Two months later, he and Jenny walked back up to the blackened, rain-rotten ruins of the old hotel, accompanied by a short and balding man known to them as Detective Miller. Detective Miller kept a cigarette behind his ear, and when he was thinking deeply he would remove it and put it in his mouth. Both Mark and Jenny liked him a lot.
"Take your time," he said. "We got all day if you need it."
"You're sure it's safe?" said Jenny. "Nothing, you know... lurking?"
"Not a flea," said Miller. "Whole site has been searched, sprayed to hell and back and searched again. All we're interested in now is any extra details you might remember."
They stopped and stood in the large gravel square that had once been the hotel car park. Jenny listened as Mark did the talking, telling of the final confrontation with Garmondy that had taken place here two months prior, pointing out the exact spot where each of the groups had stood.
Once he was done they set off around the wreck. Halfway along one wall a narrow corridor of yellow tape lead into the midst of the black mass of charcoaled wood and furniture. Even now it still smelled of ash and burned hair.
"That's where they broke through to the cellar," said Detective Miller. He paused. "We don't have to go down there if you don't want to."
"Thank God," said Jenny, finding that she was actually very glad to be spared a view of the basement itself. Since the events at the hotel she had learned that some things, once in your head, were difficult to forget. The feeling of a hundred fist-sized spiders eating you alive was one of them, and she suspected that the dark underground room in which her friend had died would be another.
"I'll go," said Mark, surprising her. When she tugged on his arm he turned to her and whispered. "I want to see. I owe it to him." He shifted uncomfortably, clearly not at home with emotional stuff.
"Well I'm going to wait up here," said Jenny. "Get my daily dose of fresh air, if that's okay with you guys."
"No problem," said Detective Miller. "We'll only be a minute." And with that he led Mark down the taped corridor to a place where a set of concrete stairs disappeared down into the ground. Jenny watched the two men pick their way out of sight, and then turned and surveyed the wreckage.
Something caught her eye. Something white in among all the burned black. She took a few steps closer to the tape and saw that there was something clean and rounded nestling among the charred beams and slurries of ash. It was only an arms-length away. If she just moved a couple of bits of wood she would be able to see what it was.
Jenny had never been one for letting CAUTION! tape stand in her way. She ducked beneath it and picked her way over to the object, snatched up the loose bits of wood that hid it from view and threw them aside. She saw then that it was not just one white object lying there in the ruins, but a clutch of several, five at least, each one about the size of a grapefruit. Her breath stalled in her throat.
They were eggs. Big, round, papery-white eggs.
Jenny reeled back, ripping through the tape in her haste. She turned to the dark entrance into which Detective Miller and Mark had descended. In the few seconds during which her back had been turned it seemed to have taken on a menacing air, waiting there like an open mouth.
"Mark?" she called, her voice quavering. "Mark, are you down there?"
There was no answer, but on the breeze that whistled through the ruins of the old hotel, Jenny could have sworn she heard something scuttle.
Monday, 13 August 2012
Monday, 6 August 2012
Twenty-Three
The spiders let them go. At the moment their mother had screamed they had forgotten all about the humans in their midst, surrounding her instead and crying out in grief and helplessness. No knowing how long they would be distracted for, Mark thought. Best to get out while they could.
The three of them managed to squeeze past the car and hobble out into the middle of the car park. There they stopped, Mark holding up a hand to halt Winter in her tracks. Garmondy stood at the head of the lane, looking weaker and frailer than ever. Blood stained his clothes like a tidemark, and he was leaning heavily on the rifle like a crutch, his left leg held tenderly off the ground.
"You," he breathed. His voice was quiet, tentative, but somehow perfectly audible too. "You've killed her, haven't you? You've killed her!"
"Yes," Winter said, almost shouted. "She's dead! She's burned up! Dead!"
Mark held out a hand to try and hush her, terribly aware that Garmondy still had the rifle, that he could shoot them dead with hardly any effort at all. But he did not raise the weapon. All he did was look at them sadly and shake his head.
"I really did have no choice, you know," he said, his voice steady, almost conversational, but with a tremble in it that betrayed the truth.
"Yes you did," spat Winter. "Of course you did. You could have killed it. Should have."
Garmondy nodded reluctantly, as though acknowledging a well-argued point. "After...after my daughter died I was very lonely. I needed... company. In a corner of the attic I found the egg, brought it down, incubated it, hatched it, cared for it--"
"Fed it?" said Winter. Behind them the screeches and insect noises of the spiders were starting to tail off, the sounds growing weak and reedy. As he glanced back Mark saw a glow behind the windows, flickering like a hearth fire. The smell of acrid smoke was on the air.
"Fed it, yes," said Garmondy, and then wistfully added, "They really are such fascinating creatures."
"How long before it started eating people?" said Winter, her voice cold and hateful.
Garmondy didn't reply. He shook his head again, and Mark was surprised to see tears in his eyes. "I had no choice," said the old man again, and then he started walking towards them. Mark pulled Jenny aside quickly, and Winter took a step in the other direction, Garmondy passing between them without another word or glance. He hobbled up to the front doors of his old hotel--his old hotel from the windows of which smoke now billowed blackly--hobbled up to the doors and slipped inside.
Winter didn't waste a second staring after him. She grabbed Mark's arm. "Let's go," she said. "Please, let's go."
"What about Chris?" said Mark. "Where is he? You wait with Jenny and I'll go in through a side entrance and get him."
Winter didn't say a word, just looked at him, and in her expression he saw everything she needed to know. He had thought it an odd question a moment ago: how long before it started eating people? He had wondered how Winter knew that the spider preyed on the guests of the hotel. And now he knew, and the knowledge was like a knife between his ribs, a puncture wound, wide and deep, letting all the air and warmth and life seep out of him like air from a balloon.
"No," he said, half questioning.
"I saw..." said Winter, but swallowed and tailed off, unable to speak. She didn't need to. Mark took her arm with his free hand, and together they turned towards the lane and started to walk, an odd and tattered procession, quiet in their grief.
The three of them managed to squeeze past the car and hobble out into the middle of the car park. There they stopped, Mark holding up a hand to halt Winter in her tracks. Garmondy stood at the head of the lane, looking weaker and frailer than ever. Blood stained his clothes like a tidemark, and he was leaning heavily on the rifle like a crutch, his left leg held tenderly off the ground.
"You," he breathed. His voice was quiet, tentative, but somehow perfectly audible too. "You've killed her, haven't you? You've killed her!"
"Yes," Winter said, almost shouted. "She's dead! She's burned up! Dead!"
Mark held out a hand to try and hush her, terribly aware that Garmondy still had the rifle, that he could shoot them dead with hardly any effort at all. But he did not raise the weapon. All he did was look at them sadly and shake his head.
"I really did have no choice, you know," he said, his voice steady, almost conversational, but with a tremble in it that betrayed the truth.
"Yes you did," spat Winter. "Of course you did. You could have killed it. Should have."
Garmondy nodded reluctantly, as though acknowledging a well-argued point. "After...after my daughter died I was very lonely. I needed... company. In a corner of the attic I found the egg, brought it down, incubated it, hatched it, cared for it--"
"Fed it?" said Winter. Behind them the screeches and insect noises of the spiders were starting to tail off, the sounds growing weak and reedy. As he glanced back Mark saw a glow behind the windows, flickering like a hearth fire. The smell of acrid smoke was on the air.
"Fed it, yes," said Garmondy, and then wistfully added, "They really are such fascinating creatures."
"How long before it started eating people?" said Winter, her voice cold and hateful.
Garmondy didn't reply. He shook his head again, and Mark was surprised to see tears in his eyes. "I had no choice," said the old man again, and then he started walking towards them. Mark pulled Jenny aside quickly, and Winter took a step in the other direction, Garmondy passing between them without another word or glance. He hobbled up to the front doors of his old hotel--his old hotel from the windows of which smoke now billowed blackly--hobbled up to the doors and slipped inside.
Winter didn't waste a second staring after him. She grabbed Mark's arm. "Let's go," she said. "Please, let's go."
"What about Chris?" said Mark. "Where is he? You wait with Jenny and I'll go in through a side entrance and get him."
Winter didn't say a word, just looked at him, and in her expression he saw everything she needed to know. He had thought it an odd question a moment ago: how long before it started eating people? He had wondered how Winter knew that the spider preyed on the guests of the hotel. And now he knew, and the knowledge was like a knife between his ribs, a puncture wound, wide and deep, letting all the air and warmth and life seep out of him like air from a balloon.
"No," he said, half questioning.
"I saw..." said Winter, but swallowed and tailed off, unable to speak. She didn't need to. Mark took her arm with his free hand, and together they turned towards the lane and started to walk, an odd and tattered procession, quiet in their grief.
Monday, 30 July 2012
Chapter Twenty-Two
Jenny fell. Winter saw it in excruciating detail, how the spiders leapt up at her and moved up her body like sailors up rigging. As she tried to swat at them and pull them away they leapt onto her hands and arms, and then they were on her neck, her head, her face. She went down onto her knees first of all, then onto her front, scrambling and rolling and clawing at them, her voice lost to a single, long scream.
Winter looked at the car, at Mark. He sat there looking dazed, blood flowering from a cut on his head. The doors lay across the bonnet of the vehicle, and there was dust and wood chips and plaster all around.
She ran for it.
She felt little, spindly bodies crushing and splitting and scattering at her feet. Others hurled themselves at her, fastening onto her clothes and scrambling up in a mad flurry of legs. Pincers sank into her ankle, into the vulnerable flesh just above her kneecap. She screamed, in pain and anger and grief and swatted at them, knocking some away, crushing others.
The mother reared up, front legs sawing at the air, and began to back up awkwardly, moving towards the door through which she'd emerged. Winter saw little spiders clinging to the hairs of her legs, riding on her back, dropping from her face like flakes of dry skin. They were closing in, swarming, protecting their queen. But the queen was not her target. She made for the car, ignoring Jenny's screams behind her, ignoring the queen, ignoring Mark's shout of fear as the little monsters started scaling the car and tumbling in through the broken windshield.
She reached the car, found a door and wrenched it open, diving inside. Suddenly there was a spider on her chest, spindly feet scrabbling at the air. It was so close that Winter could see every one of its eyes, could make out every hair on its many legs. She could hear the screeching squeal that extruded from its jaws. She hit it, smearing it sideways across the front of her pyjamas, leaving a trail of blood and blobs and legs behind.
Winter flipped onto her knees and reached over the back seats into the boot, searching frantically. Mark had jumped from the car, swearing loudly, beating spiders from his clothes with both hands. She was alone in the car, a hundred egg-sized horrors struggling through the gaps between the seats, crawling up Winter's calves like eager hands.
"Get off me! Get off!" She kicked at them, losing her balance and falling back to the seats. She pushed herself up again, dived again over the seatbacks and found, almost immediately, what she was looking for.
Her hand closed over the cool smoothness of the petrol can, she wrenched it over the seatbacks and into the car and then, hugging it to her chest, leapt out of the vehicle. The whole procedure had taken only seconds. Mark stood not ten metres away, stamping and smashing and kicking at the massing crawlers, his legs up to the knees coated in red-black slime. Jenny was on her hands and knees now blood flowing freely, no longer screaming, her struggles growing sluggish.
And there was the mother, the queen, stuck absurdly in the doorway, legs scrabbling and pushing as she tried to manoeuvre her way through.
Winter ripped the cap from the petrol can, took two steps, and flung the contents over the queen. There wasn't much in there. Mark had only had cause to use the thing once, when he had run out of petrol last year while driving everyone to London for a daytrip. It had been Christopher who suggested leaving a small amount in the can, in case they should ever run out again.
Now that litre-and-a-half of fuel splashed out over the spider queen, which reared up and screeched in pain or protest. And every one of the little spiders howled and chattered and screamed as well, to hear their mother suffering.
"Mark!" yelled Winter. "Mark, lighter!"
He was already scrabbling in his pocket, and then he had it, the little silver thing, and he was moving for the queen, flicking it, coaxing out a small and yellow flame. The spiders seemed to sense his intention, and suddenly they had shifted and all were flowing towards him, still screaming, fast and deadly as a riptide. He ignored them, not even bothering to swat away the ones that flung up at him, that latched on and scrambled up his body.
The queen was frantic, limbs waving like hairy tentacles. Quite calmly, quite easily, as if he wasn't half-covered in her frantic, biting children, Mark ducked under one waving limb, and touched the yellow flame of his lighter gently against the body of the queen.
The flames caught, easily, quickly, looking to Winter as though they burst in a single rich orange spurt from the queen's body. They licked and wriggled and spread quite happily, and she saw smaller bodies dropping like twitching cinders from their mother, to smoulder on the floorboards, or set alight others that curled black or popped in the heat.
The queen screamed. The spiders screamed. The noise that had come before was nothing to the deafening, tortured sound they gave vent to now. A smell like burned hair, but a hundred times worse reached Winter's nostrils. Fire consumed the queen, and as she thrashed it spread, leaping to the spiders that milled around her, to the doorframe, the carpets in the lounge beyond.
"Time to go," said Mark. He was standing by her side, a hand on her arm. With the other he supported Jenny, who was covered in blood, head lolling on his shoulder, barely conscious. In a dozen places pincers and legs were still attached to her clothes and skin. "Come on," Mark said, and swept her towards the door.
Winter looked at the car, at Mark. He sat there looking dazed, blood flowering from a cut on his head. The doors lay across the bonnet of the vehicle, and there was dust and wood chips and plaster all around.
She ran for it.
She felt little, spindly bodies crushing and splitting and scattering at her feet. Others hurled themselves at her, fastening onto her clothes and scrambling up in a mad flurry of legs. Pincers sank into her ankle, into the vulnerable flesh just above her kneecap. She screamed, in pain and anger and grief and swatted at them, knocking some away, crushing others.
The mother reared up, front legs sawing at the air, and began to back up awkwardly, moving towards the door through which she'd emerged. Winter saw little spiders clinging to the hairs of her legs, riding on her back, dropping from her face like flakes of dry skin. They were closing in, swarming, protecting their queen. But the queen was not her target. She made for the car, ignoring Jenny's screams behind her, ignoring the queen, ignoring Mark's shout of fear as the little monsters started scaling the car and tumbling in through the broken windshield.
She reached the car, found a door and wrenched it open, diving inside. Suddenly there was a spider on her chest, spindly feet scrabbling at the air. It was so close that Winter could see every one of its eyes, could make out every hair on its many legs. She could hear the screeching squeal that extruded from its jaws. She hit it, smearing it sideways across the front of her pyjamas, leaving a trail of blood and blobs and legs behind.
Winter flipped onto her knees and reached over the back seats into the boot, searching frantically. Mark had jumped from the car, swearing loudly, beating spiders from his clothes with both hands. She was alone in the car, a hundred egg-sized horrors struggling through the gaps between the seats, crawling up Winter's calves like eager hands.
"Get off me! Get off!" She kicked at them, losing her balance and falling back to the seats. She pushed herself up again, dived again over the seatbacks and found, almost immediately, what she was looking for.
Her hand closed over the cool smoothness of the petrol can, she wrenched it over the seatbacks and into the car and then, hugging it to her chest, leapt out of the vehicle. The whole procedure had taken only seconds. Mark stood not ten metres away, stamping and smashing and kicking at the massing crawlers, his legs up to the knees coated in red-black slime. Jenny was on her hands and knees now blood flowing freely, no longer screaming, her struggles growing sluggish.
And there was the mother, the queen, stuck absurdly in the doorway, legs scrabbling and pushing as she tried to manoeuvre her way through.
Winter ripped the cap from the petrol can, took two steps, and flung the contents over the queen. There wasn't much in there. Mark had only had cause to use the thing once, when he had run out of petrol last year while driving everyone to London for a daytrip. It had been Christopher who suggested leaving a small amount in the can, in case they should ever run out again.
Now that litre-and-a-half of fuel splashed out over the spider queen, which reared up and screeched in pain or protest. And every one of the little spiders howled and chattered and screamed as well, to hear their mother suffering.
"Mark!" yelled Winter. "Mark, lighter!"
He was already scrabbling in his pocket, and then he had it, the little silver thing, and he was moving for the queen, flicking it, coaxing out a small and yellow flame. The spiders seemed to sense his intention, and suddenly they had shifted and all were flowing towards him, still screaming, fast and deadly as a riptide. He ignored them, not even bothering to swat away the ones that flung up at him, that latched on and scrambled up his body.
The queen was frantic, limbs waving like hairy tentacles. Quite calmly, quite easily, as if he wasn't half-covered in her frantic, biting children, Mark ducked under one waving limb, and touched the yellow flame of his lighter gently against the body of the queen.
