A brief note: This is a horror story. It’s not supernatural horror, but rather entirely real and horrible horror. It contains a few profanities, and if you’ve been enjoying the Scarlet stories, please be warned, this is quite different. 

She was cold. It was cold. It was, in fact, bloody freezing. She thought she had a headache, but she couldn’t be sure, because she couldn’t actually feel her head. She lifted it, and groaned, and threw up. Nothing in there except bile, but plenty of that came out, pooling on the grass. Smelled funny.

She could barely move, the thumping so insistent the rest of the world meant nothing. No sounds, nothing coming through. She rolled out of the hedge, and staggered around, until she stood at the foot of the driveway. She clenched her vagina so hard she thought it would close up permanently, but it made no difference. She could still feel him.

The bag hit the floor. Her hand came up, knife wrapped in whitened knuckles. She was dead. She was about to be free. She giggled, and stared at the knife. Where had she got it from, and why the hell did it have string around it?

She was standing in front of the door, round the back of the house. The cat flap cracked open and a small grey cat emerged, sniffing the dawn air. She knelt, holding out a hand, and it sniffed it, before mioawing peacefully and twining between her legs. She knew its name. Somewhere. Not now though.

She tried the door. It was locked. She bent, lifting the flowerpot, and pulled out the spare. She went inside, closing the door softer than a feather behind her. Not a peep from upstairs. Maybe. All she could hear was thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump drip. There was blood on the floor, what was that doing there?

© Mike Chytracek | Dreamstime Stock Photos

She stepped into the house, sniffing through the blood. She could smell it, the absence of her. And cold, and the smell a house got when it stopped being a home. It hadn’t been home for years, even the social worker had said so. ‘This just isn’t a home anymore, Tom, Sandra, you need to make it a home, just for the kids, at least.’

Tom. He’d never let her call him that, even after she refused to call him dad.

She knew the route up the stairs, missing out the creaking steps, and across the landing to his bedroom door. They slept in separate beds. Even when she was really young she knew it was weird. Handy though, now.

She lifted the knife, staring at it in the dim light creeping through the curtain. It was so simple. Why hadn’t she done this before she died? Oh yeah, she’d have gone to prison. Now though, well, they couldn’t send a ghost to prison, could they? Who was Lucy Tenor? Why did that name sound so familiar? Was she a friend, back when she was alive?

The bedroom door whispered open, and she slipped in, closing it behind her. He was a lump in the bed, asleep, helpless. He wasn’t threatening. He couldn’t be, not now, not now she was a ghost. A ghost with a knife. She giggled.

She was beside the bed, staring down at his face. He looked so young when he slept, all the lines gone, even the angry ones that never seemed to leave his forehead. Would he know why she did it?

The knife came up, and then down, and his eyes shot open, but she raised it again, and one of them vanished, replaced by a splash of red. She wiped her nose, and brought the knife down again, and again, and kept wiping her nose, as more blood appeared. She should apologise, she was going to ruin the sheets.

Someone was screaming and she smelled smoke.

The light was so bright, she didn’t dare open her eyes. But the throbbing was gone. She smiled, beatific, and sighed. She must have gone up, gone to heaven. She’d imagined she’d haunt somewhere, his grave maybe. But she couldn’t complain, heaven was a just reward for what she’d done…

Voices, coming closer. ‘He’s alive, Mrs Picket, but there’s very little likelihood he’ll be the man you knew. I’m sorry, the brain damage will be too severe.’

‘And her?’

Silence for a moment. Was she, her? Who else would it be?

‘She should make a full recovery, but the police will want to speak with her, of course.’

‘Of course. What happened to her?’

‘She had concussion, very bad concussion, and I would guess, some form of post traumatic stress reaction, triggered by the explosion.’

‘She cut off her hair.’

‘Yes, Mrs Picket, though I’m not sure that’s the most extreme thing she did.’

More silence. Mum knew, she knew everything. ‘Actually, nurse, I think you’ll find that was. I’ll wait with her.’

‘Yes, well, the police will be here soon, I’m sure.’

‘Thank you.’

A hand touched her face, stroking her brow. ‘Sally, my love, what did you do?’

Her eyes cracked open, and a smile crossed her face. ‘I’m not Sally, my name’s Natasha.’

A brief note: This is a horror story. It’s not supernatural horror, but rather entirely real and horrible horror. It contains a few profanities, and if you’ve been enjoying the Scarlet stories, please be warned, this is quite different. 

There was something strange about the train. She was going home, just as she’d done before, only not. She laid her head back against the train seat and took deep breaths. She felt worse this morning; her headache was constant, however still she remained, and she hadn’t managed to keep breakfast down. Buying the right ticket had been a task requiring supreme concentration, and even then she’d dropped the twenty three times before getting it into the slot.

