Flee
Flee
Supernatural Thriller
Caroline Clark
CazClark.com
Contents
Flee
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Epilogue
The Haunting of Seafield House – Preview.
Also by Caroline Clark
About the Author
Flee
Welcome to my latest book.
I hope you enjoy the story. It was one I wrote a long time ago and decided to re-release.
After a poll of my readers it was decided that I wouldn’t rewrite the book, I did have it edited and I hope you enjoy it.
The boxer on the cover is my first beautiful, brave , and loyal boxer dog Rosie, she is also in the book.
The book is a Supernatural Horror Thriller and a little different to the books I write now. It is still one of my favorite stories.
Caroline Clark
Kindle Edition.
© Copyright Caroline Clark 2019
CazClark.com
Edited by Saundra Wright
* * *
All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Created with Vellum
Prologue
The cold blade caught momentarily as it traveled down her cheek. Its icy touch puckered the pale flesh, and dragged as the steel slid lower.
A scream tore from trembling lips. It was weak. The sand-paper rasp of a sound was all her tortured throat could manage. Warm, salty tears ran down her face. They slipped over the blade, and dropped to the barren floor, soaked up by the cold, dispassionate concrete.
Bitter cold and fear forced another shiver from her naked body. She shook violently, like an addict convulsing. As she did, the plastic ties that held her hands and wrists sliced deeper into the damaged skin.
The look in his eyes froze the blood in her veins. Desperate, she bit down on her bottom lip, trying to hold still, but sobs of desolation escaped her.
The blade turned in his hand. He pressed the razor-sharp cutting edge against her lips, opening them, like a lover would tease his playmate. For a second she tasted steel as the knife slipped between her lips. She tried harder to control her shaking, but couldn’t. The blade nicked her delicate skin. The paper-thin cut was tiny but painful.
Another sob escaped her, like a frightened child jerked out of a nightmare. A driblet of blood mixed with saliva, and ran over her bottom lip to land on a naked breast.
He lowered his eyes with a wondrous, childish smile as he watched the blood fall. It lay there, a crimson stain on her ivory skin. This was his favorite part; the sweet smell of terror created a high like no other. He breathed it in savoring the rush, before removing the knife and stepping back. The way she cringed as his eyes roved over her naked body sent shivers down his spine. It was delicious.
Shame was no longer a consideration; she knew he would kill her. But she was strong, and there was still a glimmer of hope in her wide, frightened eyes as they pleaded for her life.
That hope was like a boost of adrenaline. The thought of watching it die filled him with joy.
Tied to the post, her wrists bound behind her back, she had been here for only twelve hours. But he knew she would think it days. The zip ties had sliced into her skin, and blood seeped from the wounds. Like a statue he watched her, soaking in the pain that seemed to float from her in waves.
Defeat was dawning on her, her struggles grew weaker, less animated, her hope was fading fast. He could not suppress the chuckle that this knowledge brought.
* * *
She watched his lips crease as the chuckle seemed to control him, and she bit down to hide her despair. She knew he loved it when she screamed. In fact, he seemed to grow with every pain he caused her. For this reason, she had fought hard to keep quiet. Why? To annoy him, to stay alive longer or just because it gave her some power, some peace? She was no longer sure.
Cold and tired, she feared the knife the most. This was the third time he had played with her, running the blade over her body as if she were a turkey he was deciding the best way to carve.
“Please, Mister, let me go. I won’t tell no one.” Sobs escaped her, racking her scrawny body as she fought to control them.
His eyes roved casually over her broken form, his contempt was written all over his face. She was a young girl, barely sixteen, her skinny body firm but childlike. Pinprick sores on her arms demonstrated her past mistakes. It was the drugs that had made her an easy target. He knew no one would miss her. No one would even notice she was gone.
He watched her for a second longer, and his right eyebrow rose in question. What was he deciding? Then a smile crossed his handsome face, and he turned away, to leave.
She sighed, the released breath sounded like survival to her ears, even if only for a short time. She closed her eyes, the movement calm and languorous. The wood was solid against her head, almost comforting. Her breath came easier now as she hoped to gather her strength, ready for the next assault, that deep inside, she feared would be the last.
A movement behind her caused a sharp gasp of shock to be expelled from her exhausted lungs. She could feel the warmth of his slimy, almost reptilian body behind her. His breath was hot on her cheek, his presence close. Her eyes flew open, and she gagged at the smell of that breath. It reminded her of something long dead and best left buried. Like the stench of an old tire she and her brother had pulled from the canal. They had stunk of rotten vegetation and mud, and had been forced to wash outside, cold and squealing, under the hose.
