Two Doors Down: A twisted psychological thriller Read online

  TWO DOORS DOWN

  A PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER

  BY

  COLLETTE HEATHER

  COPYRIGHT

  COLLETTE HEATHER 2020

  Two Doors Down

  A Psychological Thriller

  By

  Collette Heather

  Copyright Collette Heather 2020

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This book may not be reproduced or used in any way without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews. The characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  BOOK DESCRIPTION

  Claire Wilson has been in love with the boy two doors down for as long as she can remember. Mark Patterson loves her back…as a friend.

  Now, both in their mid-thirties, Mark has finally found love.

  But not with her.

  Claire has never left the seaside town of Broadgate and has taken over her dead mother’s guest house next door but one from Mark’s childhood home. Lovestruck Mark – a brilliant artist currently living in London – is bringing back his lover, a notorious horror writer, to his childhood home of 27 Grange road. Ever since his parents died a few years back, he hasn’t had the heart to spend time at number 27, leaving his best-friend Claire to keep an eye on the place.

  But things are different now. His girlfriend loves Broadgate – she is obsessed with the sleazy, decadent seaside town. She thinks it would be fabulous to do up the house and spend more time by the sea and Mark is happy to oblige.

  But Claire thinks that there is something badly wrong with his girlfriend. Not that Mark could ever see it, for he is blindsided by his obsession with her.

  Claire’s infatuation with her best friend is about to come to come to a head.

  Welcome to Broadgate, a town with a dark past and even darker secrets, where love, desperation and evil will collide in horrible fashion…

  ONE

  MOON PHASE: WANING GIBBOUS

  The Moon today is in the final day of a WANING GIBBOUS phase. This is the first phase after the FULL MOON occurs. It lasts roughly one week, during which time the Moon’s illumination grows smaller each day. At around day seven, the Moon becomes a LAST QUARTER MOON, with an illumination of fifty percent. The average Moon rise is between nine a.m. and midnight, depending on how much time has passed within this phase. Each night, the Moon rises later and sets after sunrise in the morning. During this phase, the Moon can be seen in early morning daylight hours on the western horizon.

  7th October

  “I can’t wait for you to meet her, I know that you’re going to love her.”

  It’s a good job that I’m talking on the phone because I can’t keep my face from crumpling. His words are like a knife in my heart, each syllable a further, painful twist.

  “She sounds lovely,” I say, with what I hope is a modicum of conviction.

  “Oh, she is. She’s beautiful, inside and out.”

  No, you are, I think, my eyes dangerously hot and prickly. Rapidly, I blink. “I’m glad you’ve found someone – I was beginning to think that you were going to stay a bachelor forever.”

  “I guess I just never met the right woman.”

  But I’ve been here all along, I think sadly.

  “I guess not,” I say, my voice light and my heart heavy.

  “How about you?” he asks. “Are you seeing anyone?”

  I close my eyes for a second, picturing his perfect face. Or perfect, to me. I can see his close-set and intense, pale-blue eyes, shining with interest, his wonky half-smile that only raises the left corner of his mouth.

  “No,” I reply, gazing forlornly around the empty, vast kitchen of my bed and breakfast. “Not right now.”

  Fleetingly, I wonder how he’d react if I blurted out the truth; that the main reason I was still single was because no man had – or could ever – measure up to him.

  “Well, you should get back into the dating game,” he says.

  “Are you kidding me? Have you seen the guys in Broadgate?”

  “Hey, that’s harsh,” he laughs. “I come from there too, you know.”

  Yeah. And you don’t want me, do you?

  “You’re different.”

  I can feel the blush heating my cheeks and inwardly, I cringe in shame. I launch myself off the edge of the sink which I have been resting against. Thank God he can’t see me right now.

  “I’m different? How so?”

  “Just different, that’s all,” I mumble. “I’ve known you my entire life – you don’t count.” Oh God, I really don’t want to be having this conversation.