The flames caught, easily, quickly, looking to Winter as though they burst in a single rich orange spurt from the queen's body. They licked and wriggled and spread quite happily, and she saw smaller bodies dropping like twitching cinders from their mother, to smoulder on the floorboards, or set alight others that curled black or popped in the heat.
The queen screamed. The spiders screamed. The noise that had come before was nothing to the deafening, tortured sound they gave vent to now. A smell like burned hair, but a hundred times worse reached Winter's nostrils. Fire consumed the queen, and as she thrashed it spread, leaping to the spiders that milled around her, to the doorframe, the carpets in the lounge beyond.
"Time to go," said Mark. He was standing by her side, a hand on her arm. With the other he supported Jenny, who was covered in blood, head lolling on his shoulder, barely conscious. In a dozen places pincers and legs were still attached to her clothes and skin. "Come on," Mark said, and swept her towards the door.
Monday, 23 July 2012
Chapter Twenty-One
With two tyres shredded the Peugeot was almost impossible to control. It moved in a series of skids and lurches, veering so heavily to the left and right that Mark had to haul the steering wheel back and forth just to stay on the narrow lane. The back windscreen was broken completely, allowing in a steady flow of cold night air, and the front was webbed with cracks that made it near-impossible to make out anything beyond.
Nevertheless, Mark was driving it. He was halfway up the narrow lane that lead to the old hotel. Locked doors or not, he was going to rescue his friends. Garmondy was out of the way, incapacitated if not dead, and if he went for help instead of returning to the hotel there was no knowing what might happen to his friends while he was gone. He had vivid and frightening mental images of Christopher, his best friends since secondary school Christopher, lying bleeding in a cellar somewhere. And what about Winter? The poor girl was bound to be traumatised from whatever the old man had done. He would get them out, get Jenny, and they would all make their escape together.
The head of the lane and the dark bulk of the hotel hove into view. Mark gritted his teeth and cranked the steering wheel around to the left to keep his course. There was the empty car park, and there the big old front doors. No doubt they would be locked, of course, but Mark had a plan for that.
Gripping the wheel so tightly that his knuckles went white, Mark stamped on the accelerator. The Peugeot shot forward, fishtailing, bare wheels clanking and rumbling across the gravel. He heard the undercarriage strike the stone step with a heavy, expensive-sounding crump, and then the car bucked violently, mounted the step and crashed head on into the doors.
They opened. Not gracefully or willingly, but they opened. Mark's head smacked into the windscreen, which finally cracked all the way and fell from its frame. Dazed, he slumped back into his seat as the car rumbled to a stop, the front end of it protruding into the lobby.
The scene that met his eyes was one that Mark would remember vividly for the rest of his life.
On the far side of the lobby, as though they had been waiting specially for him, stood Jenny and Winter. Both looked scared out of their wits. Winter was covered in dust and dirt and had a pair of heavy chains dangling from her wrists. Jenny's leg was bleeding. The floor around the girls appeared to be moving, shifting like a living carpet.
Mark didn't look closely enough to ascertain what was causing the movement. He didn't look because his attention was captured entirely by the monster that stood almost directly in front of him. It was a spider, but not any kind of spider Mark had ever seen before, even in his nightmares.
"Mark!" sobbed Jenny.
"Jen!" he said, still dazed and unsure of quite what was going on. "I'm here to rescue you."
"About bloody time," said Jenny. And then the mass of wriggling spiders that surrounded her swept suddenly forward, swarming up her legs, biting and biting and biting.
Nevertheless, Mark was driving it. He was halfway up the narrow lane that lead to the old hotel. Locked doors or not, he was going to rescue his friends. Garmondy was out of the way, incapacitated if not dead, and if he went for help instead of returning to the hotel there was no knowing what might happen to his friends while he was gone. He had vivid and frightening mental images of Christopher, his best friends since secondary school Christopher, lying bleeding in a cellar somewhere. And what about Winter? The poor girl was bound to be traumatised from whatever the old man had done. He would get them out, get Jenny, and they would all make their escape together.
The head of the lane and the dark bulk of the hotel hove into view. Mark gritted his teeth and cranked the steering wheel around to the left to keep his course. There was the empty car park, and there the big old front doors. No doubt they would be locked, of course, but Mark had a plan for that.
Gripping the wheel so tightly that his knuckles went white, Mark stamped on the accelerator. The Peugeot shot forward, fishtailing, bare wheels clanking and rumbling across the gravel. He heard the undercarriage strike the stone step with a heavy, expensive-sounding crump, and then the car bucked violently, mounted the step and crashed head on into the doors.
They opened. Not gracefully or willingly, but they opened. Mark's head smacked into the windscreen, which finally cracked all the way and fell from its frame. Dazed, he slumped back into his seat as the car rumbled to a stop, the front end of it protruding into the lobby.
The scene that met his eyes was one that Mark would remember vividly for the rest of his life.
On the far side of the lobby, as though they had been waiting specially for him, stood Jenny and Winter. Both looked scared out of their wits. Winter was covered in dust and dirt and had a pair of heavy chains dangling from her wrists. Jenny's leg was bleeding. The floor around the girls appeared to be moving, shifting like a living carpet.
Mark didn't look closely enough to ascertain what was causing the movement. He didn't look because his attention was captured entirely by the monster that stood almost directly in front of him. It was a spider, but not any kind of spider Mark had ever seen before, even in his nightmares.
"Mark!" sobbed Jenny.
"Jen!" he said, still dazed and unsure of quite what was going on. "I'm here to rescue you."
"About bloody time," said Jenny. And then the mass of wriggling spiders that surrounded her swept suddenly forward, swarming up her legs, biting and biting and biting.
Monday, 16 July 2012
Chapter Twenty
Winter and Jenny burst through another door and found themselves on a narrow balcony overlooking a parlour. By now Jenny had recovered and was walking unaided. They had been lost in the hotel for almost fifteen minutes, and she was beginning to panic, her stomach going tight and fluttery every time they came to a dead end or locked door. She glanced at Winter, and saw that her face was set in a mask of uncharacteristic hardness. She wondered again about Christopher. Could he really be dead? Actually dead? It hardly seemed possible, and yet she senses that now was not the time to probe Winter with further questions.
"I think I know where we are," said Winter, though she sounded far from certain. "This way, come on."
They followed the balcony around and descended a creaking set of stairs, brushing aside spindly stands of cobweb as they did so. The door at the bottom opened out into the lounge, a well of darkness populated with the dim shapes of bulky armchairs and spindle-legged coffee tables. As they emerged from the stairs, Jenny felt around for the light switch.
"Yes," said Winter, suddenly. "I recognise this, I'm sure of it. We're just on the other side of the lobby. All we have to do is go through that door and then--" Winter stopped talking. She stopped talking because Jenny had found the light switch and flicked it on, bathing the room in a tired yellow glow.
Revealed by the light, awfully and unnaturally still, were hundreds and hundreds of spiders, bristling from every surface, each one the size of a chicken's egg.
"Bloody hell," murmured Jenny.
And then from behind them on the staircase she heard a rustling, quivering sound. A sound like bacon sizzling in a pan a hundred times over. She turned. So did Winter. Flowing down the staircase behind them was a black and gleaming tide. Their bodies dripped over each riser, jaws working, legs whirring in almost-silence. Jenny felt her bladder contract, her heart seeming to stall in her chest like a faulty starter engine.
Beside her, Winter abruptly sank to the floor, her face frozen. Jenny crouched beside her.
"What's going on? What are these things? Winter, tell me!"
Winter shook her head. "They're the children."
"The children? How do you mean? The children to what?"
But Winter simply shook her head and would say no more. Ahead of them, the carpet of scuttling black creatures parted, leaving a narrow channel that led into the centre of the lounge. The spiders on the stairs behind surged forward, pincers working, legs raised as if in anger. Jenny gave a small scream, disgust and terror welling up like poison. She grabbed Winter's arm and together the two girls were herded into the centre of the room.
"What are they doing?" whispered Jenny. "Winter, talk to me."
Winter was gazing fixedly at an entryway on the far side of the lounge. Beyond it a set of stairs led down into the darkness of the basement. "We can't go in there," she said, her voice low and urgent and terrified. "We can't. If they take us in there we'll die."
But that seemed to be where the spiders were intent on taking them, the channel opening up like a parting river before their shuffling feet. Jenny paused, wondering what would happen if she simply tried to run across the carpet of spiders. How long would she last? How long before they swarmed up her legs and started biting? How much poison could she take before she fell, before they flowed like water over her arms and chest and face? A mental image of herself wrapped up in a cocoon of webbing flashed through her mind and she shuddered.
"We have to run," said Winter. "No choice, no choice, we have to."
"They'll swarm all over us," said Jenny.
"Better than what's down there," said Winter, her voice trembling. "Ready?"
"No," said Jenny. She was not ready, not at all. If Winter ran at that precise moment she was not sure she would have the strength to do the same. "Not ready at all."
Winter was breathing heavily, sucking in air and spitting it out again. Her grip was tight on Jenny's hand, and the spiders seemed to sense their readiness. A ripple ran through the ranks, legs and pincers twitching. Jenny could hear a squealing, keening noise, so high-pitched as to be almost inaudible.
"Go," said Winter, and then she screamed it, "GO!" and the both of them were running, Winter in the lead, almost dragging Jenny with a death-grip on her wrist. Jenny felt something crunch underneath her heel, and cold slime coated her bare foot. A shudder ran through her and she squealed in disgust, but didn't stop. There was no stopping now. Spiders were bowled aside, screaming in protest while their fellows pressed in. Jenny felt something disturbingly heavy seize on the knee of her pyjamas and reached down to slap away a scrabbling, hairy body. Another one hit her leg halfway up the calf and swarmed up to her hip before she could hit it. Its body broke with a sound like a cracking egg and it fell, leaving pincers embedded in the fabric.
"Through here!" shouted Winter, and then they were through into the lobby. Jenny felt a stinging, stabbing sensation on her heel and kicked convulsively, sending a hairy body flying into the wall. There was another on her thigh; she felt its legs scrabbling a second before the pincers pierced her skin. She howled and crushed it flat, red-black goo leaking between her fingers.
The lobby was mercifully clear, but even as they crossed Jenny could hear the rustling, creeping noise of the spiders spilling in behind them. They slammed into the main doors and each seized a handle, pulling with all their strength.
The doors didn't move. Not an inch. Jenny looked at Winter, who was still tugging at the door, spitting and cursing, yanking at the handle to no avail.
"It's not going to open," she said, surprising herself with how even her voice was. Winter ignored her. "Winter!" yelled Jenny. She grabbed her friends arm and dragged her away from the door. The flood of arachnid bodies had spread out across the floor like a pool of water, and there was nowhere else for them to go except along the far wall. There was a door at the far end, their only chance. Jenny reached for it, found the handle, fumbled, found it again and pulled.
Nothing. The door was bolted.
The two girls huddled up against it, backs to the wall, as the spiders clustered at their feet, hissing and squealing. Jenny felt sick inside: it was so unfair. They had tried, they had run, they had done everything that they could. It wasn't supposed to go like this. This wasn't... couldn't be the way she was going to die. She shut her eyes. Winter was gripping her arm so hard it hurt.
A moment passed, and then another. Jenny cracked her eyes open again. The spiders were still massed around their feet. They weren't attacking.
"Why..." she began, but just as soon as the word was out of her mouth she heard something that made her fall silent. From the door to the lounge through which they'd come drifted a faint scrabbling, dragging noise. It was loud. Too loud to be one of the spiders that surrounded them.
"It's her," breathed Winter, her voice thin and high. "It's the mother."
Jenny saw it. At first only a thin section of the monster was visible through the doorway, and she had an impression of thick, brawny legs, a low body, so black and shiny it looked wet. And then the thing, the horrid thing was hauling itself through the doorway one leg at a time. Jenny was appalled by it, horrified, and yet she couldn't look away.
It was at least four foot tall, the body the size of a child, rounded and covered in heavy black hairs that looked sharp as razor wire. The pincers were long and curved, the legs the thickness of arms. It moved with an arthritic slowness, not the fast scuttle of its many children. Jenny saw the eight eyes staring from its blunt head like little search lamps. They were red and deep and empty as old mineshafts.
Winter's grip tightened still further, and Jenny realised that this must have been what killed Christopher. With that knowledge she looked again and saw that the pincers were coated in a tacky layer of dried blood, and scraps of tissue hung like foul decorations from the stiff hairs of its front legs. It was so close, so close and all Jenny felt was a numb sadness that this was how her life would end.
The mother paused, seemed to consider the two girls with its many eyes. Its head tilted this way and that. Jenny wondered if it could smell them. If it could sense the hot blood that pumped around their bodies. And then it started forward again, and Jenny shut her eyes, shrinking back against the door.
From outside, beyond the big old front doors of the hotel came a roaring screeching clamour of noise.
"I think I know where we are," said Winter, though she sounded far from certain. "This way, come on."
They followed the balcony around and descended a creaking set of stairs, brushing aside spindly stands of cobweb as they did so. The door at the bottom opened out into the lounge, a well of darkness populated with the dim shapes of bulky armchairs and spindle-legged coffee tables. As they emerged from the stairs, Jenny felt around for the light switch.
"Yes," said Winter, suddenly. "I recognise this, I'm sure of it. We're just on the other side of the lobby. All we have to do is go through that door and then--" Winter stopped talking. She stopped talking because Jenny had found the light switch and flicked it on, bathing the room in a tired yellow glow.
Revealed by the light, awfully and unnaturally still, were hundreds and hundreds of spiders, bristling from every surface, each one the size of a chicken's egg.
"Bloody hell," murmured Jenny.
And then from behind them on the staircase she heard a rustling, quivering sound. A sound like bacon sizzling in a pan a hundred times over. She turned. So did Winter. Flowing down the staircase behind them was a black and gleaming tide. Their bodies dripped over each riser, jaws working, legs whirring in almost-silence. Jenny felt her bladder contract, her heart seeming to stall in her chest like a faulty starter engine.
Beside her, Winter abruptly sank to the floor, her face frozen. Jenny crouched beside her.
"What's going on? What are these things? Winter, tell me!"
Winter shook her head. "They're the children."
"The children? How do you mean? The children to what?"
But Winter simply shook her head and would say no more. Ahead of them, the carpet of scuttling black creatures parted, leaving a narrow channel that led into the centre of the lounge. The spiders on the stairs behind surged forward, pincers working, legs raised as if in anger. Jenny gave a small scream, disgust and terror welling up like poison. She grabbed Winter's arm and together the two girls were herded into the centre of the room.
"What are they doing?" whispered Jenny. "Winter, talk to me."
Winter was gazing fixedly at an entryway on the far side of the lounge. Beyond it a set of stairs led down into the darkness of the basement. "We can't go in there," she said, her voice low and urgent and terrified. "We can't. If they take us in there we'll die."
But that seemed to be where the spiders were intent on taking them, the channel opening up like a parting river before their shuffling feet. Jenny paused, wondering what would happen if she simply tried to run across the carpet of spiders. How long would she last? How long before they swarmed up her legs and started biting? How much poison could she take before she fell, before they flowed like water over her arms and chest and face? A mental image of herself wrapped up in a cocoon of webbing flashed through her mind and she shuddered.
"We have to run," said Winter. "No choice, no choice, we have to."
"They'll swarm all over us," said Jenny.
"Better than what's down there," said Winter, her voice trembling. "Ready?"
"No," said Jenny. She was not ready, not at all. If Winter ran at that precise moment she was not sure she would have the strength to do the same. "Not ready at all."
Winter was breathing heavily, sucking in air and spitting it out again. Her grip was tight on Jenny's hand, and the spiders seemed to sense their readiness. A ripple ran through the ranks, legs and pincers twitching. Jenny could hear a squealing, keening noise, so high-pitched as to be almost inaudible.
"Go," said Winter, and then she screamed it, "GO!" and the both of them were running, Winter in the lead, almost dragging Jenny with a death-grip on her wrist. Jenny felt something crunch underneath her heel, and cold slime coated her bare foot. A shudder ran through her and she squealed in disgust, but didn't stop. There was no stopping now. Spiders were bowled aside, screaming in protest while their fellows pressed in. Jenny felt something disturbingly heavy seize on the knee of her pyjamas and reached down to slap away a scrabbling, hairy body. Another one hit her leg halfway up the calf and swarmed up to her hip before she could hit it. Its body broke with a sound like a cracking egg and it fell, leaving pincers embedded in the fabric.
