Two Doors Down: A twisted psychological thriller Read online

  “Okay. My painting is calling me. See you.”

  And yet again, he is shutting the door in my face.

  TWENTY-THREE

  When I shut the front door behind me, the heavens open. Distant thunder rumbles, and I shiver. I lean against the door, feeling the full force of the rain pounding against my back, reverberating through my body where it lashes against the wood panelling.

  Bertie runs towards me, his little paws scrabbling noisily on the wooden floor, making this funny wuffing noise that is part woof, part distinctly human-sounding grumble.

  “Looks like it’s just you and me, boy.”

  I lean down to ruffle his fur, and he pants and smiles approvingly. Another clap of thunder permeates the air and I flinch, as does Bertie, who also whimpers. Unlike most dogs, he doesn’t mind storms too much, but he does tend to momentarily cower.

  The rain teems down and I am feeling distinctly restless, yet also anxious and bored. The day stretches out endlessly before me and I suddenly don’t quite know where to put myself or what to do.

  Sighing, I kick off my boots, then aimlessly wander into the living-room, where I look distractedly around myself. My gaze settles upon the small bookshelf on the far wall, nestled between the door to the bathroom and my small, walk-in closet.

  Lying on the top shelf of the neat row of books that comes up to my waist is my Kindle. I pick it up and wander over to my faded, floral armchair in the bay window, my eyes glued to the screen all the while as it comes to life.

  Tucking my legs up beneath me in my favourite chair, the rain lashing down hard against the windowpane next to my head, I type Sam West into the search bar. I’ve stalked most of her titles that are available on Amazon through my laptop, and I’ve read most of the ‘look insides’ on offer, but this is the first time that I’ve looked at Sam West with the intention of buying one. I dither, flitting between titles. I want to read something that is set in Broadgate, and several of them are.

  I am deeply disturbed that one of her novellas, Her Father’s Mistake, is a blatant fictionalised account of the horrendous events that took place in real life, next door to Blythe’s shop, no less, in that ghastly tourist attraction, I Can’t Believe It’s True.

  If rumour is to be believed, a wronged employee of said attraction, with a literal axe to grind, dressed up as the waxwork of the Broadgate Butcher, and proceeded to slaughter the acting manager’s daughter and her friends during an illicit, out-of-hours party held inside the macabre waxwork model section.

  I shudder. That one feels way too close to home and I’m not sure that I can face it. Instead, I opt for Writers Retreat, the main character of which is clearly based on Simon Langdon, the notorious, reclusive writer from the seventies and eighties, who was Broadgate’s answer to Clive Barker. Except, in her book, she hasn’t called him by his real name of Simon Langdon, but has renamed him Cillian Smith.

  It doesn’t explicitly say so, but the B and B in question – where her not-so-fictional character, Cillian Smith holds this writers’ retreat in his supposed family home – is clearly meant to be on Grange Road. I’m pretty sure that the real-life horror writer, Simon Langdon never had a B and B in Broadgate, but then, I couldn’t say for sure. I don’t read horror novels or watch horror films, and I have no interest in cult figures from the horror genre, fictional or otherwise. My Kindle gets a lot of use, but that is only for the romances I devour. Specifically, I favour stories where the boy realises that he has been in love with his best friend all along – When Harry Met Sally in literary form. I am only thirty-five, it might happen to me yet…

  Yeah, sure. No chance for you now the glamour model and horror writer extraordinaire has stolen his heart…

  I push aside the sneering little voice, and download Writers’ Retreat. As I read so much, I subscribe to the kindle unlimited programme, and more than get my money’s worth out of it. Yet this is my first foray into horror. Fittingly, the storm rages beyond the window – the perfect accompaniment to a horror story – and I swivel my head to gaze at the sheets of rain cascading down the window like a waterfall. Bertie lets out a long, noisy huff at my feet, content to stretch out on the floor.