  “I don’t count, now?”

  He laughs, and all too easily I can picture his beautiful mouth, the way his smile showcases the top row of his slightly uneven, not-quite-white teeth. I hate how I think he has the sexiest smile in the world. The sexiest everything, in fact. I can’t remember not loving Mark – it is woven into the very fabric of my being.

  “Of course you count, dumbass, you know exactly what I mean. All I meant was that you have to be the only person from Broadgate who’s actually made something of their life and managed to move away from this dump.”

  “You haven’t done too badly.”

  I make a funny pfft sound and wave my hand dismissively. “I’m a landlady, which makes me nothing more than a glorified cleaning lady. I’m hardly a world-famous artist, like you.”

  “I’m world famous now? I wish. And stop being so down on yourself – you run your own business, and you make a living from it. That makes you a successful businesswoman.”

  “I run my dead mother’s B and B,” I quip, for some reason his modesty and kindness making me feel even more sorry for myself. This man really is the whole package and I love him with all my heart and soul.

  “And you do it very well. The only thing missing from your life is a man. If you don’t start dating again soon, you’re going to die an old spinster in your B and B. Or end up like Norman Bates – the female version of, anyway.”

  As soon as the words leave his mouth, I can almost sense the way he physically winces on the other end of the line. “God, I’m so sorry, that was an incredibly stupid, insensitive thing to say.”

  “Yes. It was, rather. And there’s more to life than men.”

  I want to sound stern, but I feel the smile tugging at my lips. I could never be mad at him, it’s simply not in me. I love the way that he shoves his foot in his mouth on a regular basis – it is one of his many endearing qualities.

  Besides, I often think the very same thing myself. Not the, ‘keeping the corpse of my dead mother’ in the attic part, but sometimes I feel my mother’s presence so strongly in this house; her memory is everywhere. The Atlantic View B and B was very much her baby, and, even though I have been running this place alone for seven years now, I still can’t quite shake the conviction that I am an imposter, that I will never run it as well as she did. Which is silly, as I’ve tripled the amount of bodies that she got through the door. Some days I feel grateful about this, and other days I feel trapped in a life that isn’t mine. A life that I can never break free from.

  I will live and die in this B and B, of that I am certain.

  “Never mind me, I want to hear more about this mysterious Holly Butler,” I say, putting him out of his misery.

  “What do you want to know?” he asks with an irritating coyness. I can’t say that I have ever found Mark irritating – this has to be a first.

  I think that I hate this Holly Butler already.

  “Oh, I don’t know, how about everything? You spring on me the fact
you’re in a serious relationship over the phone, and I haven’t seen you since last Christmas. That’s almost a year, Mark.”

  “You know you’re always welcome to come and stay with me in London.”

  “And you know I’m usually stuck in this stupid B and B. I always seem to be waiting around for some bunch of guests or other to grace me with their presence.”

  As true as this may be, I also get the feeling that I would be imposing if I were to take him up on his offer again. The last time I went, roughly a year and a half ago, he was so busy that I barely saw him. I was stuck in his flat, waiting around for him all the time. Also, I felt like I was in the way, not least because I took over his bedroom, forcing him to sleep on the sofa.

  He laughs, and it strikes me then how genuine it sounds. I can’t remember the last time I heard him so damn pleased with himself, and a fresh bout of jealousy twists in my guts, because it is someone else who is making him so happy.

  “Me not coming down so often is all about to change. When I told Holly that I have a place here, she got so excited. She says she loves Broadgate.”

  My eyebrows shoot up in my head, I can’t help it. Again, I’m pleased he can’t see my face. “She does? What’s wrong with her?”

  “That’s exactly what I said. She’s a writer, and she says she finds the faded grandeur and decadent vibe of the place pleasing and inspirational. I guess she has a point – it does have a certain, kitsch charm.”

  “Kitsch. That’s one word to describe it,” I mutter darkly.

