Deadly Encounters Read online

  Deadly Encounters

  An anthology

  Jeannie Wycherley

  Copyright © 2017 Jeannie Wycherley

  Bark at the Moon Books

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 099 578 1818

  ISBN 13: 978-0995781818

  Publishers note: The stories contained herein constitute a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and for effect. Any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the copyright holder.

  DEDICATION

  For my husband, John Wycherley, with all my love.

  So true a fool is love, that in your will,

  Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.

  CONTENTS

  A Conversation with Death

  To The Summer Sweet

  Rural Decay

  Gretel’s Revenge

  An Encounter with Old Duir

  Sink or Swim

  Dog Eared

  Make Do and Mend

  Managing Murder

  Scratching in the Dust

  In Kindness

  The Installation

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  A CONVERSATION WITH DEATH

  Another unbearably warm night. Feeling hot and sticky, in spite of flinging the windows wide before coming to bed, I felt as though I would suffocate in the stuffy air. Beside me, my husband James snored under the pile of covers, but he wasn’t overheating. Something to do with my age then.

  I slipped out of bed and groped blindly around for a discarded t-shirt. A wet nose gently touched my fingers, and I scratched the fuzzy brow of my beloved pooch, Charlie. He lay down again, old now, but contented enough. I would never love a creature more than I did him.

  The clunk of my bamboo wind chime drifted through the windows, signifying a breeze outside. I pulled on my t-shirt and padded through the house, unlocking the patio doors, stepping out onto the decking. I felt the sweat prickle on my skin as it dried. Instant relief.

  Movement at the bottom of the garden.

  I scrutinized the darkness. Nothing to see. A fox? Most likely one of the neighbour’s cats. I walked in bare feet across the lawn to our picnic table and chairs, relishing the slick coolness of the grass between my toes.

  I was almost at the decked area when I noticed the figure sitting in my chair. The hooded black cloak made for wonderful camouflage in the dark. I started in alarm, my heart beating hard in my chest, but the figure raised a hand, not in friendship but as a signal for me to pause. I caught my breath. Waited. A pale finger indicated the chair next to it. My eyes flicked towards the house. Should I make a run for it?

  “Sit.” The voice of a woman. Assured. Calm. I sat.

  “Who are you?” I asked, casting a longing look back over my shoulder at my open bedroom windows. Perhaps my husband would wake up.

  “I am death,” the woman replied.

  The air was still as I processed this. Death? My fingers twitched against the armrests of my seat, and I leaned forward to get a better look at the woman. I still couldn’t see her face, just a pale countenance buried deep beneath the hood of the cloak. She was clearly staring at me though.

  A lunatic, surely?

  “Oh.” Horror movies had taught me how imperative it was to keep the crazy killer talking until help arrived. What does one talk to Death about? “Why are you here?”

  “I’ve come to collect,” she said, her voice low and sincere, almost apologetic. It wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

  “Oh,” I repeated, unsure of what else to say.

  I swayed backwards in my seat and took a deep breath. Would James find my corpse here in the morning? Would he be devastated? I hoped so. But perhaps he would relish his freedom. I had him under false pretences in many ways.

  “False pretences?”

  I looked at Death in horror. Her interest was clearly piqued. But I had not articulated my thoughts aloud.

  A noise that sounded a little like a giggle emanated from deep within the folds of the cloak. “Death is legion. We are many. We know all.”

  “All.” Of course Death would know all. I folded my hands in my lap and looked down at them. In the moonlight, I could see the faint trace of what I had assumed would one day be liver spots, but I should have had another twenty or thirty years ahead of me. Undeserved time, perhaps? This would be my day of reckoning. I had known I would have to face it eventually, and to be honest, lately, the fear of it had been eating away at my insides.

  “Will it hurt?” I asked, “the moment of dying?”

  “Well now. That all depends. On how you die.”

  I thought longingly of James again. Over the years our passion had waned, but he remained the one I always wanted, had fought to be with. I wanted to fling myself down on the grass and beat against the earth, beg for my life, spend more time with him. Appreciate him more.

  “Some people die very painful deaths.” The woman’s contemplative voice interrupted my thoughts. Behind me somewhere, a rope creaked stiffly. I stifled a shriek. In my mind’s eye I could see the dangle of a noose.

  I bit back my fear, took a deep ragged breath of air and stared wildly around at the dark spaces of my garden. “Is she here too?” I whispered, my voice hollow with fear.

  “Who?” asked Death.

  “Cecily.”

  I hadn’t said her name out loud in years. It escaped now. A hiss. A will of the wisp. Hushed words darting nervously around the garden. A firefly set free from the darkest recess of my memory.

  “Something you need to confess?” Death goaded me.

  I thought of Cecily, the way she had been when I first met her in those heady days of college. We had shared a house. Me, her, and my friend Lara.

  “She seemed different to us. A different background. At the time we saw her as … a lower caste … if you like …” It sounded repugnant to me now.

  “I don’t.”

  “No.” I could see that nobody would like it.

