Nightmare Fuel: The Ultimate Collection of Short Horror Tales (10 page)

“No, no, no....” Neve mumbled.

Being reminded of her responsibility as the weight of the twins seemingly came from nowhere, she raced up stairs. To her surprise, both children began to laugh, enjoying the bouncy ride as Neve shot upstairs. If only they knew. There was little that could be seen in the house as darkness consumed it. Apart from the occasional window, shadows were everywhere. It was luckily the same layout as the Butterfield's. Neve squinted in the dimness and gently crept to the end of the hallway. Upon reaching the largest room upstairs, it had been used in the same way as the Butterfield's: a master bedroom. Chocolate furnishings and a cream wall, stylishly decorated. But what Neve was looking for was the en-suite. It was situated at the end of the room. No windows, and a heavy, thick door. Just like next door. In a house unfamiliar, she decided it was the best place to hide. Neve closed the bedroom door and locked it, then shot into the bathroom and performed the same action. A large lime bathroom that had a foulness lingering in the air. Then again, what did she expect? It was a bathroom. Neve crouched down slowly, bracing the children and praying to God that he couldn't get inside. Then came a knock. A loud clout hitting the front door. Speech followed, a muffled blur of a man's voice. Neve's embrace on the kids only tightened. Then sound seemed to stop. No more talking or banging. The rain was the only audible noise, along with the strong wind moaning into the night. But it didn't take long for a ruckus to disrupt the brief peace. The destruction of glass. He was breaking in.

Neve exhaled deeply but silently, growing increasingly scared with every second that passed. Fortunately the twins were being quiet, and even better, they looked tired.
With any luck they would fall asleep
. Neve could only hope that noise didn't make them start to cry. But minutes had passed since the tinkling of glass on wooden beams and no other sound had surfaced from the gloom. With the house in pitch blackness it made the suspense and terror even worse. Anything could be lurking. Then Neve heard muttering. She assumed it was the mad man talking to himself or humming another song like a true psychopath. That was unsettling, but it was the subtle creak of the stairs that sent shivers down her spine. She pressed both hands against her mouth in an attempt to muffle any traces of breathing or total shock. Each hand was cold and shaky but seemed to block out any sound of breathing. The only downside to being hidden in a bathroom was the acoustics. Each and every sound was doubled, bouncing off the tiles and veneer. Then she noticed the groans of floorboards had stopped, which meant he had reached the top of the stairs.

Fright was reaching its climax, as Neve was reaching her breaking point. She began to cry. Not tears of sorrow or joy, but tears of pure fear coursing through her veins at the unknown location of a killer. Then doorknobs rang out. He was searching each room, upturning  furniture by the sounds of smashes and bangs. Each handle being twisted got louder. He must have started at the far end of the house and was working his way around. Slowly but surely getting closer to Neve and the twins. In the peril something shocked her. Terror was still present, but joining that was bravery and a selflessness. Bravery to fight this man who was intentionally intimidating her, and selflessness to protect the children at whatever cost. But as the door to the master bedroom opened, Neve doubted she'd be able to act so courageously.

The noises of scrapes, scratches, squeaks and thuds echoed through the en-suite door. Luckily the twins hadn't heard these, and were now asleep. But that wouldn't last long if the ruckus was to get any louder. Then their hiding place would be discovered. But a niggling thought told Neve that this man was going to discover their sanctuary without the aid of screaming infants. There was only so much furniture that Neve could have hid behind, which meant only a limited number of hiding places to uncover before he moved onto the bathroom. Neve, acting instinctively and recklessly, grabbed a razor off the bathroom counter and stood. A quick survey of the bathroom proved that the only item that would make a half decent weapon was the man's razor. It was black and plastic, with rubber for friction. But the blade was long and sharp. If she could pluck the gall to use it, Neve may take down this assailant and survive. Yet the question still remained, was she tough enough to battle this man and save herself and her young charges? And within a second that question would need to be answered as the bathroom door began to open. Slight light slivered through the darkness. In the face of total undiluted horror she thought of something. This monster had an axe, why hadn't he used it? From what Neve heard it sounded as if he was using his bare hands to move furniture. But that question was soon flung from her mind when the door edged open even further, bringing dim light closer and closer to the corner in which she hiding. Neve's refuge would soon be given away. It was now or never. Tensing every muscle and gritting her jaw she jumped and waved the razor around. It whooshed through the air as Neve advanced on the madman. It didn't take long for the razor to make contact with flesh, blood began to splash everywhere. Even in the little light, Neve could see specks of red hitting walls, mirrors, and bathroom furniture. A wet grinding sound was made with each swipe. Until the resistance between each slash grew considerably, until it could go no deeper. Either bone had been hit or the razor had reached its limit, blunting prematurely. In the violent haze Neve paused and looked at the man holding his neck and gargling blood with wide eyes almost jumping from their sockets. It was those wide eyes that made something painfully clear to the young babysitter. That wasn't the hooded old man with the axe, that was the owner of the house. Neve had killed an innocent man.

Neve was a combination of emotions. She was scared, sad, angry and helpless. Heat rushed to her face as the razor fell from her hand and thumped onto the carpet. The razor was drenched in blood, redness dripping from it and staining the cream carpet of the bedroom. Neve was about to burst into tears when someone barged into the bedroom screaming bloody murder. Neve was about to reach for the razor but saw the intruder wasn't the hooded axe man, but the lady of the house. She immediately noticed her husband's body sprawled on the floor and the multiple red slashes at his neck and face. Not to mention the fountain of blood still pouring from his throat. The woman fell to him and broke down, wailing into the night, wheezing and trembling, begging him to wake up, but deep down knowing he was dead. She kept repeating his name hoping to arouse consciousness, shaking the body frantically. But both Neve and the man's wife knew her efforts were pointless. He was gone.