  And so I begin to read:

  WRITER’S RETREAT

  BY

  SAM WEST

  CHAPTER ONE

  2 Weeks Earlier

  Faith Logan stared at the link an acquaintance had sent her over Facebook – an update in the ‘news’ section on the mighty Cillian Smith’s official website:

  Calling all horror writers! Come join Cillian Smith in his metaphorical haunted castle on the hill for one terror-filled weekend that will unlock your mind and get your creative juices flowing. The Master of Horror himself will guide you through the writing process, ensuring that you channel your inner, literary beast. Under his guidance, you will go on to produce a work of fiction that will result in guaranteed commercial success. Yes, guaranteed, or your money back! Applicants are asked to submit a piece of work of a minimum of five thousand words so that Cillian himself can assess your potential. The successful applicants will be personally handpicked by Cillian and invited along for the once-in-a-lifetime-opportunity to the master’s lair in the seaside town of Broadgate. On the weekend commencing Friday, September 21st, you will stay with Cillian in his own home and embark on his devilish writing course, free of charge. Apply now for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to become a bestselling author. The winners will be picked up and taken to the secret location in Cillian’s hometown of Broadgate. Please see submission details below.

  Well, that’s really quite something, Faith thought in awe. She continued to stare at the red text against the black background long after she had finished reading, a little bubble of excitement expanding in her stomach. Just think; an entire weekend with the one and only Cillian Smith, a writer and movie director whose creativity and genius she admired above all others. In her eyes – and in the eyes of a lot of other people – the man was nothing short of a god.

  There has to be a catch, she thought, chewing her bottom lip and frowning at the screen of her laptop. Why would he even do this? As well as being one of the most admired and respected living horror writers by fans and those in the publishing industry alike, he was also famous for being a recluse. The very idea of him living with a bunch of Cillian-Smith-obsessed, wannabe-writers for an entire weekend was nothing short of nuts.

  I guess it’s just a publicity stunt. A way to boost his image, or something.

  Yeah, that made sense. The chances were, it wasn’t even a house that he owned himself; his PR team were probably just renting out one of those famous, sleazy guesthouses on the seafront for the sake of this bizarre publicity stunt. Sure, the man was rumoured to have been born and raised in Broadgate – apparently there were a couple of pubs named after him in the town and once a month the local cinema put on a midnight showing of the early nineties classic ‘Shadow Games’ based on his bestselling book of the same name – but he had spent his entire adult life in America. As far as she was aware, the man himself had moved away from his hometown in the eighties, never to return.

  I should so enter this, she decided. A little shiver of excitement coursed through her. Why the hell not? She checked the date written at the top of the announcement; two weeks from now. That gave her plenty of time to polish and send off her ten-thousand-word, short horror story, ‘The Devil’s Whore’.

  Before she knew what she was doing, she was opening up Word and scrolling through her documents. Smiling to herself, she began to read…

  CHAPTER TWO

  NOW

  It had all happened so fast, from firing off her manuscript, to receiving the email from Cillian’s ‘people’ announcing that she, along with four others, had won the competition. On stating that yes, she would indeed be available for that weekend, she had received further instructions from Cillian’s anonymous PR team. She was instructed to pack just as she would for two nights away at a hotel, and that all her expenses wou
ld be covered one-hundred percent. She was told that she would be picked up from her flat in Bethnal Green, London, (which she shared with two other girls – also teachers and her friends from University) at eight p.m. on Friday, September 21st and delivered to Cillian Smith’s ‘home’ in Broadgate. She would be transported back home on Sunday night in time for school on Monday. The email also informed her that she was not, under any circumstances, to disclose the location of Cillian’s home to anyone to keep it secret from the press. If she did, then she would forfeit her place in the competition. Only herself and the taximan were to know the address. And she was not to tell the taximan about the competition in case he went to the press.

  It seemed a bit like overkill to her, but then, she supposed she understood that Cillian Smith needed to be shielded from photographers lurking outside the windows and following his every move.