  While we spent our money on endless supplies of cut price designer gear and nights out, Cecily wore discount store jeans and t-shirts, checked shirts and trainers, and nothing else. Because she had nothing else. Cecily could pack all of her belongings into a single medium suitcase. She had spent years in foster care because her mother had been a drug addict unable to cope with a daughter she hadn’t wanted in the first place. Cecily moved from pillar to post, but she always adapted. Wherever she went, she took her books and her sunny nature with her. She studied while we partied, and we despised her for it. We treated her badly, yes we did, but she never complained. She was sweet natured and forgiving, and we took advantage of that—counted on her malleability and vulnerability.

  Why? Because Cecily badly wanted friends, and so we gave her our friendship, such as it was, in ways that suited us. Mostly we insisted that she be the one to wash up and tidy up, clean the bathroom, empty the bins, pay certain bills. Low level stuff. Nothing too awful. Then Lara—finding herself up against an impending deadline for an important piece of coursework—coaxed Cecily to write a paper for her. Lara passed her module with flying colours, and after that we both demanded Cecily’s ‘help’. Cecily didn’t like doing it—this cheating—but we insisted.

  Still, Cecily remained sweet tempered and patient, just as she had always been. We took her to parties when she wanted to tag along, which wasn’t often. I didn’t consider her particularly attractive and so didn’t see her as a rival for anyone’s affections. That was my mistake.

  Making a play for
James was hers.

  Tall, athletic, blond, and beautiful, James was my dream man. We had been dating for a few months and everything had been going well. I worked hard at keeping him interested. But then one night at a party, I brought Cecily along and realized he was making eyes at her. I went into the kitchen to pour us drinks, and when I returned, they were huddled together, sharing personal space, his eyes on her mouth, her smiling at his words.

  I sidled in between them. Handed James his drink. Led him away. When he glanced back at Cecily, just that once, I knew I had to do something or lose him forever.

  “He meant everything to me.”

  Death made a snorting noise. “Truly?”

  What was Death getting at? I loved James. I did. But yes, he was from a good family, had great connections. He studied business at University and intended on joining the family firm. A bright future beckoned. I wanted to be part of that future. I had no other ambitions for myself. I intended to have some sort of career, but I didn’t care what road I took. I had no intention of working myself to the bone.

  But if I chose to be totally honest? I guess James was my best hope for the huge house of my dreams, along with an upstanding position in the community.

  I felt Death’s eyes upon me. My palms pricked with fear.

  “He had to be mine. She could have ruined it all.”

  “What did you do?”

  I had been furious. A red mist of anger descended upon me, and although I giggled and flirted with James for the rest of the evening, my mind slowly churned a dense hatred into a pernicious plan. James drank a little too much, and so being the accommodating and dutiful girlfriend that I was, I persuaded him to leave his car in my care and go off clubbing with his friends.

  I roped in Lara, also the worse for wear, and explained what had happened. Being a good friend, she shared my outrage. At the end of the evening, we located Cecily who seemed uneasy. Perhaps she sensed that she had overstepped my mark with James, I don’t know. We coaxed her into the car. Then when it became apparent we weren’t driving home, she questioned me.

  “We thought we’d have a little more fun,” I said and smiled, my face nearly breaking under the duplicity of it all. Cecily settled into her seat, but her eyes were worried.

  I drove us to the Devil’s Stack, a local geological anomaly, and a place I knew well. I had a part time job there, selling ice cream and tourist tat. Under the dark brooding sky, while the clouds chased across the moon, we could make out the enormous boulders that nature had piled on top of each other at some point in earth’s pre-history. The wind blew through the stacks making an eerie sound. Beneath them were an equally odd set of naturally occurring caves. During the day the area teemed with walkers and families having picnics. In the evening, the place remained locked up.

  But not completely. I led my friends down to the entrance of Blue John, a cave known for the brilliance of the blue gems embedded within the stone. I had brought along a flashlight from James’s car, and Lara had her phone. We used these to illuminate the way. Then we spent a little time supposedly goofing around, walking deeper into the cave, although Cecily’s quietness and reluctance to join in was irksome, to say the least. I caught her looking at the exit numerous times.

  Finally, I found what I was looking for. A small enclosed cave used to store postcards and ice cream cones. I unlocked the entrance and moved in first. Lara stepped politely back to allow Cecily through. As soon as Cecily entered the cave, I did an about turn, exited and slammed the wooden door tightly shut, sending the bolt noisily home.

  Lara hooted with laughter at how easy it had all been. Cecily screamed and banged on the door. I put my face to the crack and shouted in, “Stay away from James, you bitch! He belongs to me.”

  “And then we left,” I told Death.

  “What happened to Cecily?”

  I shrugged, non-committal. I chose not to think about it. Someone had found her and set her free. I never saw her again. I assumed she had not completed her degree course.

  A hand shot out and icy fingers cruelly pinched my arm. I saw the scene through Death’s eyes, felt Cecily’s terror.

  The wall of the cave felt rough against my back. Water trickled down from the ceiling, and the weight of hundreds of thousands of tons of solid rock, mere inches from my head, pressed down on me. Surely there was no air? I couldn’t breathe! Claustrophobic and terrified, I moved forward to bang my fists hard against the door, but its solidity defied me. I heard myself on the other side—words that in my panic I couldn’t quite catch. Laughter. Footsteps dying away.

