hunting man, but his hunting trophies weren’t restricted to taxidermy. The limbs, organs, skin and brains of many animals had been stashed inside the box. The putrefying smell floated from the ice cooler, and now that Jester knew the source of the smell, it made him even queasier.

He quickly opened another cooler and found a mass of offal, spilling a scorching stench into the air. The rancid organs were still dripping with blood; most congealed, some still fresh.

In another box, a cardboard box, he found a stash of tee-shirts, all different sizes and styles. He inspected a few of them. Mud and grass stains adorned them all, but he also noted blood spots on a few of them. One of them was ripped in the middle and surrounded by a dark blood stain.

He sat in silence for a few minutes, controlling his gag reflex. Then he stood, ready to leave. He’d seen enough weirdos over the last two days to last him a lifetime and he didn’t want to run into whoever owned the cabin.

He reached for the door handle and then paused. He heard the metallic sound of a key entering a lock, heard the key turn. With his hand still hovering over the handle, he waited, his ears wide open.

A metallic rattle sounded from the front door. Someone was trying to get in and losing patience with the lock on the door.

Jester thought about making a run for it but his body froze in fear.

Moments later a loud rap of wind and rain washed through the cabin as the front door swung open.

He looked around the storage room, his ears still tuned into the main room, where the newcomer was taking off his wet coat and hat. There was nowhere to hide, and even if there was, he doubted he could stomach being around so much rotting animal flesh.

He made his way to the stairs that led into the basement. He didn’t know what was down there, but it had to be preferable to where he was.

The cabin owner removed his hat and sighed heavily. He shook excess water from the slick material and hung it on a stand near the door. In the kitchen he inspected his appearance through the reflection of a shining kettle. He tilted his head this way and that, making sure his face was fully examined.

Humming and haring, he ran his hand across his forehead. A smear of crimson crisscrossed between his eyes. He smudged it with his finger and then wiped it on his soggy blue jeans, leaving a faded red mark.

Whilst the kettle boiled, discharging steam and an annoying whistling sound, he continued to study his face. He noticed spots of red dabbed below his chin, smeared over his right cheek and spotted on the top of his earlobe. He removed them with a wipe from a nearby kitchen towel, which he then disposed of in a flip-top bin.

When the kettle – very old in design and nature but in perfect condition – finished boiling, he took it in his right hand. It was heavy. It had to be, anything made of out steel, filled full of outdated electrics and topped off with a litre of water would be, but in his strong grip and huge hands it looked like a small mug.

With the kettle in his hand, he walked back towards the front door. He paused momentarily. He thought he heard something, a shudder, vibration; something that disturbed his senses. He shrugged it off and continued. He opened the door, stepped outside and allowed the wind to slam it shut again.

***

Jester was in the basement. It was dark and dusty with a stench of decay and neglect hung in the air.

He made his way to the closest corner, feeling his way around like a blind man. In the corner he pinned himself to the wall and listened. He heard the owner walk into the kitchen directly above the basement, listening to every footfall with trepidation.

He heard the roar of the boiling kettle but didn’t move. The sound of his movements would be overshadowed by the ferocity of the boiling water, but fear caused him to stay put. He preferred to move in silence anyway. The kettle may mask his movement from the cabin owner but the cabin owner’s own movements would also be masked. The key to being a successful prey is knowing where the predator is and what he’s doing.

When the boiling stopped and the whirling noises ceased, Matthew heard more footsteps, heavier than before. He held his hands out in front of him and stepped forward, one step, two steps, three steps. On the fourth step his foot smacked against something low to the floor and he lost his balance. He stumbled briefly and then crashed to the ground, cursing as he did so.

He listened, his blood pounding through his body, a constant throbbing pulse in his ear. The walking had stopped. The man had heard Matthew’s fall.

Climbing to his feet he quickly glanced around him, searching for a weapon or a place to hide, but there was only darkness. His fears and anxieties ceased when the sound of footsteps continued. He breathed a heavy sigh of relief.