Flee Read online

  Then there was some banker who worked with Robert. Robert was one of her parents’ oldest friends, and their financial advisor. She thought he also disapproved of her dad’s business. He was awfully posh, and tried his hardest to ignore what they did which had amused her for years. Often, he would roll his eyes, and avoid looking directly at her father when he disapproved. The banker’s name, George she thought, was good looking, but way too stuffy, and he didn’t like dogs. Then there was a guy called Lewis that she’d met a couple of times. He was a local farmer, and seemed interesting enough, but was possibly gay. Oh, where were all the keepers? And why did she have such a bad feeling in her stomach?

  Was it because her parents had been acting so weird? Well more weird than usual. That their intensity about her joining them was starting to scare her. With a sigh, she pulled her mind back to the twisty roads for the last twenty minutes of the journey.

  Chapter Two

  “I’m back. You were right I didn’t enjoy the movie,” Doris called, as she pushed open the solid oak door and walked into the rear of the mansion. She smiled, and with a deep sense of pride admired the shine on the marble floor and the immaculate hallway. Even after two and a half decades of working and living with the Stephens, the sight of her work still gave her a thrill.

  No one answered, still they wouldn’t expect her home just yet, the movie didn’t finish until ten. It was rare for her to leave early. Monday evening was her night, her one escape. Sometimes Helen Stephens came with her but, rain or shine, every Monday Doris went to the movies. She knew she had become a bit of a hermit since the incident all those years ago. All she did was work. The problem was she trusted no one, and only left the house to shop or weekly to visit the movies. They were safe, but at least they got her out.

  Sighing contentedly, she rummaged in a large sloppy bag, searching for a half packet of wine gums hidden within its depths. Even though the film was rubbish, she had still enjoyed the break.

  “Not as much as you love coming home, you old ninny,” she mumbled to herself as she walked deeper into the house.

  An odd metallic and sickly smell tickled her nose. She looked up, but all seemed normal. Raseby Manor always smelt of lilies. It was as if they had seeped into the beams, and the very fabric of the place and she loved it. Maybe Mr. Stephens was cooking up one of his concoctions, something the lilies were meant to hide.

  The real reason she had left the movie was its theme. She released another heavy breath, tinged with a hint of sadness. It had portrayed a lonely old woman struggling to survive on her own. It made her fear for her own future. Helen always laughed when she asked, “What will happen when I’m too old to work?”

  “You’ll die in this house,” Helen would say. “You’re family Doris, and don’t you forget it.”

  A warm feeling seemed to wrap her in a comforting hug, and she smiled to herself and walked through to the hall. Her dainty black court shoes echoed on the polished marble, and announced her presence.

  It was true they looked after her well, and she was a friend as much as an employee. Doris paused. There was that smell again, stronger now. She swallowed hard to prevent a gag reflex as she rounded the door to the kitchen. Where was everyone? Maybe they were in the conservatory at the back of the house or working?

  Deeply engrossed in her own thoughts, she negotiated the light, inviting rooms, and entered the kitchen. The room was divided by a bar. Oak units suited the age of the house and were complemented by a lemon decor that sang with sunshine and joy. Fumbling with her bag and keys, she did not notice the scene before her.

  Rounding the breakfast bar, she stepped into a sticky red puddle. Dismay clamped a hand over her mood as she felt the viscous liquid, slick beneath her shoes. Lowering her eyes further, Doris gasped.

  A crimson puddle spread out from further in the kitchen. It seemed to be alive, creeping imperceptibly slowly across the floor. She stopped. Her black shoes were a stark contrast to the encroaching red. Fear, like spider legs, ran down her spine, and goose pimples rose on her arms. Her shoes were sticky, slimy, and unpleasant.

  The pool seemed to have a life of its own, still moving past her across the marble floor, what was it? Not wine, she thought, fighting her revulsion. Maybe some form of paint? Or was it Mr. Stephens and his spells again? Yes, she smiled, calming herself. But then as she peered around the breakfast bar…

  “Helen? Oh my God. Helen.”