  Alone in the darkness, gasping and weeping, I knelt, searching for the gap between the floor and the door, my fingers scrabbling against the freezing cold stone. In the corner behind me, I heard something move. Shrieking, I pummelled the door harder, then dug my nails into the ground, frantically trying to make the miniscule gap wider—praying it would offer me air and an escape. Something brushed against my face, and I squealed. My bladder released, and my jeans were suddenly warm and wet. A spider. That was all.

  And yet … something kept me company, something I couldn’t see. I heard it breathing. Rasping. An echo of my own tortured breaths. I could sense it moving. I lashed out blindly, wildly flailing my arms around, my clenched fists connecting with the solid walls. Over and over I struck out until my hands were a bloodied, pulpy mess. I screamed and shrieked until my throat felt scratchy and raw, and then, because the pain in my hands throbbed with intensity, I struck the door with my head. Bang. And then again. And again. And again.

  “Help me. Help me.” My voice, a husky whisper, kept time. I would die down here. No-one would come.

  I violently ripped my arm from Death’s grasp and turned away from her. “Someone came. They did.”

  “At nine the next morning.” Yes, someone would open up. It would be a long night for Cecily, nonetheless.

  “She survived! I saw it in the paper.”

  “You saw what exactly?”

  “I saw … I saw …” I shrank away from what I had seen. Death stared me down.

  “She thought she’d been possessed. She killed herself.” My voice broke. “Not long after. She hung herself.” The creaking of her rope had haunted my dreams ever since. I might as well have killed Cecily myself. I’d understood that fact for thirty years. I’d lived with the knowledge buried deep within me. “I needed to have James though. Whatever the cost.”

  Death remained silent.

  I shuddered. “And now you’ve come for me.”

  What awaits us when we pass? How painful will death be? Would I burn in hell for all eternity?

  But Death shook her head, and a familiar figure had scampered up to us. “No,” Death said. “I’ve come for Charlie.” My faithful hound wagged his tail, his eyes shining as he looked happily up at Death. “Your time will come soon enough,” she said to me. “But you’ll suffer on this earthly plane first.” And then Death had gone, and I found myself alone, my mouth open, my heart broken, Charlie suddenly lying motionless at my feet.

  “Zoe?” I slowly turned at the sound of James’s voice. He had crept up behind me, and listened to my conversation with death. Now his face clouded. “Who were you talking to? What did you do to Cecily?”

  TO THE SUMMER SWEET

  Standing by the battered front door, picking at red flaking paint and rotten wood with my thumbnail, I watched the quiet road for signs of life. I tried not to show my impatience as the lawyer’s representative finally slithered up the drive in her slinky woollen suit. Not that she was late, quite the contrary, but I was eager to get down to business.

  I watched her sidestep some tall weeds growing through the cracked slabs of the front path. She trod on a snail, pulled a disgusted face and made a low eww sound before hastily smiling at me and presenting her hand.

  “Dr Crawley?” she asked in a sing-song voice, “I’m Emily Moore from Bartram, Barrett and Lowndes.”

  I took her hand—young, warm, and moist—and shook it wi
th my own cool, dry grip. “Pleased to meet you,” I lied. As if I cared. This woman was a means to an end, that’s all. I could exchange pleasantries of course, but really I would rather not.

  “Are you a medical doctor?” she asked. I rolled my eyes inwardly. Such a predictable question. “No, not as such. I have a PhD in criminology.”

  She drew in her breath excitedly. “Really? How interesting. I would love to have studied something like that at University. Didn’t get the grades.” It didn’t surprise me. I nodded politely. “I love all those shows on the telly, you know, CSI, NCIS, Silent Witness. Any murder mysteries and I’m hooked.” So mundane. I nodded again but didn’t reply. A cloud passed over Emily’s eyes for just a second as she scrutinised me, but she recovered quickly and flashed her smile again.

  “Anyway, enough frivolity. I should take you inside. I have all the paperwork ready for you to sign.” She produced a small bunch of keys from her shoulder bag. They were labelled with a parcel tag that clearly said 14 Sandilands Drive. An address I knew well. Very well. A little thrill pulsed through me.

  Emily turned her key in the main lock and gave a little push. The door was old and the weather had warped the wood so that it stuck, then gave a reluctant shudder when Emily forced it open. She stood back, politely allowing me to enter first. The house was stuffy after being shut up for so long, smelling faintly musty but not damp. All personal possessions were long gone, but the carpets, curtains and some heavier pieces of furniture were still in situ, together with wallpaper that had been on the walls for the best part of forty years, lending a quaint retro feel to the house.

  “Obviously you’re aware that the property hasn’t been inhabited for a long time, Dr Crawley?” she asked. “I believe that your father bought it after the previous owner’s relatives applied to have the estate dissolved.”

  “That’s correct.”’ I said. All my life my parents had lived next door to this property. My father had bought the house after it had stood empty for a number of years. He had harboured the intention of extending his grounds and demolishing this house, but his recent, sudden death had put paid to such plans. Now I had inherited everything, including this house.