  Broadgate isn’t that bad. I mean, if it was, you wouldn’t still be there, would you? You’d have sold The Atlantic View and moved on. And my parents loved it there.”

  If it’s so great, then why did you move away, the first chance you got? I think, but don’t say.

  I feel that it would be disrespectful to his parents’ memory to contradict him, as they only died two years ago. Lung cancer took his mother and a heart attack his father. They died mere months apart.

  I have often wondered, over the years, why Marks’ parents saw fit to stay in Broadgate, why they were so attached to the place. They were educated, bright, mostly kind people, even if they did possess a certain cool detachment towards their only child. Andrew – Mark’s father – was a Social Science Professor at Canterbury University, and used to argue that children had to make their own decisions in life, coming down firmly on the side of nature, rather than nurture. He believed that a personality was largely set at birth, and, short of abuse, nothing would derail that person from becoming what they were supposed to be, sooner or later. He did believe that a decent education would give them a head start in life, however, so Mark went to the best boarding school in the country, his argument being that he would evolve into his true self ‘sooner’ rather than ‘later’.

  Mark’s mother wasn’t the warmest person either, although she was kind to my mother, and they struck up the most unlikely of friendships. I never took her to her, though, and didn’t really have much to do with her after my mother passed away seven years ago of Emphysema during a horrific bout of Pneumonia, having been a heavy smoker all her life.

  “Look, Claire, I have to go. So, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Or maybe not, probably the day after.”

  His casualness causes me further pain. “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “I cannot wait for you to meet her. Take care, okay? Bye.”

  He hangs up before I even have a chance to respond. I remove the smartphone from my ear, and stare stupidly down at it, my heart physically aching.

  The truth is, the not-so-deep-down reason I hang on here in this godforsaken town is on the off-chance that Mark will finally notice me on one of his rare visits, and we will then live together happily ever after.

  But clearly, the chances of that happening are now smaller than ever.

  “It’s just you and me, isn’t boy?” I say to Bertie, my elderly, Yorkshire Terrier who is sleeping in his basket by the patio doors. Not even he is paying me any attention because he’s had his morning walk, and he’s been fed and watered.

  Sadness descends over me, because right then, I really do feel that I am going to die alone and lonely.

  Oh, why doesn’t he love me?

  TWO

  Later That Day

  I like this time of the year. I am tired by the time Autumn rocks around and I am glad for the respite. Off season is definitely my best season. By now, I am sick of the smell of frying bacon that seeps into my very pores. I am sick of waiting around for bookings that never show and I am sick of the demanding – and at times flat-out obnoxious, arrogant and disgusting – guests.

  Some people are nice enough, I suppose, but it’s safe to say that the majority aren’t. I guess I’m not really much of a people-person, which, as the proprietor of a guesthouse, puts me squarely in the wrong trade.

  But now, as I lay in Mark Patterson’s double bed in his darkened bedroom, the curtains drawn against the low evening sun, I am happy. And I am happy because Mark is coming home. God, I haven’t seen him in so long, not since Christmas. I miss him so much. His absence is a constant, aching hole in my heart, an empty void of longing that only his quirkily handsome, most cherished face can fill.

  And maybe this time he’s missed me, too. Maybe these ten months away from me have made him realise that he has been in love with me his whole life and has only just realised it…

  Yeah, right. But a girl can always dream, can’t she? Besides, it would seem that someone else has well and truly got her claws into him now.

  Sighing, I sit up on the bed, gazing around the darkened room. The décor has remained untouched for the best part of twenty-one years. When I say untouched, I mean it hasn’t changed in style, but it has had touch-ups here and there. A fresh lick of paint. The damp and mould seen to. Regular cleaning and airing.

  Most of Mark’s stuff has long gone from this room. There was never much of Mark in this room, anyway, seeing as he spent almost the entirety of his adolescence at boarding school, only coming home for holidays. There is even less of him in here now. But I can still feel him, the ghost of the boy he used to be.