He stepped in front of her, and pulled something from his belt. In the dim light, she could just make out a metal cup or horn. He held it in his left hand, his right holding the wicked curved knife. He flashed the blade before her eyes, showing her the carvings, and the sharpness of the cutting edge. It caught what little light there was and glinted madly at her. It seemed to be alive, challenging her with its power. Behind it, his face wore that manic grin of wonder and delight that froze her with fear.
As the knife approached her breath caught in her throat. The steel touched her left nipple. Cold, icy, and smooth, it slid across that frozen bud, already stiff with cold. But the feel of the blade teased it to stand even prouder.
He smiled at his accomplishment and licked his plump, abhorrent lips.
Turning the knife, he held it before her face, teasing her with the razor-sharp edge. Slowly, he lowered it in front of her face then lower, past her neck. He let the tip touch the skin
between her breasts. There was pain, as it easily sliced her delicate flesh. He drew a line from between her breasts to her waist. The point barely breaking her skin, yet blood erupted in its path.
Time had stopped for her, seconds became hours, yet she was paralyzed, and hung limply against the pole. The wound was shallow, irritating more than life-threatening. But somehow she knew that now she would die. Her teeth chattered, and her body started to shake, in a way, reminiscent of her drug-induced past.
* * *
He reveled in her fear, loved the screams and the minstrel eyes, so wide in her blood-stained face that they looked like they would burst. Sucking in a wonderful lungful of air, he drank her sweet, sweaty odor that was mixed with the coppery scent of her blood.
“Any last requests?” He moved around her so she could see his face, and gave her his best smile.
“Please… m… m… mister. Don’t” she managed between hysterical sobs.
“Sorry, don’t know that one. How about ‘Living on the Edge,’ or ‘A Good Day to Die’?” He hummed to himself, pleased with his own joke.
There was little fight left in her, and he was getting bored. Drawing back the knife no longer caused her to scream and close her eyes waiting for the blow. Now she simply sobbed and shook against the post. She was not a screamer. He preferred the ones who cried and constantly screamed. They were much more satisfying. Raising the blade to her eyes, he watched them open even wider. The whites seemed to fill her face, like dinner plates on a pink cloth.
It was time. Somehow he always knew.
Stepping behind her, he kept the blade where she could see its edge, as it winked in the darkness.
“Please, please, please,” she whimpered, over and over, the words becoming indecipherable as tears and wails joined her pleas.
With his arms around her, he pushed his face into her dark hair, breathing deeply of her scent. She had used a coconut conditioner sometime recently, and the smell was intoxicating. Clean and fresh, a contrast to the smells of fear and death that permeated the cellar.
“Bored now,” he said. He had seen this on a TV show, and had always wanted to use the phrase. A further chuckle squeezed passed his lips as he enjoyed his own sense of fun. But now for business. There was a lot to prepare.
In one swift movement, his right hand drew the blade across her throat. The cut was deep and smooth, the blade never hesitated. He effortlessly sliced through skin, sinew and gullet down to bone. Blood gushed instantly from the wound, warm against his skin, followed by a pulsing stream.
With an expert movement of his waiting left hand, he caught the liquid in an ornate pewter horn.
The girl’s screams turned to gurgles as her vocal cords were sliced through. Her body arched against the restraints, then convulsed madly. As if it was trying to break-dance against the post, and then she was still, her life gone.
He stepped around to face her. Her head hung lifeless against her scrawny chest. A river of blood worked its way down her body, across her flat stomach, and then into the curly hair between her legs. Some of it dripped, slowly, from the dark tangle to drop unseen on the floor.
He scooped a little from her side, then raised his fingers before him. He studied the blood covered appendage before sliding it into his eager mouth, licking hungrily.
“Your life wasn’t a total waste,” he said to the corpse. “This blood will make me strong. Thank you.” He raised the horn in a mock toast. Turning away, he sauntered out of the cellar, taking little sips of the delicious warm blood.
Behind him, a pentagram shaped seal in the cold concrete floor began to pulse, thin slivers of light escaped at its edges.
Chapter One
A surprise visit had seemed like such a good idea when Jenny left home. The drive always took her mind off things and Rosie, her two-year-old brindle Boxer dog loved to visit her parents.