  We have to be almost there, now, she thought, as she gazed out of the taxi window. The sights of Broadgate promenade assaulted her eyes – it was nine p.m. on a Friday night so the seafront was getting into the full swing of things with its drunken party revellers. Groups of mainly all-males and all-females staggered up and down the wide pavement that ran parallel to the infamous, short stretch of beach that was separated by the wide, main road. The whole place had an air of despondency about it, of neglect and sadness. The people were laughing, but to Faith, they didn’t seem happy. They seemed manic, like they had left their brains and morals behind to party at the end of the world where the usual rules didn’t apply.

  “It’s a shame that Broadgate has gone to the dogs,” the old taximan said. “Used to be a right lovely place, it did. Sure, it’s not as shiny as Brighton, or Blackpool even, and it ain’t got none of that bucket and spade, seaside-kitsch appeal of Margate. But the beach is good, and the architecture pisses rings ‘round the lot of ‘em, I reckon. A real pity it’s turned into a dumping ground for the DSS lot and all those ex-mental-health patients getting rehabilitated into the community. You, know, pedos and stuff,” he added helpfully.

  “Yeah,” she said, wishing that he would just shut up.

  The taximan was a typical London cabbie, in that boy, could he talk. She hadn’t told him anything personal about herself – as far as he was concerned, she was meeting up with ‘friends’ in Broadgate for the weekend. He hadn’t pushed her for more details, but neither had he stopped talking for the full, one-and-a-quarter-hour drive.

  “But it’s rough here, ‘specially at night. A lot rougher than Blackpool, and that hellhole sees more than its fair share of dramas of a night, especially with the hen and stag crowd. But it’s ten times worse here, so you watch yourself if you go out at night.”

  “I will,” she said absently, her gaze drawn to a plump girl in a miniscule skirt and high heels, bending over and puking in the gutter. Classy, she thought in distaste.

  “You much of a gambler?” he asked.

  “Not really.”

  “They call this place the Vegas of the south. Apparently, there’s more amusement arcades per square inch here than there is in Blackpool. Sure, Broadgate is a lot smaller than Blackpool, but it still don’t get the holiday plebs like it should. No bastard comes here anymore – if they make it down this far, they all piss off to Margate or Broadstairs instead.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, look, we’ve arrived.”

  The taximan pulled up on the double yellow lines outside the last house on the seafront before the road veered sharply to the right and into the heart of the town. She peered past the considerable bulk of the taximan up at Cillian Smith’s supposed ‘place of residence’. It was a four-story, Victorian end-of-terrace, and was typical of the architectural style of Broadgate. It might’ve been painted pink, but it was hard to tell in the streetlights. Most of the houses that looked like this one had big, hotelier signs hanging over the lower bay windows, with names like ‘Sunnyside’ and ‘Ocean View’, but not this house.

  She frowned up at the big house, confused. Surely Cillian Smith didn’t really live here?

  Maybe he does.

  She didn’t know why it should bother her either way, but a distant, bad feeling niggled at the back of her mind…

  A particularly loud clap of thunder drags me out of the story and I flinch, my gaze instinctively jerking in the direction of the window. I can see nothing but wet out there. Bertie too, jerks upright onto all fours.

  “It’s alright boy,” I say, rubbing his flank with my be-socked foot. He leans into me, before collapsing onto his front legs.

  He settles down after a minute or two, and I return to the story of this Cillian Smith, who is undoubtedly a thinly-veiled version of the real-life writer, Simon Langdon.

  *

  I raise my gaze from my Kindle an hour or so later. Despite it not remotely being my preferred genre, the writing was smooth enough and the story was engaging. The descriptions of Broadgate are spot on, and it is always interesting to read a book set in your own hometown.

  But as for the story itself – despite it being technically sound – is utterly repulsive. Just God, some of the stuff she came up with… What kind of mind could even think of it? I’m no prude, but her mix of sex and violence is a whole other level.