The mourning lady continued to blubber as the hooded man ran into the room and grabbed her hair. The woman instantly stopped crying and now looked mortified. Without skipping a beat the killer grabbed the razor from the carpet and slit the lady's throat in one swift, almost professional movement.
Was he a hit man? Or assassin?
Neve stood in shock, heart racing but mind blurring. Everything felt surreal and nightmarish. The blood stained upholstery and furniture, the deaths, and the innocent babies.
OH MY GOD THE TWINS!
And that was Neve's last thought before collapsing.

***

Mr and Mrs Butterfield were waiting patiently outside the interrogation room while Neve sat being ploughed with questions. Mrs Butterfield stood in her expensive jewellery and stylish silk black dress. If it wasn't for her face, anyone would think she was happy. Mascara streaks and blush smeared everywhere. Mr Butterfield portrayed a similar contradicting appearance. A nice black blazer and shirt, with a pair of dark jeans. But his face was red and creased from tears and anguish, huge bags like small hammocks under each eye. Neve had caught a glimpse of them very briefly and wondered why they were attired in such dark apparel. They could see the detective beginning to stand and leave the interrogation room. So they quickly composed themselves, wiping tears, straightening hair and neatening clothing. As soon as the old man stepped into the hallway Mrs Butterfield couldn't remain patient for a second longer.

“Okay so what happened? Why was Neve in our house? Why did she go to the neighbour’s house?”

The detective coughed and offered a glass of water to each, but they politely declined. All they wanted was an explanation. So the ageing detective took the couple into an interview room and began to explain everything.

“So I have spoke to other detectives and officers, as well as therapists and psychologists. We all think last weekend triggered a huge pang of guilt that caused this episode.”

Both of their faces dropped at the reminder of last weekend and the mayhem that had occurred.

“So last week Neve was babysitting your two twin babies and they were killed is that correct? I am sorry to be so blunt but I need you to confirm things before I go ahead with our analysis.”

The woman could hardly contain her emotions, bordering on breaking into a fit of tears. So the husband replied. “Yes, she was babysitting and went upstairs to video chat with some guy from school. But in that time the twins left the play area and began climbing on furniture. Which was when...” the husband looked away and took a deep breath, fist trembling.

The sympathetic detective, also being a parent, gently nudged Mr Butterfield on with his story without seeming heartless or inconsiderate.

“A huge wardrobe in the living room fell on them both and ki......” the husband's throat became dry and papery, as his head fell and collapsed into his hands, hiding tears from the interviewer.

Which was when his wife took over. “Neve was found lying on the floor, completely unresponsive. The police told us she had gone completely catatonic due to a huge remorse at being responsible for their....deaths....by way of negligence,” Mrs Butterfield choked down more tears.

“Okay. Well Neve's mind has blocked all of that out I am afraid, which isn't at all shocking given the guilt,” the detective informed while beads of sweat were surfacing on his shiny bald head.

“What do you mean? Sorry, but what exactly happened tonight?” The husband burst in, frustrated, but tears still lining his face.

“Okay. So Neve came to your house, broke in while you were out. I understand you were at the funeral today and then spent time with family?”

The couple both nodded.

“Well as far as we can tell, Neve's psychological being has developed very realistic illusions. She imagined you letting her in to babysit the children.”

Both of them looked a mixture of confused and angry.

“It wasn't long, from what neighbour's told us, until she left the house with a double carrier stuffed with winter clothes and blankets, as if the twins were in the carrier.”

“Oh my god....” Mrs Butterfield gasped, mouth agape and lower lip shaking.

“She broke into the neighbour's house, claiming an old man was after her from a video chat session she'd had while in your house. But according to neighbour's, they only saw the owners of the house enter shortly after Neve broke in. She was running from this assailant and trying to protect the imaginary children. In therapist terms, this was a way of dealing with the guilt in an extreme way. So she entered, hid in the master bedroom's en-suite with the empty carrier away from the hooded axe man.”

“Hooded axe man?” Mrs Butterfield asked, curious.

“That is the name she gave the supposed attacker. But when someone entered the bedroom, she assumed it was the axe man, grabbed a razor and slit his throat. But in the haze of aggression she hadn't noticed it was in fact the man of the house. She confessed to that crime, an accidental murder due to incorrect identification. But here is where it gets odd,” the detective scratched his frowned forehead.

Then lowered his head and moved closer to the couple. Both Butterfield's turned to each other, then back to the detective, anxious.

“Forensics has proven that Neve hacked away at the man of the house, then dropped the razor, only to pick it back up and slit the wife's throat when she entered shortly after the attack. But from what Neve had told us, it was the axeman that killed the wife, not her. But her prints were on the razor as well as on the female victim. So it was most certainly her, but Neve's mind was playing tricks and making her take on the persona of this madman.”

Both of their mouths were hanging open in utter disbelief. Their once innocent babysitter now an insane psycho killer.

“Another strange thing was that we found Neve's phone on Neve. Well maybe that's not so strange, but we found yours also Mrs Butterfield.”

Mrs Butterfield looked shocked, again turning to her husband who shared the startling news.

“There were texts back and forth from Neve's phone to, and from, yours. But as only Neve's prints were on the two phones, we assumed she was unknowingly taking on the identity of the other person texting Neve's actual phone.”

“Who was she pretending to be texting from my phone?” Mrs Butterfield asked.

“You. She had no idea at the time, and still doesn't due to the psychological condition she has developed. But essentially she was pretending to be you, texting her phone, then being herself responding to your texts.”

Mrs Butterfield looked completely perplexed, forehead creasing and eyes looking at the dark wooden table they were seated at.

“At this time we are not sure if she will end up in a mental facility or a women's prison due to the state of her mentality,” the detective informed.