She’d done the trip just enough for the familiar fields, and pylons, and rows of gardens, to bring up that nostalgic feeling really crappy, manipulative movies gave you. Only, in the movies, every garden didn’t have one of those outdoor trampolines in. She giggled, and felt warmth on her lip. She touched it, and her finger came away with blood on it. The woman opposite, who’d spent the first five minutes staring until Natasha glared at her, pulled a packet of tissues from her pocket and offered her one.

She took it, nodding and trying a smile. The lady smiled back, one of those ‘well, well, isn’t it a shame’ sort of looks that made Natasha want to pull the knife out of her bag and have at her. She bit her lip instead, and scrubbed the blood off, before holding it to her nose. She never got nosebleeds, and neither did Sally.

‘Are you alright, deary?’

Oh god, she actually wanted to talk. Apart from her momentary career as a non-hooker, she hadn’t spoken in over a week. She wasn’t sure she still knew how. ‘Uh, uh, fine, yes, fine, uh.’

Turned out she did, sort of. The woman narrowed her eyes, but nodded, and came again with the smile. Natasha slipped her free hand into her bag and felt the knife, stroking the thick handle, the roughness of the string she’d wound around it. They never used string in murder movies, but why not? Worried about finger prints? Easy, wrap it in string, then burn it off.

She shook her head, and giggled again. The tissue was soaked, and the lady offered her another one, but she should probably go to the loo and have a look. God, the train’s bloody wobbling all over the place. She bumped her way down the aisle, hips cushioning most of the blows, hand still cupped over her nose.

© Marc Johnson | Dreamstime Stock Photos

What was wrong with her eyes? The mirror was one of those tiny, thin things, you couldn’t see you whole face in, but she could see her eyes, sunken and bloodshot. She looked like a druggy, which wasn’t a bad idea, way she was feeling. She bowed her head, staring in wonder at the short tufts of hair. They wouldn’t recognise her now, even if she did show up. And hey, she’d got two hundred pounds and it was a snip at the price. Hah, that was good.

She looked at her nose, taking her hand away, and blood seeped down and dripped into the sink. Natasha hauled reams of loo roll out and smothered her nose, then dropped it into the toilet and grabbed more. She stood, head tipped back, leaning against the door, until a knock on the other side made her jump, and shriek in pain as her head pounded and thumped.

She opened the lock, grabbed more loo roll, then staggered back down the carriage. The woman opposite was gone. She slumped in her seat, and tipped her head back, smelling smoke and charred flesh, and screaming. No, she heard the charred flesh, surely, you don’t smell flesh.

They were here, wherever here was. Home, not home, just another place. Only dad was here. She fingered the knife as she stepped down from the train. The bleeding had stopped, but now the world was spinning, and she had to sit on a bench for a while.

It was night time, which was strange, because she’d caught the morning train. ‘Come on, love, out you go?’

She peered up at the man in the uniform, and nodded absently. She stood, and saw the sign, and went cold. She was in Stevenage, why was she in Stevenage, he was here, she had to get back to London, where were the bloody trains? She grabbed her bag, feeling the hardness within, and her heart slowed. Of course, that’s why she was here. Just a flying visit, to pay respects. Heh.

The guy was doing everything except shoving her, so she concentrated on walking a straight line out of the station, and onto the wet pavement. When had it rained? The taxis were waiting and she flagged one, dropping into the back like a sack of potatoes. She mumbled her postcode and watched the same old streets amble by. The driver could probably have gone slower, but only if he got out and pushed.

Where was her money? She needed to pay for the taxi. She shoved her hand into the bag and found the knife. Of course, she didn’t have to pay for anything now, she was dead. She giggled, making faces into the rear view mirror. He couldn’t see her, you can’t see ghosts, everyone knew that. She patted her jacket pocket and felt the wallet and opened her mouth as wide as it would go, moving it from side to side, staring at her reflection with wide eyes.

‘Sorry, love, any chance you stop doing that please, can’t see the road?’

Her mouth snapped shut, and she put her finger to her lips, shaking her head vigorously. She giggled, rocking back and forth.

‘Eer, love, you alright? You want me to drop you at the hospital?’

She felt her nose, and the blood that had just erupted from it. She shook her head, and he shrugged and kept going. He might have mumbled, ‘well, keep it off me bloody seats then,’ but probably not. He definitely did mumble. ‘Bloody ghosts, can’t trust em with nothing, these days.’

They entered her street and she piled out, shoving some money across the front seats. She almost left her bag, but he grabbed it and handed it to her. She snatched it from him, cradling it to her chest like a baby, and smiling. The blood was dripping from her lip, and she scrubbed it off with one hand, and stomped down the street.

