I wanted to participate in Becca’s Blogtoberfest at www.ladyornot.com so I chose to write a horror short. This is both my first crack at horror and my first short story. Part II will be posted Sunday morning. (“Fay” will be posted on Saturday as usual, and “Wall Grimm” resumes every other day beginning Monday). Would love to hear some feedback on my first attempt at horror. Thanks for following and have a look at Becca’s blog!
“The Stalker” Part I
by Sage Doyle
The pavement was laid before him in a maze of cracks and niches, unlevel foot paths, and pits dropping to the street or into the gutter. Time spent with his mother manifested an emotional standpoint similar to the sidewalk. She pressed him about his mourning, or lack thereof. His deceased girlfriend Cara spread over his life during the course of the last four years since his age of twenty-three. Her absence was less a vacancy, but more of a thickening, like rain in an open grave. Eventually the grave would become a gaping hole filled with mud. Allan never cried nor showed remorse or pain. Instead, he put the entire relationship and her death out of his mind as much as he possibly could.
After five months following Cara’s death, Allan moved to a new town and began a new job. He was endeavoring, as we all do at one time or another, to start over, begin anew. Surrounding himself with different people and environments had the potential to be a good thing, in many circumstances, but for Allan, it was an attempt to escape. Allan didn’t know that avoidance was an impossibility.
Seeing his mother was always a trial, and retreat was a necessary liberation. This time was particularly trying since it was his first visit back to his old town, assaulted by old memories upon his return. He aimed to think of positive things, such as the girl he recently met. She was a pretty thing at his new job and he had a date with her that evening. He didn’t know as he walked along the pavement that he would learn the news about her brutal murder the following day. By tomorrow this time, she would be found by her own mother, having not only been strangled, but the perpetrator’s thumbs would also have forced their way into the crevice at the bottom of her neck. His thumbs penetrated and tore apart her pretty throat.
Allan was questioned by police, since he was the last person known to see her alive. They eliminated him as a suspect, yet this was only the first of the murders that followed Allan in his new town. While Allan’s landlord was away on business, his wife needed Allan to help her move boxes out to a truck, which he drove to storage, and unloaded the boxes into her unit. She was slashed up with a box cutter. Her face was butchered to an unrecognizable degree. Again Allan was questioned by police. A psychological interrogation as well as a polygraph test, which Allan willingly submitted to, proved him to be innocent once again.
The homicides which ensued involved no personal connection to Allan, apart from brief, insignificant interactions. A cashier at the liquor store winked at him as he was collecting his bottle of wine and turning to leave. She was asphyxiated with a plastic bag, while her wrists were bound behind her to her ankles with packaging tape. Seven other barbarous yet apparently random killings occurred shortly after Allan chanced upon the victims. It seemed as if the only woman he encountered who was not murdered was his mother, as the homicides took place over the course of a month and he had seen his mother regularly during that time. Allan began to be a little suspect, since his mother was by nature a cruel and often sadistic woman. She gave birth to Allan when she was fifteen years old, and had always requested that Allan call her by her first name of Gwen. Gwen despised Cara, and at the start of Allan’s relationship with Cara, Gwen did everything in her power to destroy it. She created a chain of rumors brilliantly reaching Cara’s knowledge, suggesting Allan’s lies and infidelities. Allan was a good natured, honest boy, regularly a victim of both Cara and Gwen as they competed and battled until the day Cara died.
Ten women died within the month, excluding Allan’s mother. Allan became paranoid and began to suspect his mother was stalking him. Everywhere he went, he thought he saw her. Every time he spoke with a woman, he cringed. He began to avoid people all together, apart from his job and mundane errands. But he avoided eye contact or any other form of connection at all costs. He interacted as little as possible. He was always shy, but now he was becoming a social recluse. Life’s responsibilities made him incapable of physically obscuring himself inside his apartment, rather, he withdrew into his mind.
One day, when a young woman was moving into the apartment above him, she came into the building shortly after him carrying a heavy box. After trying the elevator, during which time Allan was first collecting mail, then shuffling his fingers to retrieve the key for his apartment door, she said “Does this elevator work?”
Allan’s heart began to pound. She was so attractive. Her voice was like a sad melody and he was not prepared for the desire that overtook him. He tried not to look in her direction, but the subtle aroma of her perfume gently approached him. It was both musky and sweet, like a healthy sweat, like the scent of arousal.
He said quietly, “N-no, it’s getting repaired tomorrow.”
She began walking up the stairs with the box and Allan glanced up, following her departure with his eyes. She had long, lovely legs reaching out from beneath a short skirt and the whip of the material as she went upstairs revealed lacy, pale mauve panties. He took a moment to absorb that vision discretely, until he once again became paranoid, glancing around, then rushing into his apartment.
Allan listened for a couple of hours as the girl lumbered up and down the stairs. First he paced. Then he played music to distract himself, but he couldn’t avoid the fact that an offer of assistance was no simple matter. Something like that could instigate her demise. Allan circled his kitchen aimlessly, forcing his fingers through his hair and rubbing his face. As he began to degrade himself for his absurdity, his self-badgering was interrupted when she knocked on his door. Allan couldn’t breathe. He wanted to pretend he wasn’t home but he was certain she heard his music, which he quickly turned off upon her knocking.
“Hello?” She called in, “I was wondering if you could help me, it won’t take long.”
There was a pause and he began to sweat. Allan’s heart pounded and thumped, provoking a laborious reverberation within his chest. As the blood pushed into his brain, his head began to throb. Why was he so vain as to think that the murders even remotely pertained to him? It had been two weeks since the last murder. Two weeks also since he made any sort of connection with anyone. Allan began to think that the patterns did not suggest a correlation. After all, he did associate with this pretty girl, just enough by looking up at her panties and becoming aroused. That was two hours ago. By rights, she should already be dead now. Allan slowly opened the door with sweaty palms slipping from the door knob…
click here for part II http://wp.me/p2DnTA-gf