"Through here!" shouted Winter, and then they were through into the lobby. Jenny felt a stinging, stabbing sensation on her heel and kicked convulsively, sending a hairy body flying into the wall. There was another on her thigh; she felt its legs scrabbling a second before the pincers pierced her skin. She howled and crushed it flat, red-black goo leaking between her fingers.
The lobby was mercifully clear, but even as they crossed Jenny could hear the rustling, creeping noise of the spiders spilling in behind them. They slammed into the main doors and each seized a handle, pulling with all their strength.
The doors didn't move. Not an inch. Jenny looked at Winter, who was still tugging at the door, spitting and cursing, yanking at the handle to no avail.
"It's not going to open," she said, surprising herself with how even her voice was. Winter ignored her. "Winter!" yelled Jenny. She grabbed her friends arm and dragged her away from the door. The flood of arachnid bodies had spread out across the floor like a pool of water, and there was nowhere else for them to go except along the far wall. There was a door at the far end, their only chance. Jenny reached for it, found the handle, fumbled, found it again and pulled.
Nothing. The door was bolted.
The two girls huddled up against it, backs to the wall, as the spiders clustered at their feet, hissing and squealing. Jenny felt sick inside: it was so unfair. They had tried, they had run, they had done everything that they could. It wasn't supposed to go like this. This wasn't... couldn't be the way she was going to die. She shut her eyes. Winter was gripping her arm so hard it hurt.
A moment passed, and then another. Jenny cracked her eyes open again. The spiders were still massed around their feet. They weren't attacking.
"Why..." she began, but just as soon as the word was out of her mouth she heard something that made her fall silent. From the door to the lounge through which they'd come drifted a faint scrabbling, dragging noise. It was loud. Too loud to be one of the spiders that surrounded them.
"It's her," breathed Winter, her voice thin and high. "It's the mother."
Jenny saw it. At first only a thin section of the monster was visible through the doorway, and she had an impression of thick, brawny legs, a low body, so black and shiny it looked wet. And then the thing, the horrid thing was hauling itself through the doorway one leg at a time. Jenny was appalled by it, horrified, and yet she couldn't look away.
It was at least four foot tall, the body the size of a child, rounded and covered in heavy black hairs that looked sharp as razor wire. The pincers were long and curved, the legs the thickness of arms. It moved with an arthritic slowness, not the fast scuttle of its many children. Jenny saw the eight eyes staring from its blunt head like little search lamps. They were red and deep and empty as old mineshafts.
Winter's grip tightened still further, and Jenny realised that this must have been what killed Christopher. With that knowledge she looked again and saw that the pincers were coated in a tacky layer of dried blood, and scraps of tissue hung like foul decorations from the stiff hairs of its front legs. It was so close, so close and all Jenny felt was a numb sadness that this was how her life would end.
The mother paused, seemed to consider the two girls with its many eyes. Its head tilted this way and that. Jenny wondered if it could smell them. If it could sense the hot blood that pumped around their bodies. And then it started forward again, and Jenny shut her eyes, shrinking back against the door.
From outside, beyond the big old front doors of the hotel came a roaring screeching clamour of noise.
Monday, 9 July 2012
Chapter Nineteen
Mark dropped to his knees with a grunt and plunged his hands into the undergrowth, feeling around frantically for the keys. It was dark beyond seeing, and weeds and creepers tangled his arms, their thorns leaving shallow scratches on his hands.
"Come on," he muttered. "Come on, come on."
He was sure he could hear Garmondy now, the old man wheezing as he picked and fought his way through the vegetation. How good was his eyesight? Was he even now taking aim at Mark's unprotected back?
Mark's hand brushed metal, and he snatched at it. A second later he was holding the keys, his ankle protesting painfully as he levered himself to his feet. There was a sharp clack as he mashed the button and the locks sprang open, and the sidelight of the car in front of him flashed brightly, throwing long orange shadows through the trees.
He dived towards it, found the door handle, clumsy in haste, yanked the door open and twisted, tumbling inside. With a slam the door was shut and he stabbed once, twice, three times at the ignition before he found it and the engine roared to life. The lights flared on, and the heater started blowing air, warm and car-scented. At once Mark felt calmer, safer, more in control, as if in the presence of an old and loyal and capable friend.
Looking up, he saw something move in the rear view mirror. It was Garmondy, illuminated with a pale wash of red by the brake lights. There he stood, feet planted, shoulders squared, the gun raised and pointed. Mark saw his mouth move.
"You just step on out of there, boy."
"No," said Mark. "I don't think I will."
With practiced ease he slammed the little Peugeot into reverse and stamped the accelerator to the floor. The wheels spun, screeching. Mud spattered the sides of the vehicle, and Mark was jolted violently as it kicked into motion, shuddering over roots and rocks. He heard Garmondy scream, and ducked down as far as he could, keeping a one-handed grip on the wheel. There was the booming explosion of the gun once more, and cubes of glass rained down on the back of Mark's neck.
Then the car hit Garmondy, and his scream was cut short. Mark didn't see him as he was thrown up and rolled limply all the way over the roof. He felt him though.
And then the Peugeot was lurching back onto the road, rumbling heavily on its two flat tyres. Mark only just managed to straighten it in time, having to fight the pull of the wheel. He slid it into drive, and, grim-faced, set off for the old hotel.
"Come on," he muttered. "Come on, come on."
He was sure he could hear Garmondy now, the old man wheezing as he picked and fought his way through the vegetation. How good was his eyesight? Was he even now taking aim at Mark's unprotected back?
Mark's hand brushed metal, and he snatched at it. A second later he was holding the keys, his ankle protesting painfully as he levered himself to his feet. There was a sharp clack as he mashed the button and the locks sprang open, and the sidelight of the car in front of him flashed brightly, throwing long orange shadows through the trees.
He dived towards it, found the door handle, clumsy in haste, yanked the door open and twisted, tumbling inside. With a slam the door was shut and he stabbed once, twice, three times at the ignition before he found it and the engine roared to life. The lights flared on, and the heater started blowing air, warm and car-scented. At once Mark felt calmer, safer, more in control, as if in the presence of an old and loyal and capable friend.
Looking up, he saw something move in the rear view mirror. It was Garmondy, illuminated with a pale wash of red by the brake lights. There he stood, feet planted, shoulders squared, the gun raised and pointed. Mark saw his mouth move.
"You just step on out of there, boy."
"No," said Mark. "I don't think I will."
With practiced ease he slammed the little Peugeot into reverse and stamped the accelerator to the floor. The wheels spun, screeching. Mud spattered the sides of the vehicle, and Mark was jolted violently as it kicked into motion, shuddering over roots and rocks. He heard Garmondy scream, and ducked down as far as he could, keeping a one-handed grip on the wheel. There was the booming explosion of the gun once more, and cubes of glass rained down on the back of Mark's neck.
Then the car hit Garmondy, and his scream was cut short. Mark didn't see him as he was thrown up and rolled limply all the way over the roof. He felt him though.
And then the Peugeot was lurching back onto the road, rumbling heavily on its two flat tyres. Mark only just managed to straighten it in time, having to fight the pull of the wheel. He slid it into drive, and, grim-faced, set off for the old hotel.
Monday, 2 July 2012
Chapter Eighteen
When the dumbwaiter stopped and Winter popped the doors open she found herself in a large kitchen. From racks on the walls and ceiling hung down an assortment of pots, pans, knives and other utensils, and there were a series of big wooden tables spaced about the room, scarred by many years of use. A black cast-iron stove with a dozen big burners was set into the opposite wall. It was empty of life, human or arachnid.
Practically crying with relief, Winter tumbled out of the tiny box and set about rubbing some life back into her limbs. When she could feel her fingers again she quickly ripped off the gag that covered her mouth. She tried to do the same with the chains around her wrists, but there was no way to unlock the cuffs. For the moment at least she was stuck with an unwanted set of heavy metal bracelets.
There was a noise from elsewhere in the hotel: a creaking sound that on any other night Winter would have simply written off as the pipes or the settling of the ancient walls. Tonight though it made her freeze, stomach filling up with icy water. This was not the time to hang around, she decided. She wanted to get away from the hotel, far away, a million miles away, and never look back on her memories of it, never think about what had happened again.
The first thing she did was to arm herself with a little metal meat tenderiser she found hanging from one of the racks. It was solid as a hammer, and felt reassuringly weighty in her hands. Next she crept to the nearest door, cracked it open and peered out into the corridor. It was vacant, deserted, barely lit. She peered both ways, hoping for some clue as to which direction might take her to an exit. There was none: each corridor faded into identical darkness.
At random, Winter turned left down the corridor. She turned a corner, pushed through a set of double doors and took a narrow passageway that branched off to the right. She came to another door, this one secured with heavy iron bolts. She shot them quickly, grunting with the effort it took, and pulled the door open, then screamed and leapt back as something large and heavy tumbled through to land at her feet. The meat tenderiser tumbled from her grasp, landing with a thud on the floor.
It took a second for Winter to realise what it was she was seeing. The thing that had fallen through the door was Jenny, who now lay quite still on the floor, twisted at an awkward angle in the narrow corridor.
"Jenny!" she cried, kneeling down beside her friend. Was she dead? For a moment Winter was sure that she was, and the sick, keening horror of it threatened to overwhelm her. First Christopher and now Jenny: it was too awful to be true. And yet there Jenny lay, still as death, her face the pale white of china. But her chest was moving, Winter saw after a second, and her eyes were flickering behind their lids. She was merely unconscious, probably drugged.
If Jenny was here, then surely Mark couldn't be far away. Winter's first instinct was to shout for him, but she stopped herself, fearful that someone other than a friend would hear her. Instead she bent over Jenny, shaking her shoulders, tapping her cheeks, trying quietly to rouse her.
"Jenny!" she hissed. "Jen, come on. Don't leave me all alone here." And to her surprise Jenny's eyes flickered open, drifting around in confusion.
"Winter?" she groaned blearily. "What's going on? Where am I?"
She was so relieved to hear another friendly voice that Winter could not resist giving Jenny a quick hug. "We're at the hotel," she whispered. "You remember? We had to stop because of the accident. But there's something wrong. The man, the hotel keeper: he drugged us. There was something in the water. He drugged us and now he wants to... to take us down to the basement. I've been down there. He tied me..." She held up her still-chained wrists to show Jenny, who looked at them in bemusement.
Winter realised that she was babbling, tears springing to her eyes, her voice climbing higher and higher. She stopped, took a deep breath. Now was not the time to lose control. Now was not the time to think about the basement. Now was the time to get away from here, to escape while they had the chance.
"Is Mark here?" she asked, relieved to hear that her voice had returned to something like normal.
Jenny shook her head, propping herself up on her elbows. She rubbed at her eyes to clear away the sleep. "Nope," she said. "Stupid kid's wandered off somewhere. Me and him are going to have words when we get out of here. Where's Chris?"
"He's dead," said Winter. "Garmondy killed him." As she said it she felt for a moment as though she was outside of her body, hearing those strange, hollow words as though someone else had said them, as though they were a mischievous echo and not her real voice at all. Jenny paled.
"Dead? Christ, Winter, I..." She tailed off, clearly unable to think of anything to say. Her mouth hung open and her eyes searched Winter's frantically, as if hunting for some hint that this was a joke or a lie or a dream. "Dead?" she said again, eventually, her voice small.
Winter nodded. She could feel the tears again, but she refused to give in to them. "We have to go, have to get out."
"Yeah," said Jenny, nodding dully. "Yes, of course." She tried to climb to her feet, but stumbled, still dozy from the effects of the drug. Winter took an arm and looped it over her shoulders, supporting Jenny as best she could. She thought back to when Garmondy had walked her through the confusing maze of hotel corridors, showing her the way to the room.
"Come on," she said. "I think it's this way."
As they hobbled together down the corridor, Winter was sure she heard the faint scuttle of things moving in the walls.
Practically crying with relief, Winter tumbled out of the tiny box and set about rubbing some life back into her limbs. When she could feel her fingers again she quickly ripped off the gag that covered her mouth. She tried to do the same with the chains around her wrists, but there was no way to unlock the cuffs. For the moment at least she was stuck with an unwanted set of heavy metal bracelets.
There was a noise from elsewhere in the hotel: a creaking sound that on any other night Winter would have simply written off as the pipes or the settling of the ancient walls. Tonight though it made her freeze, stomach filling up with icy water. This was not the time to hang around, she decided. She wanted to get away from the hotel, far away, a million miles away, and never look back on her memories of it, never think about what had happened again.
The first thing she did was to arm herself with a little metal meat tenderiser she found hanging from one of the racks. It was solid as a hammer, and felt reassuringly weighty in her hands. Next she crept to the nearest door, cracked it open and peered out into the corridor. It was vacant, deserted, barely lit. She peered both ways, hoping for some clue as to which direction might take her to an exit. There was none: each corridor faded into identical darkness.
At random, Winter turned left down the corridor. She turned a corner, pushed through a set of double doors and took a narrow passageway that branched off to the right. She came to another door, this one secured with heavy iron bolts. She shot them quickly, grunting with the effort it took, and pulled the door open, then screamed and leapt back as something large and heavy tumbled through to land at her feet. The meat tenderiser tumbled from her grasp, landing with a thud on the floor.
It took a second for Winter to realise what it was she was seeing. The thing that had fallen through the door was Jenny, who now lay quite still on the floor, twisted at an awkward angle in the narrow corridor.
"Jenny!" she cried, kneeling down beside her friend. Was she dead? For a moment Winter was sure that she was, and the sick, keening horror of it threatened to overwhelm her. First Christopher and now Jenny: it was too awful to be true. And yet there Jenny lay, still as death, her face the pale white of china. But her chest was moving, Winter saw after a second, and her eyes were flickering behind their lids. She was merely unconscious, probably drugged.
If Jenny was here, then surely Mark couldn't be far away. Winter's first instinct was to shout for him, but she stopped herself, fearful that someone other than a friend would hear her. Instead she bent over Jenny, shaking her shoulders, tapping her cheeks, trying quietly to rouse her.
"Jenny!" she hissed. "Jen, come on. Don't leave me all alone here." And to her surprise Jenny's eyes flickered open, drifting around in confusion.
"Winter?" she groaned blearily. "What's going on? Where am I?"
She was so relieved to hear another friendly voice that Winter could not resist giving Jenny a quick hug. "We're at the hotel," she whispered. "You remember? We had to stop because of the accident. But there's something wrong. The man, the hotel keeper: he drugged us. There was something in the water. He drugged us and now he wants to... to take us down to the basement. I've been down there. He tied me..." She held up her still-chained wrists to show Jenny, who looked at them in bemusement.
Winter realised that she was babbling, tears springing to her eyes, her voice climbing higher and higher. She stopped, took a deep breath. Now was not the time to lose control. Now was not the time to think about the basement. Now was the time to get away from here, to escape while they had the chance.
"Is Mark here?" she asked, relieved to hear that her voice had returned to something like normal.
Jenny shook her head, propping herself up on her elbows. She rubbed at her eyes to clear away the sleep. "Nope," she said. "Stupid kid's wandered off somewhere. Me and him are going to have words when we get out of here. Where's Chris?"
"He's dead," said Winter. "Garmondy killed him." As she said it she felt for a moment as though she was outside of her body, hearing those strange, hollow words as though someone else had said them, as though they were a mischievous echo and not her real voice at all. Jenny paled.
"Dead? Christ, Winter, I..." She tailed off, clearly unable to think of anything to say. Her mouth hung open and her eyes searched Winter's frantically, as if hunting for some hint that this was a joke or a lie or a dream. "Dead?" she said again, eventually, her voice small.
Winter nodded. She could feel the tears again, but she refused to give in to them. "We have to go, have to get out."
"Yeah," said Jenny, nodding dully. "Yes, of course." She tried to climb to her feet, but stumbled, still dozy from the effects of the drug. Winter took an arm and looped it over her shoulders, supporting Jenny as best she could. She thought back to when Garmondy had walked her through the confusing maze of hotel corridors, showing her the way to the room.
"Come on," she said. "I think it's this way."
As they hobbled together down the corridor, Winter was sure she heard the faint scuttle of things moving in the walls.
Monday, 25 June 2012
Chapter Seventeen
Mark was pleased with the progress he was making. Halfway down the drive he was already starting to think ahead. He would return to the car, get it out of the bushes and drive it on the rims for as long as he could. Perhaps he would be able to get to civilisation before it scraped itself to death on the uneven road. If he didn't get that far he would have to walk the rest of the way. Walk to the nearest phone and call the police, then call home to let them know what was happening.
Then, once that was done, he could get a nice cold drink and an ice pack for his ankle. It was really throbbing now, each step sending a nauseating wave of pain up his leg like an electric shock.