  Now that I think of it, I am reminded of a documentary I watched very recently, where a bunch of talking heads were discussing why the iconic film, ‘A Clockwork Orange’ was banned upon release. The consensus was, it wasn’t banned because it was filled with gratuitous sex and violence – it was banned because it made rape seem like jolly good fun. Stanley Kubrick comes to mind because her book makes less-than-subtle comparisons to Kubrick, with one of the main – but side – characters that Cillian Smith is friends with.

  Her talent is obvious, and that irks me more than anything, for I so wanted her to be rubbish. But my disgust is born of more than just envy – my revulsion is genuine.

  There is something deeply, badly wrong with Holly Butler, of that I am certain.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Mark is inside me, my legs wrapped around his back, urging him in deeper. My arms are wrapped tightly around his shoulders, one hand entwined in his hair. His face nuzzles my neck as he plunders my insides. I am in a state of bliss, I never want this moment to end.

  On some level, I know that this is just a dream, but I cling onto Mark for dear life. I cling to the fantasy. If I hold onto him hard enough, then maybe, just maybe, I can make it real…

  The strangest sensation curls around me, penetrating the fog of blissful lust, the vaguest, most unsettled feeling that something is off. Mark feels…different. He feels bulkier above me, the waist that my thighs are wrapped around that much thicker, the texture of his hair in my palm coarser, his neck and upper shoulders broader…

  Mark groans into my neck. Except it isn’t Mark anymore.

  The man – the stranger – who is still ball-deep inside me, rears up onto his arms, his hands planted either side of my head on the bed.

  The moonlit face above mine is Bill’s.

  He smiles down at me, although it is less a smile and more a cruel smirk. His dark eyes glitter and the bulk of his dark blonde hair has escaped from his ponytail, flopping onto his broad forehead, lending him the appearance of a wild, savage beast. Sweat sheens his skin, highlighting the worked-out, rippling muscles that undulate across his shoulders and chest in time with his thrusting hips and the way in which he is holding himself up on his haunches.

  He is mesmerizing – so much so that I have forgotten to be upset over the fact he is no longer Mark.

  Mesmerizing, that is, until he speaks:

  Look Claire. Look at them.

  With those words, his weight is no longer crushing me, inside of me, and I find myself being tugged upwards, deftly flipped over, manoeuvred onto all fours and turned around, my body powerless in his strong arms.

  I gasp in a mix of pleasure, pain and fear when he enters me from behind, pushing all the way in with one hard, aggressive thrust. One hand grip
s my hips, holding me steady, the other entwining in my hair, tugging back my head so that the skin of my throat feels stretched taut, as if I could be strangled by my own skin.

  His voice drifts around my head, as if it is coming from everywhere, all at once.

  Look, Claire.

  With the way my head is yanked backwards, I have very little choice in the matter.

  And I see.

  Mark and Holly are standing at the foot of my pull-out bed, naked, entwined together and writhing. Holly is gracefully balanced on one leg, the other wrapped around Mark’s waist. His hand is splayed on her buttocks and thigh, holding her in place. Simultaneously, they break off the kiss, both of them twisting their heads to look at me.

  Have they been standing there the whole time? But wasn’t Mark fucking me just now? Bill continues to plunder me from behind, and, with each hard thrust, it is as if my thoughts turn even more sluggish and slow, my brain shutting down further.

  Mark and Holly are bathed in the ghastly white moonlight. It illuminates their pale, sweat sheened skin, throwing their slim, perfect bodies into stark composites of light and shadow.

  How is the moon so bright in my bedroom? I wonder absently.

  When Bill yanks back my head so hard I fear that it is going to snap clean off my neck, I get my answer. I am not staring up at the ceiling of my living-room, but at an uninterrupted view of the clear night sky. And in that sky, hangs a too large, too luminous moon, bathing Mark and Holly, and what remains of my living-room, in a ghastly, bright glow.

  Bill lets go of my hair and my head drops, dangling limply downwards on my neck. I watch my bouncing, swinging breasts, too weak and helpless to do anything else. It is all I can do not to collapse on my front with the force of his thrusts.