She could smell smoke again, and hear noises, the crash of the glass and the screams. The hedge in front of her old house was made of huge fir trees and she crawled beneath them and closed her eyes.

Next Instalment: Monday 27th January

A brief note: This is a horror story. It’s not supernatural horror, but rather entirely real and horrible horror. It contains a few profanities, and if you’ve been enjoying the Scarlet stories, please be warned, this is quite different. 

It was dark, which wasn’t surprising because it was night, although she’d have been hard pressed to say when the day had ended. She was leaning against a wall, peering up and down Greek street and just deciding what to eat, when a man came up to her, baseball cap pulled down low over his face.

‘Ello love, how much for French?’

She stared at him for a moment, wondering what the hell french was, and where he got off calling her love, when she realised, and giggled. He scowled and she giggled harder. ‘Ain’t funny, just gimme the fucking price.’

Now her sides were hurting and she was bending over, sucking in breaths, and his panting was suddenly hot against her cheek. ‘Come on, love, don’t take the piss.’

She shook her head, gasping, and put a hand up, begging for the time to find her breath. He stepped back and she managed to blurt it out between heaves. ‘Sorry, I’m not a prostitute, sorry, really.’

He stared at her for a second, then scowled again and stomped away. She turned the other way and out onto Oxford street. What did she do? What could she do? She tried to remember what she’d come to London for, but there was a blank. Every time she went back, she felt the heat again, and the noise. God, her ears were still ringing. It had been like someone dumped a skip full of glass and crockery and bricks on the floor, from a thousand feet up, right next to her ear.

She hadn’t been able to hear the ambulance man when he spoke to her, just nodded as he led her over to the ambulance, and sat her on the back and checked her out, shaking his head in amazement. A stretcher had gone past, and the wind had lifted the sheet, and she so clearly remembered seeing the boy, maybe ten or twelve, but his chest was gone, just gone, and Oxford Street blurred suddenly and she wrapped her arms around herself until she stopped shaking.

Where was her hair? She patted her head frantically, finding the short ends and groaning. The tears came again and she bent at the waist, hugging herself. Oh, she’d cut it off, yeah, two hundred pounds and a snip at the price. Hah, that was good. Dad would be pissed though, he liked to have something to hold when he…

She sniffed, and stomped, her feet grinding the pavement beneath them. She was dead. She’d died, blown apart in the worst terrorist attack the UK had ever seen, and dad could just whistle for it now. She’d slipped away from the ambulance when someone who needed it more than her arrived and the paramedic turned away to help with clear masks and injections and things that should have been fine, but instead made her need to be far away. So she’d dived around the side of the ambulance, and almost tripped over Lucy.

Lucy must have crawled there, leaving behind a horror-movie-smear of blood and how no one had spotted it yet escaped her, except the air was still so full of dust it was like walking through clouds. And she’d been cold, so she’d taken her jacket, and keys, and left behind an unidentifiable woman’s body, that could just as easily be called Sally Picket as Lucy Tenor, and slipped away, ears ringing.

She was in Leicester square, and the noise was worse than on Oxford Street, like someone hitting a drum next to her ear. She winced, glaring around at the people pushing past, but the noise got worse, and she scampered into the centre, sitting on the big concrete kerbs. She was too short down here, though, and people kept hitting her with bags, so she stood again. It was all so bright.

She squeezed her eyes closed, rubbing them with the fleshy bit of her palm, trying to push away the thumping. It didn’t work. She opened her eyes and stared up at the nearest cinema. Some guy was glaring back at her, fifty feet tall and carrying a gun. She stared back at him, wondering why, in a world where something like Canary Wharf last week could happen, people still wanted to watch violence.

The tag line was ‘They went too far, they went for his family,’  which she could only assume meant he had a nicer family than she did. Or she had. She wasn’t alive anymore, so they weren’t her family. Natasha shook her head, wincing, but doing it anyway. It wasn’t working. However many times she said it, the truth was, he was still out there. She’d loved waking up with everyone thinking she was dead, but what she really wanted was for him to be dead.

She patted her pocket, feeling the wallet, fat with twenties and walked across the square and into the cinema. She got the next viewing of the latest Disney movie, another one-word retelling of something or other, then settled down with popcorn. She spent the entire move trying not to throw up. Why did her head hurt so bloody bad? As the credits rolled, and she leaned back with a sigh of relief, squeezing her eyes closed, the idea slipped in.

It was fully formed, like a baby delivered in the post, everything present and correct, and it made her shudder all over, so hard she gripped the arms of the seat until it stopped. She could do it, of course she could, she was dead now. No one would know it was her, no one would even suspect her. She giggled, and traipsed out the cinema, clutching absently to the empty popcorn tub.

Next Instalment: Friday 24th January