He hobbled on, eyes fixed on what little of the path he could see in the moonlight. Ahead of him, emerging tree-framed from the darkness, the road hove into view. He stopped to rest for a moment, leaning against the ancient rotted wood fence.
His thoughts drifted to Jenny again. And that man, Garmondy. Worry had been replaced by anger now that he was free from immediate danger. How dare he drug them! How many other people had been victims of the old man without even knowing it? And what had he done with Winter and Christopher? What would he have done to him and Jenny if Mark hadn't been fortunate enough not drink the water?
Mark was so involved with his thoughts that when the fence post against which he was leaning exploded in a shower of hot wooden slivers, he was too shocked to do much more than stand there and blink. He heard the sound of the gunshot a second later, as though it had taken a while to reach his brain. And right after that he heard the sound of a gun being cocked again. That noise was what finally got him moving.
As the second shot cracked through the night Mark dropped to his belly. He didn't see it hit, since he was already crawling as fast as he could down the drive. He had no idea where the shots were coming from, whether he was in cover or out of it. Every nerve in his body was on fire, expecting any second to feel the sickening impact of a bullet in his leg, his shoulder, his head, his back.
"Stay where you are, boy," called a voice. It was a voice which Mark recognised, although it sounded much stronger now than it had done when last he heard it. Garmondy. Garmondy was out there in the dark, pointing a gun at him, trying to kill him.
And there he'd been thinking he couldn't like the old man any less.
Mark stopped crawling, froze where he lay in the dirt. His nose to the ground he could smell wet dirt, and the faint tang of gunpowder, sharp as vinegar on the night air. He strained his ears, trying to locate Garmondy by sound alone.
"Up you get now, boy. Come on and show yourself."
Mark frowned. "Show yourself"? Why was Garmondy asking him to stand? As it was he had him exactly where he wanted, lying in the dirt, defenceless. Perhaps he planned on marching Mark back to the hotel at gunpoint, like a prisoner on his way to execution. Or perhaps he didn't know exactly where Mark was.
If he was wrong, it could be the last mistake he would ever make. But Mark was damned if he was going to stand up and show himself to a man with a shotgun. With infinite slowness, wincing at every rustle of every leaf and every snap of every twig, Mark began to crawl again.
"Come on out, boy. I know you're there." Garmondy's voice had a note of uncertainty in it now, and Mark smiled. Telling someone you knew where they were was a sure giveaway that you, in fact, had no idea where they were. He risked a glance up out of the ditch in which he crawled, and saw a flashlight beam probing the night with its yellow glow. Garmondy was close, no more than a hundred metres away, but he was moving in the wrong direction. Mark watched as the torchlight searched the bushes on the opposite side of the path.
Now was his chance. The man was old, weak, looking in the wrong direction. Mark could outrun him, lose him in the dark. All he had to do was get back to the car and then he'd be away. But he had to go now, this moment, before Garmondy changed his mind and started searching the other side of the narrow lane.
Now or never, thought Mark, and leapt to his feet.
He made it all of ten paces before the pain in his twisted ankle announced itself. In his excitement he had completely forgotten his injury, the pain overwhelmed by the wave of adrenaline that had accompanied the near-miss gunshot. Now that pain returned, vengeful and hungry for blood. Fire surged up Mark's leg and he collapsed back to the ground with an agonised squawk. In a second he was up again, favouring his good leg, hobbling, limping, dragging himself forward.
"I see you, lad," shouted Garmondy, and a second later there was another deafening explosion. Mark didn't see where it hit; he was too focussed on covering ground, putting distance between himself and the murderous lunatic that stalked him. He arrived at the road. Behind him Garmondy was shouting again, coming on as fast as his aged legs would move him.
Why doesn't he shoot again? Thought Mark. He could be out of shells, but there was no way to be sure of that. This wasn't a movie, where the shot was bound to hit him in the shoulder or the leg. This was real life, and it was all too easy to picture his head exploding outward like that wooden post, blood and bone spraying across the muddy ground.
Mark limped on. Up ahead he could see the gap the car had torn in the bushes as it left the road. It wasn't far, and he risked a glance behind him to see Garmondy just arriving at the point where the dirt track met the road. The man paused there and raised a heavy-looking wooden shotgun. Mark threw himself to the side, scraping his shoulder and side against the road as he landed. The gunshot boomed through the air, and he was sure that he heard something whistle by overhead.
With a swift roll, Mark was at the side of the road, clawing his way through the undergrowth, hauling himself halfway to his feet once more. There was the car ahead of him, sitting comfortably at angle as though it had been there forever. Mark plunged a hand into his pocket, found the keys, wrenched them free...
And dropped them.
Then, once that was done, he could get a nice cold drink and an ice pack for his ankle. It was really throbbing now, each step sending a nauseating wave of pain up his leg like an electric shock.
He hobbled on, eyes fixed on what little of the path he could see in the moonlight. Ahead of him, emerging tree-framed from the darkness, the road hove into view. He stopped to rest for a moment, leaning against the ancient rotted wood fence.
His thoughts drifted to Jenny again. And that man, Garmondy. Worry had been replaced by anger now that he was free from immediate danger. How dare he drug them! How many other people had been victims of the old man without even knowing it? And what had he done with Winter and Christopher? What would he have done to him and Jenny if Mark hadn't been fortunate enough not drink the water?
Mark was so involved with his thoughts that when the fence post against which he was leaning exploded in a shower of hot wooden slivers, he was too shocked to do much more than stand there and blink. He heard the sound of the gunshot a second later, as though it had taken a while to reach his brain. And right after that he heard the sound of a gun being cocked again. That noise was what finally got him moving.
As the second shot cracked through the night Mark dropped to his belly. He didn't see it hit, since he was already crawling as fast as he could down the drive. He had no idea where the shots were coming from, whether he was in cover or out of it. Every nerve in his body was on fire, expecting any second to feel the sickening impact of a bullet in his leg, his shoulder, his head, his back.
"Stay where you are, boy," called a voice. It was a voice which Mark recognised, although it sounded much stronger now than it had done when last he heard it. Garmondy. Garmondy was out there in the dark, pointing a gun at him, trying to kill him.
And there he'd been thinking he couldn't like the old man any less.
Mark stopped crawling, froze where he lay in the dirt. His nose to the ground he could smell wet dirt, and the faint tang of gunpowder, sharp as vinegar on the night air. He strained his ears, trying to locate Garmondy by sound alone.
"Up you get now, boy. Come on and show yourself."
Mark frowned. "Show yourself"? Why was Garmondy asking him to stand? As it was he had him exactly where he wanted, lying in the dirt, defenceless. Perhaps he planned on marching Mark back to the hotel at gunpoint, like a prisoner on his way to execution. Or perhaps he didn't know exactly where Mark was.
If he was wrong, it could be the last mistake he would ever make. But Mark was damned if he was going to stand up and show himself to a man with a shotgun. With infinite slowness, wincing at every rustle of every leaf and every snap of every twig, Mark began to crawl again.
"Come on out, boy. I know you're there." Garmondy's voice had a note of uncertainty in it now, and Mark smiled. Telling someone you knew where they were was a sure giveaway that you, in fact, had no idea where they were. He risked a glance up out of the ditch in which he crawled, and saw a flashlight beam probing the night with its yellow glow. Garmondy was close, no more than a hundred metres away, but he was moving in the wrong direction. Mark watched as the torchlight searched the bushes on the opposite side of the path.
Now was his chance. The man was old, weak, looking in the wrong direction. Mark could outrun him, lose him in the dark. All he had to do was get back to the car and then he'd be away. But he had to go now, this moment, before Garmondy changed his mind and started searching the other side of the narrow lane.
Now or never, thought Mark, and leapt to his feet.
He made it all of ten paces before the pain in his twisted ankle announced itself. In his excitement he had completely forgotten his injury, the pain overwhelmed by the wave of adrenaline that had accompanied the near-miss gunshot. Now that pain returned, vengeful and hungry for blood. Fire surged up Mark's leg and he collapsed back to the ground with an agonised squawk. In a second he was up again, favouring his good leg, hobbling, limping, dragging himself forward.
"I see you, lad," shouted Garmondy, and a second later there was another deafening explosion. Mark didn't see where it hit; he was too focussed on covering ground, putting distance between himself and the murderous lunatic that stalked him. He arrived at the road. Behind him Garmondy was shouting again, coming on as fast as his aged legs would move him.
Why doesn't he shoot again? Thought Mark. He could be out of shells, but there was no way to be sure of that. This wasn't a movie, where the shot was bound to hit him in the shoulder or the leg. This was real life, and it was all too easy to picture his head exploding outward like that wooden post, blood and bone spraying across the muddy ground.
Mark limped on. Up ahead he could see the gap the car had torn in the bushes as it left the road. It wasn't far, and he risked a glance behind him to see Garmondy just arriving at the point where the dirt track met the road. The man paused there and raised a heavy-looking wooden shotgun. Mark threw himself to the side, scraping his shoulder and side against the road as he landed. The gunshot boomed through the air, and he was sure that he heard something whistle by overhead.
With a swift roll, Mark was at the side of the road, clawing his way through the undergrowth, hauling himself halfway to his feet once more. There was the car ahead of him, sitting comfortably at angle as though it had been there forever. Mark plunged a hand into his pocket, found the keys, wrenched them free...
And dropped them.
Monday, 18 June 2012
Chapter Sixteen
Winter couldn't be sure, but she thought that the mother was asleep. There had been no movement and no sound from the dark hole in the wall for a good ten minutes now, and most of the little spiders had disappeared back into the cracks and crevices from which they had emerged. Everything was peaceful, and but for the few remaining bloodstains on the concrete, she could have been in an ordinary basement.
Biting down on the gag, Winter pulled at the restraints again. Dull pain sawed at her wrists like a rusty blade, but she ignored it, thinking of Christopher. Poor, sweet Christopher, who had died without even knowing what was happening to him. Who had been torn apart and eaten. She pictured his face in sleep, calm and unworried. He always looked different without his glasses: younger and less troubled.
She pulled at the chains. Harder. Gritting her teeth against the pain. She thought of Christopher at work, the intent look of concentration. When he kissed her, the way his breath felt and tasted on her lips. She felt a trickle of blood making its way hotly down her arm.
Above her head, something creaked. Dust settled into her hair like snowflakes.
She pulled harder, a small noise of exertion escaping her lips. On the other side of the basement she saw the stirring of tiny creatures. Something scuttling along the wall, wriggly and quick. She ignored it. It was nothing. She had to get out, had to get away, whatever the cost. Anything was better than what waited for her here.
There came the creaking noise of metal in concrete again, and another shower of dust. This time she felt a definite movement. She yanked at her chains again, harder than ever, throwing her whole body into it. Her shoulders twisted painfully, pulling tight as ratchets, and then suddenly something above her popped free. Dust and small bits of wall cascaded down her back, and she toppled forward onto the floor, scraping both knees raw through her pyjamas.
Her arms, numb and lifeless fell to her sides, trailing long chains behind them. She saw blood there, and rubbed raw skin, and hissed in pain as pins and needles erupted from her shoulders to the tips of her fingers. Unsteadily Winter stood. Across the basement she could see many spiders moving now, crawling from cracks and holes, massing before the big dark cave where their mother slept. They were chittering frantically, sounding the alarm, waving spindly legs in the air. She didn't have long. If she was going to escape, now was the time.
She ran to the door through which Garmondy had left, heart thudding rapidly. She was clumsy in haste, and felt bizarrely guilty as though she was trying to sneak out of school. The penalty for being caught this time didn't bear thinking about. She grabbed the handle with both numb hands and frantically tried to open it. It was locked. Thoroughly and completely locked.
Almost sobbing, Winter stumbled across the room to the other door, but on opening it she saw only a tiny cupboard lined with tools and spare bits of wood, wheels and cylinders. No exit, not even a window.
She slammed the door and glanced towards the hole in the wall again. There were more spiders than before, and the chittering and squeaking was reaching a fever pitch. Dimly in the dark, something stirred, massive pincers yawing, massive legs unfolding.
Fear coursing through her now, Winter cast around desperately for an exit. There were no windows, no other doors. Nothing but that great black hole in the wall, big and deathly as a mouth. Nothing except...
In the corner there were a pair of tiny doors, set at about waist height from the floor. Beside them was a set of brass and ivory buttons, gleaming dully in the low light of the basement. Winter ran to the doors and flung them open. On the other side was a tiny box of a space, dusty and cobwebby, but mercifully free of spiders.
It was a dumbwaiter. Winter had only ever seen them in films before, but she recognised it immediately. It was her only chance, and it filled her with dread. What if it wouldn't work? What if she crammed herself into that tiny space only to become stuck between floors? The little spiders would find her, come squeezing into that tiny dark space to eat her alive.
But she had no choice.
Winter threw herself into the tiny elevator, torso first, drawing her legs and arms after her. She fit, just, elbows and bloody knees wedged uncomfortably against the walls of the compartment. But she fit. She felt the whole thing sag with her weight, dropping a good few inches as the little used cable above stretched. Another fear added itself to the list: what if it snapped and she fell to her death?
No time to think about that now. On the other side of the basement something huge and black was emerging from the hole in the wall. White, filmy eyes gleamed at her like incandescent bulbs. She saw pincers moving, and a sound that could have been a scream filled her ears. Inhuman, terrifying, shooting through her like nails on a blackboard. As one mass the little beasties swept around the feet of their mother and across the floor towards her.
Reaching out with her one free arm, she felt for the buttons, found one, and stabbed down at it. It clicked, and somewhere distant in the house a bell rang once. Winter felt herself moving slowly, jerkily upwards, the basement and its horrible company disappearing from view little by little until there was only a tiny sliver of space left over.
In the last moment, the very last moment, a hairy bundle of legs forced its way into the gap. Winter screamed around the gag, recoiling as much as she could in the confines of the dumbwaiter. The elevator didn't stop, and a second later the legs were caught and--with a crack and a squelch--sliced cleanly away.
Winter was plunged into darkness, rising steadily through the depths of the hotel.
Biting down on the gag, Winter pulled at the restraints again. Dull pain sawed at her wrists like a rusty blade, but she ignored it, thinking of Christopher. Poor, sweet Christopher, who had died without even knowing what was happening to him. Who had been torn apart and eaten. She pictured his face in sleep, calm and unworried. He always looked different without his glasses: younger and less troubled.
She pulled at the chains. Harder. Gritting her teeth against the pain. She thought of Christopher at work, the intent look of concentration. When he kissed her, the way his breath felt and tasted on her lips. She felt a trickle of blood making its way hotly down her arm.
Above her head, something creaked. Dust settled into her hair like snowflakes.
She pulled harder, a small noise of exertion escaping her lips. On the other side of the basement she saw the stirring of tiny creatures. Something scuttling along the wall, wriggly and quick. She ignored it. It was nothing. She had to get out, had to get away, whatever the cost. Anything was better than what waited for her here.
There came the creaking noise of metal in concrete again, and another shower of dust. This time she felt a definite movement. She yanked at her chains again, harder than ever, throwing her whole body into it. Her shoulders twisted painfully, pulling tight as ratchets, and then suddenly something above her popped free. Dust and small bits of wall cascaded down her back, and she toppled forward onto the floor, scraping both knees raw through her pyjamas.
Her arms, numb and lifeless fell to her sides, trailing long chains behind them. She saw blood there, and rubbed raw skin, and hissed in pain as pins and needles erupted from her shoulders to the tips of her fingers. Unsteadily Winter stood. Across the basement she could see many spiders moving now, crawling from cracks and holes, massing before the big dark cave where their mother slept. They were chittering frantically, sounding the alarm, waving spindly legs in the air. She didn't have long. If she was going to escape, now was the time.
She ran to the door through which Garmondy had left, heart thudding rapidly. She was clumsy in haste, and felt bizarrely guilty as though she was trying to sneak out of school. The penalty for being caught this time didn't bear thinking about. She grabbed the handle with both numb hands and frantically tried to open it. It was locked. Thoroughly and completely locked.
Almost sobbing, Winter stumbled across the room to the other door, but on opening it she saw only a tiny cupboard lined with tools and spare bits of wood, wheels and cylinders. No exit, not even a window.
She slammed the door and glanced towards the hole in the wall again. There were more spiders than before, and the chittering and squeaking was reaching a fever pitch. Dimly in the dark, something stirred, massive pincers yawing, massive legs unfolding.
Fear coursing through her now, Winter cast around desperately for an exit. There were no windows, no other doors. Nothing but that great black hole in the wall, big and deathly as a mouth. Nothing except...