  Helen Stephens lay deadly still at the farthest reach of the puddle. Like a porcelain doll tossed into a crimson sea, she was pale and fragile against the deep red.

  Doris dashed toward her, slipping in the liquid. She scrambled desperately, but lost her battle, and fell to her knees in the blood. It clung to her and seemed to pull her down. Frantic she overbalanced her chin breaking the surface of the blood, as she struggled to save herself. It was like warm treacle on her skin, warm honey on her face. She fought the urge to vomit, and struggled back to her feet, rubbing her face with hands that shook.

  “No,” she sobbed.

  Without breaking pace, she rushed through the blood to the statuesque Helen. The woman’s life fluid clung warmly and gooey to her arms, face, hands and legs. Doris dropped to her knees, hesitated for a second, then reached out to check for a pulse. But Helen was so white, her skin clammy, and Doris pulled her hand back as if shocked.

  She sat there, frozen in the blood, her black skirt soaking up the liquid with a hunger of its own. The thought sickened her. It took all her nerve to stay. Maybe she could help her friend, so she fought down her panic. Fought down the urge to run screaming from that room. To wash the warm, sticky blood from her hands, and never stop running.

  Taking a long breath, she regained a little control. With a shaking hand she reached forward, and searched for a pulse. Pressing her fingers to Helen’s neck, she fumbled but found nothing.

  “Oh God Helen, can you hear me? Please be OK.” She rubbed her fingers over Helen’s clammy throat, pushing down gently. The skin felt like wax, and she couldn't locate a pulse.

  The sound of footsteps approaching caused her to rise to her feet. Despair wanted to drag her back down as she slipped in the blood.

  “Help,” formed on her lips, but something stopped her from calling out. Unsure, she backed away toward the breakfast bar. Part of her wanted to run toward the sound, to get help for Helen, but instinct warned her, told her to hide. Goosebumps rose on her arms, and she felt the hair on her head tingling. She inched backward even further, through all that blood, dragging it with her.

  The red liquid smeared across the white marble, looking like one of those modern paintings no one can understand. She fought back the tears and stopped herself from crying out in anguish at her friend’s life force all over the floor.

  Hiding behind the breakfast bar, she peered deeper into the room. Across the other side she saw a polished black shoe, Mr. Stephens’s shoe. He lay on the floor of the kitchen. Face up, his shoes pointed toward her. There was no blood near him, but arterial spray was splattered across the wall. The blood ran down the yellow, like paint from a child’s tantrum.

  “No.” The cry was almost silent. She sat back, shaking with fear, and closed her eyes tightly, fighting for control.

  The sound of footsteps, calm and unhurried echoed in the hallway on the other side of the kitchen. As they approached, she opened her eyes, and searched the room. She noticed writing on the end of the breakfast bar, near Helen. Not quite able to make it out, another sob burst past her lips. It was written in blood, Helen’s blood, and she could just catch the name Jenny. So typical of Helen to leave her daughter a message, but was it a goodbye, a message of love or a warning.

  Doris couldn’t tell. But she knew that Helen must have labored with her last breath to leave this morbid note. She could just see Helen’s right hand, the index finger smeared with blood. A shiver ran down her spine. Who could do this?

  The footsteps came closer, and the door at the end of the kitchen swung open. She
gasped again as a man strolled in, so relaxed. Was this the fiend who took her friends’ lives? Anger rose in her, she was ready to leap at him screaming, beating, and clawing out her revenge. It didn’t matter if she died now, what was left? As she sank down into despondency a vision of Jenny filled her mind. She may need her help, and Helen would want her to stand by her daughter.

  Doris, tucked herself down and looked on from her hiding place as the man wandered into the slaughter-house of a kitchen, a wine glass in his hand. Calm, confident, arrogant. Oh yes, she had known him a long time also.

  Had he come to help? Had he stumbled across a scene that would horrify him, scar his remaining days? Or, as she feared, was he the perpetrator of this genocide of her family?