  As a child, he never got the chance to put his personal stamp on his bedroom, as he was very rarely in it. As such, the room has always been very grown-up in tone. The walls are whitewashed, the floorboards bare, the furniture sturdy, beautifully restored pieces that are at least one-hundred years old. At least his dark blue, zigzag duvet still adorns the bed. I wash it every few weeks or more, alternating it with his other, childhood duvet covers, depending on how often I have been lying on it. It is the only bit of the room that even hints that a teenaged boy may have once resided in here.

  I could stay here for hours more yet – I often do – but I need to get back. Mark is coming home tomorrow, I remind myself, my stomach lurching in excitement. And, as such, I must spend the night preparing. Not his house, or my own, but myself. I look a mess, I decide. It’s small wonder he’s never fancied me.

  He usually goes for statuesque brunettes with more than a hint of the exotic, and I am a pear-shaped, vertically-challenged, dishwater blonde. I have recently lightened my fine, shoulder-length hair, but I can’t say that I now suddenly feel like a blonde bombshell. Also, my pale complexion is all-but allergic to the sun’s rays. In fact, I think I am allergic. I just have to look at the sun and I break out in a heat rash and start blistering. My skin is almost transparent, which, I suppose, is fitting, because I am completely invisible in the romantic sense to the only man I have ever loved.

  I stand up and catch sight of my reflection in the full-length mirror on the dark wardrobe door. I am as pale as a ghost, my face plain and mournful. I am not wearing any makeup today, and I fancy that right then I look much older than my thirty-five years. I wouldn’t say that I am ugly, per se, but my features are bland. My eyes – the same shade of pale blue as Mark’s – are perhaps my most striking feature, but that’s not saying much. There is nothing remarkable about them; they
aren’t too wideset, close together, or especially large. My nose is short and kind of puddingy, my lips quite thin, yet with a slightly protruding bottom lip, giving me the appearance of a constant state of petulance when my face is in repose. My jawline is narrow, my cheekbones flat and my forehead large, which I disguise with a wispy fringe – the fringe only being wispy because I don’t have any choice in the matter, it is just the way my hair is. There is a bland softness about my face, a lack of definition that makes me feel very ordinary. Occasionally, some kind men have described my face as delicate and ethereal, as possessing an endearing childlike quality – but I think they were only being kind because they were horny that day and figured they’d had a chance of bedding me.

  Invariably, they figured wrong, for I only have eyes for Mark.

  I wander out into the hallway, keen to get away from my dreary reflection, my footsteps inordinately loud to my own ears in the long and wide hallway. Mark’s house – or rather, Mark’s dead parents’ house, is only two doors down from mine. All the houses along Grange Road are three-stories and Edwardian. My place is a six-bedroomed Bed and Breakfast with separate living accommodation for me downstairs, the size of which equates to the equivalent of a small, one-bedroomed flat that occupies a good portion of the downstairs floor. The Patterson’s place is four-bedroomed, but that’s only because Mark’s folks renovated the house and they knocked through two of the bedrooms.

  It is also a hell of a lot grander. Out in the hallway, the floor is the same gleaming dark oak that runs through the entirety of the house, save for the downstairs hallway which is comprised of black and white tiles. A chandelier hangs from the high ceiling – there are chandeliers everywhere in this house, apart from in Mark’s old bedroom and the room he now uses as a studio.

  All the houses along Grange Road were built with sweeping staircases, and Mark’s is especially exquisite. The steps of my staircase at home are pale wood, the bannister simple in design and painted white. But in Mark’s house, the steps have been stripped back to the original stone and gleam as if lit from within, looking more like they should belong in The Tate Modern, rather than an ordinary home. I also remember, when I had been ten to Mark’s eleven, his parents had installed the beautiful, elaborately-carved, wrought-iron bannister that had cost more than my mum made in a year with The Atlantic View.