In the corner there were a pair of tiny doors, set at about waist height from the floor. Beside them was a set of brass and ivory buttons, gleaming dully in the low light of the basement. Winter ran to the doors and flung them open. On the other side was a tiny box of a space, dusty and cobwebby, but mercifully free of spiders.
It was a dumbwaiter. Winter had only ever seen them in films before, but she recognised it immediately. It was her only chance, and it filled her with dread. What if it wouldn't work? What if she crammed herself into that tiny space only to become stuck between floors? The little spiders would find her, come squeezing into that tiny dark space to eat her alive.
But she had no choice.
Winter threw herself into the tiny elevator, torso first, drawing her legs and arms after her. She fit, just, elbows and bloody knees wedged uncomfortably against the walls of the compartment. But she fit. She felt the whole thing sag with her weight, dropping a good few inches as the little used cable above stretched. Another fear added itself to the list: what if it snapped and she fell to her death?
No time to think about that now. On the other side of the basement something huge and black was emerging from the hole in the wall. White, filmy eyes gleamed at her like incandescent bulbs. She saw pincers moving, and a sound that could have been a scream filled her ears. Inhuman, terrifying, shooting through her like nails on a blackboard. As one mass the little beasties swept around the feet of their mother and across the floor towards her.
Reaching out with her one free arm, she felt for the buttons, found one, and stabbed down at it. It clicked, and somewhere distant in the house a bell rang once. Winter felt herself moving slowly, jerkily upwards, the basement and its horrible company disappearing from view little by little until there was only a tiny sliver of space left over.
In the last moment, the very last moment, a hairy bundle of legs forced its way into the gap. Winter screamed around the gag, recoiling as much as she could in the confines of the dumbwaiter. The elevator didn't stop, and a second later the legs were caught and--with a crack and a squelch--sliced cleanly away.
Winter was plunged into darkness, rising steadily through the depths of the hotel.
Monday, 11 June 2012
Chapter Fifteen
Once, a few years ago, Jenny had had her drink spiked while at a club in her hometown. Nothing bad had come of it. Mark had been there to help her home and put her to bed, and they'd reported the incident in the morning. The only affect had been the deep and drugged sleep into which she fell that night as a result. Waking up in the morning had been like climbing from a deep, deep hole of sleep, every moment of wakefulness a struggle, every blink turning into another long nap.
That was how Jenny felt when she woke up in the hotel room. At first she just lay there, limbs too heavy to move, staring at the ceiling. She slept and woke again, slept and woke. When she had stumbled into bed last night she hadn't realised just how tired she was.
She rolled onto her side, and her arm flopped across the bed, expecting to feel the solid, reassuring bulk of Mark lying there beside her. There was nothing. He wasn't there.
What was more, the window was wide open and a cold breeze was invading the room. Sitting up (the weight on her shoulders felt like a backpack full of rocks) Jenny noticed that the heavy wardrobe had been moved from the corner of the room to directly in front of the door. Something was definitely up.
Unease fought with tiredness in her sleepy brain. Her body begged her to lie down, to return to leaden sleep, to wait until morning to think and move and do. But her brain was screaming to wake up, to pay attention, to work out what was wrong.
Jenny forced herself to her feet and started walking, pacing up and down the room. She rubbed at her eyes, slapped herself lightly about the face, took great whooping gasps of air. The dizziness of sleep wouldn't shift.
"Right," she muttered to herself, "nothing else for it."
She went into the bathroom, ran the sink full of cold water, took a breath and plunged her face down into it. When she emerged, she felt sufficiently refreshed to swear loudly for several minutes and flail around for a towel.
Sleepiness banished, Jenny got dressed and pulled on her shoes. She always felt less vulnerable when fully clothed. She took a drink of water from the tap, stretched, and rewound events in her head.
Last night she and Mark had gone to bed. Now, Mark was gone and there was a bloody great wardrobe in front of the door. Mark must have moved it, but why? And more importantly, how? He couldn't have done it from outside the room, and so he must have wedged the thing against the door while still inside the room. Which meant that he must have left through the window.
Jenny went to the window and peered down at the ground. To her it seemed like a pretty serious drop, but she had no doubt that Mark could have survived it. Besides, he wasn't there now, so he must have been able to walk perfectly well after making the jump.
"That's the how," she said to herself, quietly proud of her detective skills. "Now what about the why?"
Sweeping up the giant panda from the bed, she sat down and thought. The only sensible reason to wedge something up against the door was to keep someone out of the room. But who? The only other people in the hotel--as far as she knew --were Christopher and Winter, and the old man. None of them could ever do any harm to her or Mark. So... it must have been someone from outside. A wandering maniac. A serial killer, just like in the scary stories.
So, a knife-wielding maniac had come knocking on their door, and Mark had blocked it off with the wardrobe before jumping out the window to go fetch help. Simple enough.
Having reached her conclusion, Jenny got up and started shifting the wardrobe. There was no way she was going out the window, and there was no way she was going to stay trapped in the room all night with only a silent, stuffed panda for company. Serial killer or not, she was firstly going to go and pee, and secondly going to make good her escape.
Perhaps if she hadn't been quite so sleep-addled, Jenny would have thought twice about leaving the room. Perhaps, if there hadn't been quite so much tranquiliser in her system she would even have felt some fear at her situation. As it was, she was quite happy with her plan, and saw no way it could possibly go wrong.
Pulling the wardrobe yielded no result, and so after some experimentation she hit on the method of rocking it from side to side, gaining a few precious inches of movement with each rock. When there was enough space between it and the door, Jenny inserted herself into the gap and pushed with all her strength. The wardrobe slid clear.
"Yes!" She grinned and gave herself a brief, solo round of applause. She stumbled out into the corridor and headed down towards the door at the far end, muzzily trying to remember the route to the nearest exit.
Something scuttled across her path. Something too big to be a cockroach and too small to be a cat. She froze where she stood, her brain jumping immediately to thoughts of rats and mice. Jenny did not like rats and mice. Feeling her way clumsily along the wall she managed to locate the light switch. Her gaze fixed on the place where she'd last seen the scuttling thing, she flicked it.
Dim light flooded the corridor, and Jenny saw what it was that had crossed her. At the same moment the thing took off, motoring along on its many legs, coming right at her. Jenny leapt back, doing a weird dance as the fist-sized spider changed direction, zigzagging past her legs before worming its way into a hole in the wall and disappearing from sight.
"Ugh," said Jenny. "Bugs. Hate bugs."
Her brain was fogging over again, black mist creeping in, tiredness dragging down her limbs like concrete blocks. She shuffled on, and when she found the door at the end of the corridor locked she decided to sit down and rest for a minute. The fright she'd had with the outsize spider was already forgotten, and she sank down gratefully to the floor, head lolling forward as the drugs in her system tugged shut her eyes.
"Sleep first," she mumbled. "Escape later." And with that she was unconscious once more.
From the hole in the skirting board, eight tiny eyes watched her doze.
That was how Jenny felt when she woke up in the hotel room. At first she just lay there, limbs too heavy to move, staring at the ceiling. She slept and woke again, slept and woke. When she had stumbled into bed last night she hadn't realised just how tired she was.
She rolled onto her side, and her arm flopped across the bed, expecting to feel the solid, reassuring bulk of Mark lying there beside her. There was nothing. He wasn't there.
What was more, the window was wide open and a cold breeze was invading the room. Sitting up (the weight on her shoulders felt like a backpack full of rocks) Jenny noticed that the heavy wardrobe had been moved from the corner of the room to directly in front of the door. Something was definitely up.
Unease fought with tiredness in her sleepy brain. Her body begged her to lie down, to return to leaden sleep, to wait until morning to think and move and do. But her brain was screaming to wake up, to pay attention, to work out what was wrong.
Jenny forced herself to her feet and started walking, pacing up and down the room. She rubbed at her eyes, slapped herself lightly about the face, took great whooping gasps of air. The dizziness of sleep wouldn't shift.
"Right," she muttered to herself, "nothing else for it."
She went into the bathroom, ran the sink full of cold water, took a breath and plunged her face down into it. When she emerged, she felt sufficiently refreshed to swear loudly for several minutes and flail around for a towel.
Sleepiness banished, Jenny got dressed and pulled on her shoes. She always felt less vulnerable when fully clothed. She took a drink of water from the tap, stretched, and rewound events in her head.
Last night she and Mark had gone to bed. Now, Mark was gone and there was a bloody great wardrobe in front of the door. Mark must have moved it, but why? And more importantly, how? He couldn't have done it from outside the room, and so he must have wedged the thing against the door while still inside the room. Which meant that he must have left through the window.
Jenny went to the window and peered down at the ground. To her it seemed like a pretty serious drop, but she had no doubt that Mark could have survived it. Besides, he wasn't there now, so he must have been able to walk perfectly well after making the jump.
"That's the how," she said to herself, quietly proud of her detective skills. "Now what about the why?"
Sweeping up the giant panda from the bed, she sat down and thought. The only sensible reason to wedge something up against the door was to keep someone out of the room. But who? The only other people in the hotel--as far as she knew --were Christopher and Winter, and the old man. None of them could ever do any harm to her or Mark. So... it must have been someone from outside. A wandering maniac. A serial killer, just like in the scary stories.
So, a knife-wielding maniac had come knocking on their door, and Mark had blocked it off with the wardrobe before jumping out the window to go fetch help. Simple enough.
Having reached her conclusion, Jenny got up and started shifting the wardrobe. There was no way she was going out the window, and there was no way she was going to stay trapped in the room all night with only a silent, stuffed panda for company. Serial killer or not, she was firstly going to go and pee, and secondly going to make good her escape.
Perhaps if she hadn't been quite so sleep-addled, Jenny would have thought twice about leaving the room. Perhaps, if there hadn't been quite so much tranquiliser in her system she would even have felt some fear at her situation. As it was, she was quite happy with her plan, and saw no way it could possibly go wrong.
Pulling the wardrobe yielded no result, and so after some experimentation she hit on the method of rocking it from side to side, gaining a few precious inches of movement with each rock. When there was enough space between it and the door, Jenny inserted herself into the gap and pushed with all her strength. The wardrobe slid clear.
"Yes!" She grinned and gave herself a brief, solo round of applause. She stumbled out into the corridor and headed down towards the door at the far end, muzzily trying to remember the route to the nearest exit.
Something scuttled across her path. Something too big to be a cockroach and too small to be a cat. She froze where she stood, her brain jumping immediately to thoughts of rats and mice. Jenny did not like rats and mice. Feeling her way clumsily along the wall she managed to locate the light switch. Her gaze fixed on the place where she'd last seen the scuttling thing, she flicked it.
Dim light flooded the corridor, and Jenny saw what it was that had crossed her. At the same moment the thing took off, motoring along on its many legs, coming right at her. Jenny leapt back, doing a weird dance as the fist-sized spider changed direction, zigzagging past her legs before worming its way into a hole in the wall and disappearing from sight.
"Ugh," said Jenny. "Bugs. Hate bugs."
Her brain was fogging over again, black mist creeping in, tiredness dragging down her limbs like concrete blocks. She shuffled on, and when she found the door at the end of the corridor locked she decided to sit down and rest for a minute. The fright she'd had with the outsize spider was already forgotten, and she sank down gratefully to the floor, head lolling forward as the drugs in her system tugged shut her eyes.
"Sleep first," she mumbled. "Escape later." And with that she was unconscious once more.
From the hole in the skirting board, eight tiny eyes watched her doze.
Monday, 4 June 2012
Chapter Fourteen
More chittering, squealing spider-talk. Winter wished she could block her ears as well as shutting her eyes, because the noise was every bit as horrible as the sight of the creeping mass of eight-legged things. Unfortunately her arms remained pinioned over her head, long-since gone numb from the restricted blood flow. A high pitched volley of chattering was followed by a deeper one: the children talking to the mother and the mother responding.
Garmondy, standing just to the side of where Winter was bound to the wall, twitched reflexively and hurried forward at the sound, an awkward approximation of the spider-tongue spilling from his mouth as he did so. Winter saw him kneel before the hole in the wall, lowering his head like a peasant before his queen. The little spiders that blanketed the floor parted before him, and seeing him there surrounded by such monstrous things Winter was reminded of how old he was, and how frail. How could he be responsible for something so evil as this?
The queen spoke again, and then Garmondy, bowing even lower as he did so. Though it was hard for Winter to read emotion from the insectile half-language that was being spoken, she thought that he seemed scared, perhaps even contrite.
The conversation concluded, and Garmondy backed away from the hole in the wall, still stooped in supplication, taking infinite care not to stand on any of the spiders that milled about his feet. Once he was clear of them, he stood, crossed the basement and disappeared through a narrow wooden door on the other side. When he re-emerged from the door he was wearing a heavy brown duffel coat and holding a shotgun in his hands.
Adrenaline shot through Winter in a sudden, coppery burst. She threw herself from the wall, tugging at the chains that held her there, only succeeding in cutting her wrists still further. Meeting Garmondy's eyes, she shook her head frantically, trying to appeal with her eyes. But he strode right past her, paying her so little attention that she might as well have been another item of furniture.
"It seems," he said over his shoulder, "that one of your friends has escaped. Her children saw him, limping through the woods. Off to get help, no doubt."
Winter's mind raced. Mark! Mark must have woken up, realised what was going on, and found a way out of the hotel. She felt a fountainhead of triumph in her chest. If anyone could save her and Jenny it was Mark. He would make it, she knew he would. And he would fetch the police and they would come and when they saw what was here they would burn this place to the ground.
Almost as quickly as it had come the optimism faded, cold, oily fear taking its place. Why was Mark limping? Was he injured already? What if he didn't make it? What if Garmondy caught up with him and shot him? Then what would happen to her? If Christopher could be killed then so could Mark, and so could she. She thought of her friends, her family. All of their families. Four sets of parents waiting anxiously for news, and never knowing what had happened, never understand how and where and why their children had disappeared.
Garmondy checked the gun over, slotting bullets into it from a pocket in his coat. Every metallic noise he coaxed from the device made Winter wince as if he'd hit her. Then, evidently satisfied with his weapon, Garmondy strode towards another door in the opposite wall.
"I'll be back soon, my dear. Her children will keep you company while I hunt." He paused. "Don't try to escape while I'm gone," he said, his voice suddenly more earnest, almost caring. "Please believe me, you would not get away, and I would hate for you to die before your time."
And then he was gone, and Winter was alone in the basement. Alone with the spiders, helpless as a fly in a web.
Garmondy, standing just to the side of where Winter was bound to the wall, twitched reflexively and hurried forward at the sound, an awkward approximation of the spider-tongue spilling from his mouth as he did so. Winter saw him kneel before the hole in the wall, lowering his head like a peasant before his queen. The little spiders that blanketed the floor parted before him, and seeing him there surrounded by such monstrous things Winter was reminded of how old he was, and how frail. How could he be responsible for something so evil as this?
The queen spoke again, and then Garmondy, bowing even lower as he did so. Though it was hard for Winter to read emotion from the insectile half-language that was being spoken, she thought that he seemed scared, perhaps even contrite.
The conversation concluded, and Garmondy backed away from the hole in the wall, still stooped in supplication, taking infinite care not to stand on any of the spiders that milled about his feet. Once he was clear of them, he stood, crossed the basement and disappeared through a narrow wooden door on the other side. When he re-emerged from the door he was wearing a heavy brown duffel coat and holding a shotgun in his hands.
Adrenaline shot through Winter in a sudden, coppery burst. She threw herself from the wall, tugging at the chains that held her there, only succeeding in cutting her wrists still further. Meeting Garmondy's eyes, she shook her head frantically, trying to appeal with her eyes. But he strode right past her, paying her so little attention that she might as well have been another item of furniture.
"It seems," he said over his shoulder, "that one of your friends has escaped. Her children saw him, limping through the woods. Off to get help, no doubt."
Winter's mind raced. Mark! Mark must have woken up, realised what was going on, and found a way out of the hotel. She felt a fountainhead of triumph in her chest. If anyone could save her and Jenny it was Mark. He would make it, she knew he would. And he would fetch the police and they would come and when they saw what was here they would burn this place to the ground.
Almost as quickly as it had come the optimism faded, cold, oily fear taking its place. Why was Mark limping? Was he injured already? What if he didn't make it? What if Garmondy caught up with him and shot him? Then what would happen to her? If Christopher could be killed then so could Mark, and so could she. She thought of her friends, her family. All of their families. Four sets of parents waiting anxiously for news, and never knowing what had happened, never understand how and where and why their children had disappeared.
Garmondy checked the gun over, slotting bullets into it from a pocket in his coat. Every metallic noise he coaxed from the device made Winter wince as if he'd hit her. Then, evidently satisfied with his weapon, Garmondy strode towards another door in the opposite wall.