Of course, to Jenny, going home was part hell, part heaven. They were constantly asking about her latest man friend or worse trying to find a suitable mate. She knew they had a big party planned for her thirtieth birthday this Saturday, and she wanted to find out who the latest suitor would be… and to let them know she didn’t need a matchmaker. Yeah like I’m getting lots of men on my own.
The last blind date they’d arranged had lasted ten minutes precisely, before she’d wanted to hit him, or in the tradition of her parents, turn him into a frog. The man was good looking, rich and met Jenny with the immortal words, “Hello, Blondie Bear.”
During the evening she had discovered that he had been looking for a wife to meet his needs, and a cook come nursemaid to meet the needs of his two children.
Not my cup of tea. Jenny shook her head, remembering his arrogance as she piloted the car out of the comforting glow of street lights, and into rolling countryside for the last and most remote leg of her journey.
Not that she had anything against marriage. She laughed. She’d done it once, and maybe she’d even have kids one day. But there was so much she wanted to do. The problem was she hadn’t worked out what it was yet.
Thirty, why was it such a big deal anyway? Her parents kept pressing her to join their business before her birthday, telling her how important it was. Telling her, she needed to learn some spells, just basic stuff before they told her some big secret. But no matter how much she pushed them, it was always, “Believe in Sophana first, and then we will tell you.” They always hinted about wealth as well, that with their beliefs came money, as if she needed help.
And I don’t, I’m doing ok, she thought, and tapped the steering wheel. She loved her Volvo coupe. It wasn’t new, but it was paid for and hugged the road like a sports car. She had a real business and a nice house which backed onto open woodland. It was ideal for her morning run with Rosie. But lately she’d been feeling a bit bored as if something was missing. This journey had been mainly to give her time to think, to decide in her own mind whether or not she would join the family business. Was it really a business, maybe coven would be a better word or even religion - oh who knew?
The car banked nicely around a sweeping bend, the headlights creating a tunnel effect between the tall trees that watched them pass like impassive guards. She drove past a small copse of oaks and horse chestnuts, full of bluebells which filled the air with their heady scent.
A shadow leaped into the road, Jenny hit the brakes and wrestled the wheel to the right. A burst of adrenaline assisted the movement and set her nerves and skin on fire. In her imagination, a demon leaped out to claw at the car making her breath catch in her throat and sending prickles up and down her arms.
A laugh escaped her as she recognized the colorful cock pheasant. Head down, tail out, he strutted toward them, not knowing just how closely he flirted with death. The coupe had responded instantly, swerving and easily missing the bird, then regained its lane, and continued down the road without incident.
The pheasant sashayed in the road, resplendent in all his glory as he proudly protected his territory.
Drawing a deep breath, Jenny caught her eyes in the rearview mirror. She looked tired. Shaking her shoulders, she forced herself to relax. It had been puzzling that dad wanted her to re-look at their business. He knew she had never been interested. Partly through pig-headedness, and partly because she wanted to prove she could do something herself. So why was he now pestering her to look again? She asked the question for the hundredth time. If she was honest, she always thought what they did was a bit weird.
She ran it through her mind as the car whisked her through the night. They dealt in magic. People paid them! In fact, they paid them a lot for spells. Spells for love, riches, protection, you name it. They always told her it was white magic, and that they never did anything bad. It didn’t matter. Deep down she felt uneasy with it, believing they were conning vulnerable people. It all left a bad taste in her mouth. The strange thing was, their customers kept coming back, and many had become good friends, wealthy good friends at that.
She had to stop thin
king about this. Forcing her shoulders to relax she leaned back into the leather seat, and relished the smell of the car. Letting its solid, reassuring ambiance relax her.
She smiled again. Her nerves were just on edge, and the encounter with Mr. Pheasant hadn’t helped. Still, she’d soon be there and Rosie could stretch her legs.
As she drove the last few miles, she ran through the possible potential suitors she may have to put up with this weekend.
There was Simon, of course. They’d always expected she would end up with him. Simon Greaves, was in the same line of business as her parents, and at one time they’d had a lot of fun together. The man was good looking, tall and athletic with blonde hair, cut short and spiked into the latest fashion. But he was a little weird, never around people, often rude and always arrogant. He was her dad’s chief competitor, the only one she knew who had ever challenged him. Sometimes she even heard the two of them arguing. Still she knew he would be there.