"I'll be back soon, my dear. Her children will keep you company while I hunt." He paused. "Don't try to escape while I'm gone," he said, his voice suddenly more earnest, almost caring. "Please believe me, you would not get away, and I would hate for you to die before your time."
And then he was gone, and Winter was alone in the basement. Alone with the spiders, helpless as a fly in a web.
Monday, 28 May 2012
Chapter Thirteen
Five minutes after the sounds of tearing flesh finally stopped, Winter opened her eyes. The basement was still, almost peaceful. The creature had retreated back into its hole in the wall, and the trolley to which Christopher had been tied now lay on its side. Thick, bright blood was everywhere, smearing the walls and floor, coating the steel struts of the trolley. There were parts too, white bits of flesh and bone, misshapen and horrible. Among the scraps Winter discerned a curiously shaped lump, and a moment later realised that it was Christopher's hand. She groaned and shut her eyes, a hot blush of sickness rising up her throat.
"I really am very sorry," said Garmondy, quietly. "Believe me, my dear, I didn't chose this anymore than you."
Even if it were not for the gag, Winter was beyond talking. She groaned again. A tear slipped down the side of her nose and fell to the floor. In her head she heard Christopher's last few screams over again, almost drowned by the chittering, squealing noises of the thing that had torn him apart. And she had been just here, right here not more than ten paces away, unable to do a thing to help. And now Christopher, everything that made up the person she had known and loved and spend her years with, all of it lay in bloody pieces on the concrete of this horrible place.
There was another flurry of squeaking, insectile noises from across the basement, and Winter tensed, not wanting to see nor hear the monstrous thing from the hole ever again.
"Don't worry," said Garmondy. "She is full, for the moment. Her children shall finish what remains."
And despite herself, Winter cracked open her eyes. The wall on the other side of the basement was moving--at least, that's what it looked like. There was a slight distortion to it, a rippling as if it were seen through a heat haze. It took her a moment for her to realise what she was seeing.
There, feasting on the blood and scraps the creature had left were a thousand tiny version of it. The little beasts tumbled over one another, gathering in a rustling mass wherever a particularly juicy piece of meat was found. They were tiny compared to the thing that had killed Christopher, but still big, each one the size of Winter's closed fist. As they moved and ate they made a noise, like the crumpling of a thousand cigarette papers. With wide eyes Winter saw the glint of their sticky jaws, their many eyes, their legs flowing and tangling and wriggling.
Winter had always hated spiders.
"I really am very sorry," said Garmondy, quietly. "Believe me, my dear, I didn't chose this anymore than you."
Even if it were not for the gag, Winter was beyond talking. She groaned again. A tear slipped down the side of her nose and fell to the floor. In her head she heard Christopher's last few screams over again, almost drowned by the chittering, squealing noises of the thing that had torn him apart. And she had been just here, right here not more than ten paces away, unable to do a thing to help. And now Christopher, everything that made up the person she had known and loved and spend her years with, all of it lay in bloody pieces on the concrete of this horrible place.
There was another flurry of squeaking, insectile noises from across the basement, and Winter tensed, not wanting to see nor hear the monstrous thing from the hole ever again.
"Don't worry," said Garmondy. "She is full, for the moment. Her children shall finish what remains."
And despite herself, Winter cracked open her eyes. The wall on the other side of the basement was moving--at least, that's what it looked like. There was a slight distortion to it, a rippling as if it were seen through a heat haze. It took her a moment for her to realise what she was seeing.
There, feasting on the blood and scraps the creature had left were a thousand tiny version of it. The little beasts tumbled over one another, gathering in a rustling mass wherever a particularly juicy piece of meat was found. They were tiny compared to the thing that had killed Christopher, but still big, each one the size of Winter's closed fist. As they moved and ate they made a noise, like the crumpling of a thousand cigarette papers. With wide eyes Winter saw the glint of their sticky jaws, their many eyes, their legs flowing and tangling and wriggling.
Winter had always hated spiders.
Monday, 21 May 2012
Chapter Twelve
Mark was starting to worry now. A good fifteen minutes had passed since he discovered that he and Jenny were locked in, and nobody--not Christopher, nor Winter, nor the old man--had shown up. Jenny remained in her semi-comatose state, not moving, barely drawing breath, her skin cold and clammy as that of a corpse.
He sat on the bed beside her and tried to come up with an explanation, but nothing he came up with fit. There was no way that Winter and Christopher would have left the room of their own accord, at least not without waking him and letting him know. Therefore something must have forced them to leave, perhaps in a hurry since they left behind the coats and shoes. And why would Garmondy lock his hotel guests in at night? That was just wrong.
And then Mark remembered the noises he'd heard just a few moments before he'd discovered that Jenny would not wake. The footsteps, the thumps and dragging noises. He tried to think back and remember as much detail as possible.
For a start it had been only one set of footsteps. One person. And where had they gone? To one of the hotel rooms further down the corridor. Could it have been Christopher and Winter's room? Mark thought that one over for almost a minute, before concluding that yes, it probably was. The pair would never have left the door unlocked, not after Winter was so creeped out by the old man, and yet the door had been open when Mark went to find them.
Which meant that someone--that same someone who had come wandering up the corridor so late at night--had opened their door.
Why hadn't either of them woken up when whoever it was opened the door to their room? The locks and handles on these doors were big clunky things, and they made plenty of noise: enough to wake even the deepest of sleepers. Had Christopher and Winter already left the room by that stage? Was the noise he heard in fact one of them returning to the room for some unknown reason before sloping off again to who-knows-where? Or...
Or were they, in fact, unconscious instead of asleep. Slowly Mark looked down at Jenny. Something had happened to her and now she would not wake. What if the same illness had afflicted Christopher and Winter? What if...
And then he had it. He understood. It was so obvious and so startling that he couldn't believe he had failed to see it before. The hot chocolate they had all drunk before bed! All except himself, who had instead decided to stick to Jenny's drink from the park. The old man, Garmondy, must have put something in the powder sachets, or in the kettle, or in the water. And then, when everyone was soundly unconscious, he could come creeping in at night to do whatever perverted things he liked.
A shiver ran through Mark, and at the same moment another piece of the puzzle suddenly fell into place. The other sound he'd heard, the rumbling noise that he had thought might be a wheel moving over boards. It had been the battered old hotel trolley he's seen stashed in a nook on the way up to the room. The old man had wheeled it along to the room, loaded the sleeping bodies of his friends on board and then wheeled it away again.
At any other time Mark might have thought twice before acting, might have written off his fears as paranoia. But not tonight. There was something about this place, about the whole situation that was deeply and upsettingly wrong. The nails on the road; the shock of the accident; the sheer emptiness of the hotel and the creepiness of its owner; the fact that Jenny, his girlfriend Jenny, lay beside him so deeply asleep that he could have mistaken it for death.
He was scared. He had to get away. Get help.
Leaving Jenny for the moment, Mark got up from the bed and went down the corridor once more. Action suited him. When he was busy doing something there was no chance for the worry to set it, no chance for the fear to gnaw at his gut like rats on a wire. He arrived at the locked door at the end of the corridor and, without preamble, tried to kick it down.
He was expecting the door to be as flimsy as it looked, but each kick that he landed barely sent a tremble through it. It was heavy, solid as a rock, rooted into the frame with big metal bolts. After half a dozen heavy kicks that caused more pain to him than to the door he gave up and hobbled back to the room.
The doors, then, were out. That left the window. Opening it as far as he could he stuck his head out and peered down at the ground. They were one storey up in the air: a drop of about twice his height, less if he lowered himself down from the ledge before falling. He could manage it, he told himself. Of course he could manage it.
Before he went, he shut and locked the hotel room door, and then heaved the heaviest item he could find--the big wooden wardrobe--against it. Satisfied, he made sure that Jenny was lying safely on her side, and covered her over with the blankets.
"I'll be back," he said. "Soon. I promise," he said to her, feeling vaguely silly for talking to someone so deeply unconscious. He kissed her, and for a moment felt a powerful urge just to crawl back into bed and pretend that everything that was happening around his was nothing more than a dream. He ignored it, stood, and went to the window.
Climbing out was the easy part. There was a wooden ledge just below the sill of the window that Mark was able to set his feet on as he slid the rest of his body through the gap. He took a firm grip on the edge and lowered himself down to the extend of his arms, shoulder joints screaming the whole while. He tried to peer down past his body to judge how far he had to fall, but it was impossible.
Well, he decided, nothing else for it. Time to go.
And he dropped. His landing on the scrubby grass below was almost perfect. Almost, but not quite. He felt his ankle turn underneath him, and white, blaring pain made itself known in his calf. He tumbled to the side, grunting in pain, and smacked into the ground, the smell of dirt and leaves entering his nostrils.
Mark lay for a long time on the ground, holding his ankle, breathing deep, waiting for the pain to subside. When it was down to an insistent throb, he hauled himself to his feet and set off hobbling through the woods.
He sat on the bed beside her and tried to come up with an explanation, but nothing he came up with fit. There was no way that Winter and Christopher would have left the room of their own accord, at least not without waking him and letting him know. Therefore something must have forced them to leave, perhaps in a hurry since they left behind the coats and shoes. And why would Garmondy lock his hotel guests in at night? That was just wrong.
And then Mark remembered the noises he'd heard just a few moments before he'd discovered that Jenny would not wake. The footsteps, the thumps and dragging noises. He tried to think back and remember as much detail as possible.
For a start it had been only one set of footsteps. One person. And where had they gone? To one of the hotel rooms further down the corridor. Could it have been Christopher and Winter's room? Mark thought that one over for almost a minute, before concluding that yes, it probably was. The pair would never have left the door unlocked, not after Winter was so creeped out by the old man, and yet the door had been open when Mark went to find them.
Which meant that someone--that same someone who had come wandering up the corridor so late at night--had opened their door.
Why hadn't either of them woken up when whoever it was opened the door to their room? The locks and handles on these doors were big clunky things, and they made plenty of noise: enough to wake even the deepest of sleepers. Had Christopher and Winter already left the room by that stage? Was the noise he heard in fact one of them returning to the room for some unknown reason before sloping off again to who-knows-where? Or...
Or were they, in fact, unconscious instead of asleep. Slowly Mark looked down at Jenny. Something had happened to her and now she would not wake. What if the same illness had afflicted Christopher and Winter? What if...
And then he had it. He understood. It was so obvious and so startling that he couldn't believe he had failed to see it before. The hot chocolate they had all drunk before bed! All except himself, who had instead decided to stick to Jenny's drink from the park. The old man, Garmondy, must have put something in the powder sachets, or in the kettle, or in the water. And then, when everyone was soundly unconscious, he could come creeping in at night to do whatever perverted things he liked.
A shiver ran through Mark, and at the same moment another piece of the puzzle suddenly fell into place. The other sound he'd heard, the rumbling noise that he had thought might be a wheel moving over boards. It had been the battered old hotel trolley he's seen stashed in a nook on the way up to the room. The old man had wheeled it along to the room, loaded the sleeping bodies of his friends on board and then wheeled it away again.
At any other time Mark might have thought twice before acting, might have written off his fears as paranoia. But not tonight. There was something about this place, about the whole situation that was deeply and upsettingly wrong. The nails on the road; the shock of the accident; the sheer emptiness of the hotel and the creepiness of its owner; the fact that Jenny, his girlfriend Jenny, lay beside him so deeply asleep that he could have mistaken it for death.
He was scared. He had to get away. Get help.
Leaving Jenny for the moment, Mark got up from the bed and went down the corridor once more. Action suited him. When he was busy doing something there was no chance for the worry to set it, no chance for the fear to gnaw at his gut like rats on a wire. He arrived at the locked door at the end of the corridor and, without preamble, tried to kick it down.
He was expecting the door to be as flimsy as it looked, but each kick that he landed barely sent a tremble through it. It was heavy, solid as a rock, rooted into the frame with big metal bolts. After half a dozen heavy kicks that caused more pain to him than to the door he gave up and hobbled back to the room.
The doors, then, were out. That left the window. Opening it as far as he could he stuck his head out and peered down at the ground. They were one storey up in the air: a drop of about twice his height, less if he lowered himself down from the ledge before falling. He could manage it, he told himself. Of course he could manage it.
Before he went, he shut and locked the hotel room door, and then heaved the heaviest item he could find--the big wooden wardrobe--against it. Satisfied, he made sure that Jenny was lying safely on her side, and covered her over with the blankets.
"I'll be back," he said. "Soon. I promise," he said to her, feeling vaguely silly for talking to someone so deeply unconscious. He kissed her, and for a moment felt a powerful urge just to crawl back into bed and pretend that everything that was happening around his was nothing more than a dream. He ignored it, stood, and went to the window.
Climbing out was the easy part. There was a wooden ledge just below the sill of the window that Mark was able to set his feet on as he slid the rest of his body through the gap. He took a firm grip on the edge and lowered himself down to the extend of his arms, shoulder joints screaming the whole while. He tried to peer down past his body to judge how far he had to fall, but it was impossible.
Well, he decided, nothing else for it. Time to go.
And he dropped. His landing on the scrubby grass below was almost perfect. Almost, but not quite. He felt his ankle turn underneath him, and white, blaring pain made itself known in his calf. He tumbled to the side, grunting in pain, and smacked into the ground, the smell of dirt and leaves entering his nostrils.
Mark lay for a long time on the ground, holding his ankle, breathing deep, waiting for the pain to subside. When it was down to an insistent throb, he hauled himself to his feet and set off hobbling through the woods.
Monday, 14 May 2012
Chapter Eleven
Winter searched frantically around the room for some way out, some means of salvation. There was none, but she noticed something then that she hadn't seen before. In the far wall, almost directly opposite her, was a large jagged hole. It was the size of a small door and so dark that it seemed to suck in what little light there was in the basement. The sight of it filled Winter's insides with dread, slick and seething.
Christopher was waking up. His limbs stirred feebly against the weight of sleep and his eyes flickered open. His mouth formed awkward half-syllables. Winter recognised the confusion.
"Chris," she yelled. "Chris, it's me! Chris, can you hear me?"
He was so close, barely a few steps away, and yet they could not reach one another. He raised his head and peered drunkenly about for her. "Winter?"
"Yes!" Even though she knew she couldn't reach him she pulled away from the wall, straining against the chains. Somehow she felt as though if she could just touch him, if the two of them could be in this situation together then it would all end up okay. "Chris, it's the man. Garmondy. He's tied me up. He's here..."
And then Garmondy was before her, fingers at her mouth, stuffing a wad of salty fabric in between her teeth. A strip of tape followed, gagging her completely, and she could only watch and make muted sounds of distress as the old man returned to the trolley to which her boyfriend was tied and wheeled it towards the hole in the wall.
"Winter," said Christopher again, less thickly this time. He was waking up. The sound of his voice worked at Winter's heart like a pin vice.
"Hush now," said Garmondy to Christopher, almost gently. The trolley was directly before the hole now, Christopher laid out like a sacrifice on an altar. The old man took half a dozen steps back and then opened his mouth. What came out was no language that winter recognised: a hideous volley of clicks and squeals that sounded as though they couldn't possibly be formed by a human tongue.
A moment later, something from within the hole answered him. Winter heard a rustling, as if of many things moving. A skittering and many tiny squeals.
Garmondy came and stood beside her. "I'd close my eyes if I were you my dear," he said conversationally. "It's not often a pretty sight."
Winter didn't close her eyes. Her gaze was fixed on Christopher, who struggled now against his bonds, teeth clenched, muscles tensed. Then beyond him she saw movement within the darkness of the hole, and a second later the creature within emerged into the basement.
Even with the gag clamping her mouth firmly shut, Winter couldn't keep from screaming.
Christopher was waking up. His limbs stirred feebly against the weight of sleep and his eyes flickered open. His mouth formed awkward half-syllables. Winter recognised the confusion.
"Chris," she yelled. "Chris, it's me! Chris, can you hear me?"
He was so close, barely a few steps away, and yet they could not reach one another. He raised his head and peered drunkenly about for her. "Winter?"
"Yes!" Even though she knew she couldn't reach him she pulled away from the wall, straining against the chains. Somehow she felt as though if she could just touch him, if the two of them could be in this situation together then it would all end up okay. "Chris, it's the man. Garmondy. He's tied me up. He's here..."
And then Garmondy was before her, fingers at her mouth, stuffing a wad of salty fabric in between her teeth. A strip of tape followed, gagging her completely, and she could only watch and make muted sounds of distress as the old man returned to the trolley to which her boyfriend was tied and wheeled it towards the hole in the wall.
"Winter," said Christopher again, less thickly this time. He was waking up. The sound of his voice worked at Winter's heart like a pin vice.
"Hush now," said Garmondy to Christopher, almost gently. The trolley was directly before the hole now, Christopher laid out like a sacrifice on an altar. The old man took half a dozen steps back and then opened his mouth. What came out was no language that winter recognised: a hideous volley of clicks and squeals that sounded as though they couldn't possibly be formed by a human tongue.
A moment later, something from within the hole answered him. Winter heard a rustling, as if of many things moving. A skittering and many tiny squeals.
Garmondy came and stood beside her. "I'd close my eyes if I were you my dear," he said conversationally. "It's not often a pretty sight."
Winter didn't close her eyes. Her gaze was fixed on Christopher, who struggled now against his bonds, teeth clenched, muscles tensed. Then beyond him she saw movement within the darkness of the hole, and a second later the creature within emerged into the basement.
Even with the gag clamping her mouth firmly shut, Winter couldn't keep from screaming.
Monday, 7 May 2012
Chapter Ten
"Who?" said Winter. "Who must be fed?"
The old man seemed not to hear her. He gazed for a moment more at Winter's face and then took an abrupt step back, dusting his hands. "Well, needs must. I am but an elderly man, and there's little I can do to contest with the likes of Her."
He turned and went to the wheeled trolley where Christopher lay. Winter couldn't see quite what it was he was doing until he moved around to the other side. That was when she realised with horror that he was tying Christopher down.
"You drugged us, didn't you?" she cried, the realisation coming suddenly, out of the back of her brain. The hot chocolate they had drunk together in the hotel room had tasted off somehow, metallic. And straight afterwards hadn't she felt so unnaturally tired. "Something in the water, right? Oh, God."
The man ignored her, bent over and engaged in his task. Winter struggled against her bonds, but they refused to give, digging painfully into her wrists. The man wielded the green syringe gun again, applying it to Christopher's inner arm. Winter heard the pneumatic hiss of the plunger striking home.
"She likes her meals live," said Garmondy over his shoulder, accenting the statement with an apologetic shrug. "But she is, like me, getting on in years. It's been a while since she's been able to manage for herself."
"Let him go!" screamed Winter. "You let him go, right now!"
Garmondy shook his head, sadly. "We're quite beyond that, my dear. Quite, quite beyond that."
The old man seemed not to hear her. He gazed for a moment more at Winter's face and then took an abrupt step back, dusting his hands. "Well, needs must. I am but an elderly man, and there's little I can do to contest with the likes of Her."
He turned and went to the wheeled trolley where Christopher lay. Winter couldn't see quite what it was he was doing until he moved around to the other side. That was when she realised with horror that he was tying Christopher down.
"You drugged us, didn't you?" she cried, the realisation coming suddenly, out of the back of her brain. The hot chocolate they had drunk together in the hotel room had tasted off somehow, metallic. And straight afterwards hadn't she felt so unnaturally tired. "Something in the water, right? Oh, God."
The man ignored her, bent over and engaged in his task. Winter struggled against her bonds, but they refused to give, digging painfully into her wrists. The man wielded the green syringe gun again, applying it to Christopher's inner arm. Winter heard the pneumatic hiss of the plunger striking home.
"She likes her meals live," said Garmondy over his shoulder, accenting the statement with an apologetic shrug. "But she is, like me, getting on in years. It's been a while since she's been able to manage for herself."
"Let him go!" screamed Winter. "You let him go, right now!"
Garmondy shook his head, sadly. "We're quite beyond that, my dear. Quite, quite beyond that."
Monday, 30 April 2012
Chapter Nine
When winter woke it was to a sharp, stabbing pain in the crook of her arm. She gasped and opened her eyes, but the scene that swam before her was fuzzy and muted, lights and noises seeming to come from very far away, the other side of a filmy curtain.
"Whu..." she murmured, finding that her lips wouldn't quite work the way she wanted them to. She was standing, she realised. No, not standing, though she was vertical. Her feet were dragging on the ground, her arms pinioned somewhere above her. Her back was against a solid, cold, concrete wall.
"Just relax, dear," said a voice that sounded impossibly weak and distant. "It will take a few minutes for the effects to wear off."
Effects? thought Winter. What effects was this mysterious voice talking about. The last thing she could remember was falling asleep in the hotel room, Christopher beside her. She had been so very tired, after everything that had happened. She's fallen asleep almost the moment her head hit the pillow.
"Chris?" she mumbled.
"Your friend is close by," said the voice. "Though he cannot answer you just now." As her hearing began to resolve itself the voice was becoming increasingly familiar. It had a kind of frail, reedy quality to it, that Winter recognised--though she couldn't quite place it just yet.
"Where?" she managed. In answer she felt a finger on her lips, shushing her. The papery feeling of the finger jogged her memory, and she realised who it was she was talking to. The old man: Donald Garmondy, the owner of the hotel.
The knowledge seemed to help bring everything else into focus. The misty shapes before Winter's eyes drew together and she found herself looking out into a dim, basement room with bare concrete walls and floors. Bare light bulbs dangling from the ceiling illuminated a clutter of wooden tables and old chests shoved against the walls. The space in the centre of the large room was clear, apart from a single wheeled trolley, upon which lay...
"Chris!" she cried. There he was, lying perfectly asleep on his back. His glasses were missing, and his white t-shirt was stained with dust and dirt. She could see his chest rising and falling, but he didn't move a muscle at her shout. What was wrong? Why wouldn't he wake?
The old man came striding into view. He was walking upright now, not hobbling as he had before. And he was carrying in his hand a frighteningly large green syringe gun.
"I'm afraid he can't hear a word you say, dear. Don't fret though, he's only sleeping. He'll wake just as soon as I give him his shot."
"What happened?" said Winter. "Why..." But the question died in her throat. A she tried to move away from the wall she realised that she could not, that he hands were bound above her by iron shackles, and that she was pinned where she stood, as helpless as a fly. A cold wave of sickness rolled through, filling her insides with poison. She looked at Garmondy. "Why are you doing this?" she said, trying to sound calm, but hearing the tremble in her voice all the same.
Garmondy bowed apologetically to her. "Believe me, I'd rather this... unpleasant deed wasn't necessary, but She must be fed. She must, you understand." He took a few steps closer. "Such a pity that you had to happen by. You really do look extraordinarily like my daughter."
"Whu..." she murmured, finding that her lips wouldn't quite work the way she wanted them to. She was standing, she realised. No, not standing, though she was vertical. Her feet were dragging on the ground, her arms pinioned somewhere above her. Her back was against a solid, cold, concrete wall.
"Just relax, dear," said a voice that sounded impossibly weak and distant. "It will take a few minutes for the effects to wear off."
Effects? thought Winter. What effects was this mysterious voice talking about. The last thing she could remember was falling asleep in the hotel room, Christopher beside her. She had been so very tired, after everything that had happened. She's fallen asleep almost the moment her head hit the pillow.
"Chris?" she mumbled.
"Your friend is close by," said the voice. "Though he cannot answer you just now." As her hearing began to resolve itself the voice was becoming increasingly familiar. It had a kind of frail, reedy quality to it, that Winter recognised--though she couldn't quite place it just yet.
"Where?" she managed. In answer she felt a finger on her lips, shushing her. The papery feeling of the finger jogged her memory, and she realised who it was she was talking to. The old man: Donald Garmondy, the owner of the hotel.
The knowledge seemed to help bring everything else into focus. The misty shapes before Winter's eyes drew together and she found herself looking out into a dim, basement room with bare concrete walls and floors. Bare light bulbs dangling from the ceiling illuminated a clutter of wooden tables and old chests shoved against the walls. The space in the centre of the large room was clear, apart from a single wheeled trolley, upon which lay...
"Chris!" she cried. There he was, lying perfectly asleep on his back. His glasses were missing, and his white t-shirt was stained with dust and dirt. She could see his chest rising and falling, but he didn't move a muscle at her shout. What was wrong? Why wouldn't he wake?
The old man came striding into view. He was walking upright now, not hobbling as he had before. And he was carrying in his hand a frighteningly large green syringe gun.
"I'm afraid he can't hear a word you say, dear. Don't fret though, he's only sleeping. He'll wake just as soon as I give him his shot."
"What happened?" said Winter. "Why..." But the question died in her throat. A she tried to move away from the wall she realised that she could not, that he hands were bound above her by iron shackles, and that she was pinned where she stood, as helpless as a fly. A cold wave of sickness rolled through, filling her insides with poison. She looked at Garmondy. "Why are you doing this?" she said, trying to sound calm, but hearing the tremble in her voice all the same.
Garmondy bowed apologetically to her. "Believe me, I'd rather this... unpleasant deed wasn't necessary, but She must be fed. She must, you understand." He took a few steps closer. "Such a pity that you had to happen by. You really do look extraordinarily like my daughter."
Monday, 23 April 2012
Chapter Eight
Later, when Mark awoke in the middle of the night he wasn't at first sure of what woke him. He lay in the unfamiliar bed, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, all his senses on edge. He could feel the comforting weight of Jenny lying on the bed beside him. He could smell the vague, musty smell of the hotel. He could hear...
He could hear footsteps. And along with the footsteps a metallic squeaking noise. They were coming from the corridor outside. Lying as still as possible, Mark listened as they moved past his and Jenny's room and stopped a little way up the corridor. Outside Christopher and Winter's room? Maybe, but he couldn't be sure.
There was the rattling sound of a key being inserted into a lock, and then a door opened. If it was indeed Christopher and Winter's room then surely they would be woken by all the noise. But there were no voices to be heard at all. Mark lay and waited, trying to make sense of the sounds he was hearing.
What came next was a loud thump, as if of someone tumbling out of bed. Followed by another, and a series of scuffling, grunting noises: someone struggling with a difficult door or a heavy weight. Then came the squeaking noise again, and the same footsteps as before. This time it was accompanied by a slight drone, the kind of noise Mark would associate with a wheel running over a hard surface. Once again the noises approached, passed the door to his and Jenny's room and then receded into the distance.
Mark checked his watch. It was three AM in the morning: a very weird time indeed for anyone to be moving anything heavy around. And who could it be anyway? The old man would surely be asleep at an hour like this, Jenny was right beside him, and neither Christopher nor Winter would have any cause to be moving anything anyway.
He rolled over and nudged Jenny to wake her. She didn't respond.
"Hey, Jen, wake up," he said. He grabbed her shoulder and shook her gently, and the quickly let go again in shock. She was cold, her skin clammy and chilled. "Jen!"
He threw the covers off and, with some fumbling, flicked on the beside lamp. Jen lay curled on her side in her usual sleeping position, dressed in her white pyjamas. She looked pale, but otherwise normal. As he watched he saw her back rise and fall in breath. Shallow breath, but breath none the less. He heaved a sigh of relief and felt her forehead, which was as cool and clammy as the rest of her.
"Come on Jen, wake up," he said, alarm deepening. He shook her, gently slapped the side of her face, called her name. Nothing he did made the slightest bit of difference. She was in a sleep so deep and impenetrable that he could not reach her. Mark swore beneath his breath. First aid was not a subject he knew anything about, and with no phone and no mobile signal he could only hope that it wasn't anything serious. In the two years that he's known Jenny she'd never mentioned any medical condition before.
Christopher. The thought came to him after just a moment of wondering what to do. Christopher had always been the smarter one of the pair. Hopefully he would know the right thing to do. Mark leapt out of bed and--having forgotten completely the strange noises he heard just a few minutes ago-- ran barefoot to the door of the bedroom. The corridor outside was dark, unlit. He jogged down to Christopher and Winter's room and knocked on the door. It opened without any resistance beneath his hand.
"Guys?" he called. "You awake? Listen..." But he trailed off when he saw the room. The bed was unmade and the bedside lamp switched on, but there was nobody to be seen. He took a few steps inside, wondering if he had somehow got the wrong room. But no, there was Christopher's bag and Winter's distinctive white watch on the bedside table. This was definitely their room, so where had they got to?
For a minute or two Mark dithered, but he was not a man prone to inaction. Better to be doing something--even if it wasn't the right thing--than to stand around doing nothing. They must have left something in the car, Mark decided. It was a bit stupid of them to wander down to get whatever it was in the middle of the night, but there was nothing he could do about that now. He would go down to reception and wake the old man: hopefully he would have some knowledge of first aid. You couldn't be a hotel keeper without knowing what to do if one of your guests fell ill.
Mark ran back to his own room to check on Jenny. She was where he left her, lying on her side sleeping peacefully. "I'll be back in a minute, Jen," he said, even though didn't think that she would be likely to hear him. As an afterthought, he grabbed his shoes while he was there and pulled them quickly on. Then he was off down the corridor at a run, not caring how much noise he made.
The door at the end was locked. At first Mark though he might simply be turning the handle the wrong way, or that it might be a sticky door, but after he found a light switch, flicked it on and bent down to look through the gap he realised that it was lock. He could see the metal latch and bolt through the narrow space between door and frame.
He tried the other direction, flicking on light switches as he went. The corridor turned a corner and then ended in another locked door. In between the two there were nothing but guest rooms and single small housekeeping cupboard. He was locked in.
Frustrated, Mark kicked the door. It was that stupid old man. He probably locked guests in at night to stop them stealing his fortune or something. How ridiculous. How foolish. Did he not realise that something like this might happen? And where were Christopher and Winter? They'd decided to wander off for a midnight walk just when he needed them most.
"God damn it," said Mark, and kicked the door again, hard.
He could hear footsteps. And along with the footsteps a metallic squeaking noise. They were coming from the corridor outside. Lying as still as possible, Mark listened as they moved past his and Jenny's room and stopped a little way up the corridor. Outside Christopher and Winter's room? Maybe, but he couldn't be sure.
There was the rattling sound of a key being inserted into a lock, and then a door opened. If it was indeed Christopher and Winter's room then surely they would be woken by all the noise. But there were no voices to be heard at all. Mark lay and waited, trying to make sense of the sounds he was hearing.
What came next was a loud thump, as if of someone tumbling out of bed. Followed by another, and a series of scuffling, grunting noises: someone struggling with a difficult door or a heavy weight. Then came the squeaking noise again, and the same footsteps as before. This time it was accompanied by a slight drone, the kind of noise Mark would associate with a wheel running over a hard surface. Once again the noises approached, passed the door to his and Jenny's room and then receded into the distance.
Mark checked his watch. It was three AM in the morning: a very weird time indeed for anyone to be moving anything heavy around. And who could it be anyway? The old man would surely be asleep at an hour like this, Jenny was right beside him, and neither Christopher nor Winter would have any cause to be moving anything anyway.
He rolled over and nudged Jenny to wake her. She didn't respond.
"Hey, Jen, wake up," he said. He grabbed her shoulder and shook her gently, and the quickly let go again in shock. She was cold, her skin clammy and chilled. "Jen!"
He threw the covers off and, with some fumbling, flicked on the beside lamp. Jen lay curled on her side in her usual sleeping position, dressed in her white pyjamas. She looked pale, but otherwise normal. As he watched he saw her back rise and fall in breath. Shallow breath, but breath none the less. He heaved a sigh of relief and felt her forehead, which was as cool and clammy as the rest of her.
"Come on Jen, wake up," he said, alarm deepening. He shook her, gently slapped the side of her face, called her name. Nothing he did made the slightest bit of difference. She was in a sleep so deep and impenetrable that he could not reach her. Mark swore beneath his breath. First aid was not a subject he knew anything about, and with no phone and no mobile signal he could only hope that it wasn't anything serious. In the two years that he's known Jenny she'd never mentioned any medical condition before.
Christopher. The thought came to him after just a moment of wondering what to do. Christopher had always been the smarter one of the pair. Hopefully he would know the right thing to do. Mark leapt out of bed and--having forgotten completely the strange noises he heard just a few minutes ago-- ran barefoot to the door of the bedroom. The corridor outside was dark, unlit. He jogged down to Christopher and Winter's room and knocked on the door. It opened without any resistance beneath his hand.
"Guys?" he called. "You awake? Listen..." But he trailed off when he saw the room. The bed was unmade and the bedside lamp switched on, but there was nobody to be seen. He took a few steps inside, wondering if he had somehow got the wrong room. But no, there was Christopher's bag and Winter's distinctive white watch on the bedside table. This was definitely their room, so where had they got to?
For a minute or two Mark dithered, but he was not a man prone to inaction. Better to be doing something--even if it wasn't the right thing--than to stand around doing nothing. They must have left something in the car, Mark decided. It was a bit stupid of them to wander down to get whatever it was in the middle of the night, but there was nothing he could do about that now. He would go down to reception and wake the old man: hopefully he would have some knowledge of first aid. You couldn't be a hotel keeper without knowing what to do if one of your guests fell ill.
Mark ran back to his own room to check on Jenny. She was where he left her, lying on her side sleeping peacefully. "I'll be back in a minute, Jen," he said, even though didn't think that she would be likely to hear him. As an afterthought, he grabbed his shoes while he was there and pulled them quickly on. Then he was off down the corridor at a run, not caring how much noise he made.
The door at the end was locked. At first Mark though he might simply be turning the handle the wrong way, or that it might be a sticky door, but after he found a light switch, flicked it on and bent down to look through the gap he realised that it was lock. He could see the metal latch and bolt through the narrow space between door and frame.
He tried the other direction, flicking on light switches as he went. The corridor turned a corner and then ended in another locked door. In between the two there were nothing but guest rooms and single small housekeeping cupboard. He was locked in.
Frustrated, Mark kicked the door. It was that stupid old man. He probably locked guests in at night to stop them stealing his fortune or something. How ridiculous. How foolish. Did he not realise that something like this might happen? And where were Christopher and Winter? They'd decided to wander off for a midnight walk just when he needed them most.
"God damn it," said Mark, and kicked the door again, hard.
Monday, 16 April 2012
Chapter Seven
"And then," said Christopher, enjoying himself, "I come jogging up out of the dark to find Jenny screaming her head off in the middle of the road."
Jenny herself scowled. "You took me by surprise that's all. I thought..."
"Practically crying, she was," said Christopher jokingly. "Must have thought I was the bogeyman." He stuck his tongue out and Jenny, who responded in kind.
The four of them sat around one of the hotel rooms. As well as the ancient wooden fittings that filled the rooms, Jenny had been pleased to find a tiny electric kettle. Everyone was now drinking hot chocolate, apart from Mark, who had decided that the ancient-looking powder sachets provided by the hotel were not worth the risk. Out of pity Jenny had given him her giant soda cup to drink.
"Did you see the hotel keeper on your way up?" asked Winter, who was holding her cup with both hands while she perched on the edge of the bed.
"No," said Mark. "Must have missed him. What's he like?"
Winter pulled a face. "Creepy. Quite an old guy, but he freaks me out."
"Creepy old man, huh?" said Mark. "Sounds about right for this place. I can't believe we're stuck out here till morning."
"Tell them about the nails," said Jenny. "You guys want creepy, listen to this." Mark told them about the nails he'd found embedded in the tyres. For a minute after he finished speaking there was a shocked silence.
"Someone put them there deliberately?" said Christopher eventually. "Huh."
"I know!" said Jenny. "Psycho or what?"
There was another brief silence while the group all considered the idea of someone out there actually trying to cause an accident. It was not a pleasant thought.
Winter said, "What if it's him? The hotel keeper. What if he put the nails there?"
Jenny raised her eyebrows. "Pretty extreme way to get more business, isn't it?"
"Like you say, some people are psycho."
There was another silence, but this one altogether more uncomfortable. Christopher found himself wondering where in the building the strange old man was right now. Was he behind reception still? Or in one of the rooms? Was he perhaps standing in the room next door with a glass pressed up against the wall listening to their conversation. He shuddered.
"Actually," Jenny said thoughtfully, "I heard this story one time. About a guy who used to run a boarding house. He'd trap people there and use them for medical experiments and stuff like that."
"You said the guy was like seventy, right?" said Mark.
Winter nodded.
"Well, I don't think a seventy-year-old is much of a threat to the four of us. He's the only one here, isn't he?"
"I guess," said Christopher. "We're the only guests, I know that. The car park was empty when we came up."
"And he was talking as if he was the only one," said Winter. "His daughter used to run this place, but she died and he took over."
"Well then I'm not too worried," said Mark. "If he tries anything I think we can take him."
They all finished their drinks and Mark and Jenny headed off to their room down the hall. As they got ready for bed, Jenny said, "What kind of stupid hotel doesn't have a phone anyway?" She kissed Mark and rolled into bed. "It's like living the dark ages."
Jenny herself scowled. "You took me by surprise that's all. I thought..."
"Practically crying, she was," said Christopher jokingly. "Must have thought I was the bogeyman." He stuck his tongue out and Jenny, who responded in kind.
The four of them sat around one of the hotel rooms. As well as the ancient wooden fittings that filled the rooms, Jenny had been pleased to find a tiny electric kettle. Everyone was now drinking hot chocolate, apart from Mark, who had decided that the ancient-looking powder sachets provided by the hotel were not worth the risk. Out of pity Jenny had given him her giant soda cup to drink.
"Did you see the hotel keeper on your way up?" asked Winter, who was holding her cup with both hands while she perched on the edge of the bed.
"No," said Mark. "Must have missed him. What's he like?"
Winter pulled a face. "Creepy. Quite an old guy, but he freaks me out."
"Creepy old man, huh?" said Mark. "Sounds about right for this place. I can't believe we're stuck out here till morning."
"Tell them about the nails," said Jenny. "You guys want creepy, listen to this." Mark told them about the nails he'd found embedded in the tyres. For a minute after he finished speaking there was a shocked silence.
"Someone put them there deliberately?" said Christopher eventually. "Huh."
"I know!" said Jenny. "Psycho or what?"
There was another brief silence while the group all considered the idea of someone out there actually trying to cause an accident. It was not a pleasant thought.
Winter said, "What if it's him? The hotel keeper. What if he put the nails there?"
Jenny raised her eyebrows. "Pretty extreme way to get more business, isn't it?"
"Like you say, some people are psycho."
There was another silence, but this one altogether more uncomfortable. Christopher found himself wondering where in the building the strange old man was right now. Was he behind reception still? Or in one of the rooms? Was he perhaps standing in the room next door with a glass pressed up against the wall listening to their conversation. He shuddered.
"Actually," Jenny said thoughtfully, "I heard this story one time. About a guy who used to run a boarding house. He'd trap people there and use them for medical experiments and stuff like that."
"You said the guy was like seventy, right?" said Mark.
Winter nodded.
"Well, I don't think a seventy-year-old is much of a threat to the four of us. He's the only one here, isn't he?"
"I guess," said Christopher. "We're the only guests, I know that. The car park was empty when we came up."
"And he was talking as if he was the only one," said Winter. "His daughter used to run this place, but she died and he took over."
"Well then I'm not too worried," said Mark. "If he tries anything I think we can take him."
They all finished their drinks and Mark and Jenny headed off to their room down the hall. As they got ready for bed, Jenny said, "What kind of stupid hotel doesn't have a phone anyway?" She kissed Mark and rolled into bed. "It's like living the dark ages."
Monday, 9 April 2012
Chapter Six
Jenny was sitting in the car, while Mark inspected the damage with the pen torch from the glove box. It was getting cold, and she had decided to use the giant panda to keep warm. With Jenny being quite short in stature, and the panda being quite large, it was working exceedingly well.
"I want one of these," she called to Mark. "Not a toy. A real one. And I want it tomorrow. It can sleep in our bed and keep me warm all night."
"Whatever you say, darling," grunted Mark from outside the car. He was inspecting the damage with a pen light from the glove box. Jenny rolled her eyes at her friend the panda.
"Leave it, babe. The damage is done, you're not going to be able to fix it while we're stuck out here. Come in here and keep me company. Jenny's bored."
"Jenny's always bored," said Mark, the trace of a smile creeping into his voice.
"I'm a high-maintenance woman," said Jenny. "You were warned. Don't pretend you weren't warned." She considered the panda with a critical eye. "Actually, I've changed my mind. I want a grizzly bear. Panda's are for wimps." She threw it into the backseat and peered out the window to where Mark stood in among the trees. "Maaaaaaaark..."
"Come out here a minute," he said. "There's something I want you to look at."
"This better be good," mumbled Jenny, climbing out into the cold night air with a shiver. She gathered her blonde hair into a ponytail and went to stand beside Mark. "Well?"
"Have a look at the tyre," said Mark, shining the pen light down at it.
Jenny glanced down. "It's a tyre," she said, "and it's flat." She looked at him and pulled a face. "I'm not good at these things, babe, you know I'm not. Why don't we skip ahead and you just tell me what I'm supposed to have noticed."
Mark laughed. "Sure, we can do it that way." They crouched down together by the deflated wheel. Mark pointed at something on top of it that gleamed in the torchlight. "You see that?" he said.
"Uh-huh," said Jenny. She watched as Mark reached out and took hold of the thing, the tugged. He was a strong guy, she knew, but it took him a few seconds to work it loose. It turned out to be a small steel nail that stood in the palm of his hand like a miniature steeple. He let her observe it for a moment before speaking.
"There's a whole bunch of them. At least two in this tyre and six in the other front. There's a couple in the backs as well, but they didn't burst."
A cold sensation like a ball of slime moved through Jenny's chest. "You mean someone... someone put these out here deliberately? Set a trap? That's sick. They could have killed us."
Mark shrugged. "Some people have a twisted sense of humour."
Jenny huffed. "Some people are bloody freaks."
"We ought to try and clear the rest of them off the road. Else the next people who come along are going to run right into them."
"Sure," said Jenny. "It can be my good deed for the day." She followed Mark through the trees to the road once more, even though part of her wanted keenly to return to the car and her nice warm panda. Wanted to return there and lock the doors and not emerge until daylight. She contented herself with watching Mark as he swept the road methodically with the light from the pen torch. He was a big guy, short but powerfully built with cropped dark hair and the shadow of stubble on his chin. He would keep her safe. She believed in Mark.
From behind her on the road she suddenly became aware of a noise. She might have been hearing it for a while, but it was only now that her mind decided to make her aware of it. It was a quiet sound, but getting louder. It was the sound of footsteps, running footsteps, coming their way
"I want one of these," she called to Mark. "Not a toy. A real one. And I want it tomorrow. It can sleep in our bed and keep me warm all night."
"Whatever you say, darling," grunted Mark from outside the car. He was inspecting the damage with a pen light from the glove box. Jenny rolled her eyes at her friend the panda.
"Leave it, babe. The damage is done, you're not going to be able to fix it while we're stuck out here. Come in here and keep me company. Jenny's bored."
"Jenny's always bored," said Mark, the trace of a smile creeping into his voice.
"I'm a high-maintenance woman," said Jenny. "You were warned. Don't pretend you weren't warned." She considered the panda with a critical eye. "Actually, I've changed my mind. I want a grizzly bear. Panda's are for wimps." She threw it into the backseat and peered out the window to where Mark stood in among the trees. "Maaaaaaaark..."
"Come out here a minute," he said. "There's something I want you to look at."
"This better be good," mumbled Jenny, climbing out into the cold night air with a shiver. She gathered her blonde hair into a ponytail and went to stand beside Mark. "Well?"
"Have a look at the tyre," said Mark, shining the pen light down at it.
Jenny glanced down. "It's a tyre," she said, "and it's flat." She looked at him and pulled a face. "I'm not good at these things, babe, you know I'm not. Why don't we skip ahead and you just tell me what I'm supposed to have noticed."
Mark laughed. "Sure, we can do it that way." They crouched down together by the deflated wheel. Mark pointed at something on top of it that gleamed in the torchlight. "You see that?" he said.
"Uh-huh," said Jenny. She watched as Mark reached out and took hold of the thing, the tugged. He was a strong guy, she knew, but it took him a few seconds to work it loose. It turned out to be a small steel nail that stood in the palm of his hand like a miniature steeple. He let her observe it for a moment before speaking.
"There's a whole bunch of them. At least two in this tyre and six in the other front. There's a couple in the backs as well, but they didn't burst."
A cold sensation like a ball of slime moved through Jenny's chest. "You mean someone... someone put these out here deliberately? Set a trap? That's sick. They could have killed us."
Mark shrugged. "Some people have a twisted sense of humour."
Jenny huffed. "Some people are bloody freaks."
"We ought to try and clear the rest of them off the road. Else the next people who come along are going to run right into them."
"Sure," said Jenny. "It can be my good deed for the day." She followed Mark through the trees to the road once more, even though part of her wanted keenly to return to the car and her nice warm panda. Wanted to return there and lock the doors and not emerge until daylight. She contented herself with watching Mark as he swept the road methodically with the light from the pen torch. He was a big guy, short but powerfully built with cropped dark hair and the shadow of stubble on his chin. He would keep her safe. She believed in Mark.
From behind her on the road she suddenly became aware of a noise. She might have been hearing it for a while, but it was only now that her mind decided to make her aware of it. It was a quiet sound, but getting louder. It was the sound of footsteps, running footsteps, coming their way
Monday, 2 April 2012
Chapter Five
The building was far larger than it looked. After leaving the lobby area the man lead winter upstairs, across a short landing, up another set of stairs and down a long corridor. Like the lobby, most of the interior was unlit and furnished in dark wood, the effect being one of age and antiquity, an establishment that had never quite caught up with the modern day. Winter was surprised to see electric bulbs burning on the ceiling rather than oil lamps.
"I don't get many guests anymore," said the old man as they walked. "To tell you the truth the old place has gone a little downhill. Ever since my daughter died. She took care of it you know. Ran most everything by herself. And when she went... Well, it hasn't been the same ever since."
"I'm sorry to hear that," said Winter automatically. She was not a natural conversationalist, English being a second language to her. Natively she was Scandinavian, and although she had learned English from a young age she preferred to leave most of the talking to Christopher, who almost always had a better understanding of the way English people worked.
"It can't be helped, I suppose," said the old man. "Needs must, of course. I did love her very much, you know. Very, very much. It's such a pity..." He stopped outside one of the many doors that lead off the corridor. "This will be your room," he said. "And your friends will be two doors down from you on the other side, just over there."
"Thank you," said Winter, taking the keys that he held out to her and smiling briefly. She opened the door to the room and peered inside to find it decorated in much the same fashion as the rest of the building. "It looks wonderful," she said.
"Glad you think so. You know you do look awfully like her. Your face... it's just the shape of hers. It really is uncanny."
"Oh," said Winter, suddenly unnerved. She wished very much that she hadn't separated from Christopher, and that they'd both gone down to the car together before coming up to the room. "I'm sorry about you daughter," she said quickly.
"Don't be," said the man, still gazing a little too fixedly at her. "It wasn't your fault, what happened." There was silence, a long moment of it that stretched like chewing gum. Eventually the little man gave himself a shake and seemed to emerge from whatever memory he had been lost within. "Anyway, don't you hesitate to call me if you need anything. I'll be in the office. Sleep there, you see, so that I can keep an eye on things. You just come and ring if you find yourself needing anything."
"We will," said Winter, hoping fervently that he was about to leave.
"Good," said the man, and held out a quivering hand for her to shake. "My name's Garmondy, by the way. Donald Garmondy. Welcome to my hotel."
Winter shook his hand, and it felt to her like a ball of hollow paper.
"I don't get many guests anymore," said the old man as they walked. "To tell you the truth the old place has gone a little downhill. Ever since my daughter died. She took care of it you know. Ran most everything by herself. And when she went... Well, it hasn't been the same ever since."
"I'm sorry to hear that," said Winter automatically. She was not a natural conversationalist, English being a second language to her. Natively she was Scandinavian, and although she had learned English from a young age she preferred to leave most of the talking to Christopher, who almost always had a better understanding of the way English people worked.
"It can't be helped, I suppose," said the old man. "Needs must, of course. I did love her very much, you know. Very, very much. It's such a pity..." He stopped outside one of the many doors that lead off the corridor. "This will be your room," he said. "And your friends will be two doors down from you on the other side, just over there."
"Thank you," said Winter, taking the keys that he held out to her and smiling briefly. She opened the door to the room and peered inside to find it decorated in much the same fashion as the rest of the building. "It looks wonderful," she said.
"Glad you think so. You know you do look awfully like her. Your face... it's just the shape of hers. It really is uncanny."
"Oh," said Winter, suddenly unnerved. She wished very much that she hadn't separated from Christopher, and that they'd both gone down to the car together before coming up to the room. "I'm sorry about you daughter," she said quickly.
"Don't be," said the man, still gazing a little too fixedly at her. "It wasn't your fault, what happened." There was silence, a long moment of it that stretched like chewing gum. Eventually the little man gave himself a shake and seemed to emerge from whatever memory he had been lost within. "Anyway, don't you hesitate to call me if you need anything. I'll be in the office. Sleep there, you see, so that I can keep an eye on things. You just come and ring if you find yourself needing anything."
"We will," said Winter, hoping fervently that he was about to leave.
"Good," said the man, and held out a quivering hand for her to shake. "My name's Garmondy, by the way. Donald Garmondy. Welcome to my hotel."
Winter shook his hand, and it felt to her like a ball of hollow paper.
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