  She did not trust him, and with good reason. She had never told anyone what happened to her. Could not tell them, and it had weighed heavily on her over the years. Had reduced her to the timid little mouse she was today, living her life, without love. What he did to her was enough to doubt him, oh yes. And it was enough to hate him, always.

  Doris looked left, a pine table and chairs, a little nook where the family could share a quiet meal. She looked right. The breakfast bar shielded the majority of the kitchen. But he was there, and she had no way out. Her only escape was behind her, and back into the hallway. What should she do, trust him or flee?

  Then he laughed, taking a drink from the glass his voice echoed in the silent house.

  “Well, old friend, who’s the most powerful now?” he asked, stood over the corpse of Mr. Stephens. He slowly lifted the crystal glass in a toast. It twinkled with reflected light, which flashed at Doris mocking her hiding place. She ducked down even further.

  “If only you knew my plans, old man. If only you knew my plans. If only you knew my plans, old man. If only you knew my plans,” he sang, wiggling his hips, and giggling down at the body.

  He took another drink, and smiled with appreciation as the liquid slid down his throat. “Your last moments would have been even worse.” He giggled like a school-boy playing a joke on his classmates. His expression changed, became serious, and he drank deeply, the red liquid dribbled from the corner of his mouth. Raising a finger to the spill, he wiped his face, and brought the digit in front of him. He looked at the liquid before sucking the finger, his eyes closed in rapture.

  Doris felt an abhorrence at the act and released her breath, the noise seemed to point an accusing finger - there she is. Tucking herself back behind the bar, she cowered in its shadow.

  He turned toward her, instantly aware and searched for the source of the sound. Timidly she peered around the edge of the bar.

  Seeing the mess she’d made when she fell, shock and anger filled her, as he continued to scan for her presence.

  Doris turned, using the breakfast bar as cover. She sneaked around the back of the kitchen, and into the passageway, panic taking over from her fear and revulsion.

  Shaking, weeping, she headed down the corridor. She felt as if she was overbalancing, out of control as she hurtled from the kitchen. Scared and devastated at the murder of her friends, and panicked by the sights she had seen, she bolted through the desolate house.

  The empty, bright, inviting halls seemed to mock her. Should she run? No, she would not make the car, not with him so close, she must hide? Where should she go? How could she call for help? And him, not him. He had known the family for years. She had never liked him, aloof and creepy. There was that incident between them. He told her it was just a dream. That she was just a hysterical woman, but no dream left marks. A hand touched her chest, feeling the tattoo throb beneath the thin material of her white blouse. If only she had been able to tell.

  A sob escaped her, as she heard his steps on the marble floor. He was in pursuit. I must escape, she thought, her heart pounded so hard it sounded like a drum. How can I hide when my heart and breathing must announce that I’m here? But she knew the house, had worked and lived here all these years. There must be somewhere to hide. Some secret place a snobby man like him would not dirty his hands to look into.

  “Oh God,” she sobbed. Dirty his hands. He had just slaughtered the two people she cared about most. The blood was everywhere, so much gore, gallons of it on the floor, splashed on the walls.

  The cold, callous beast had stood there, a glass of red wine in his blood-soaked hands. She gasped at the realization, the glass was not wine. He drank their blood. How could he, they were friends.

  Gorge rose in her throat, a thick lump threatened to choke her. She closed her eyes, gulped and fought for control.

  As she ran, she thought about her employers. They had always been a little strange, earning their living from the occult. Something they called the Damion or divine power. They had tried to explain many times, but she just thought it rich folks hocus pocus. But not scary, not like him. He had always scared her.

  They told her it was all harmless. That there were many gods, some good and some bad. But their god Sophana was benevolent, and her power could only be used for good. Whenever they mentioned the Damion, it made Doris think of that old movie, The Omen, but they assured her it was not only spelled different, but was very different.

  The Damion’s power through various gods could be used for good. It required sacrifices, yes blood sacrifices, and at first this had made her uneasy. But it was animals they sacrificed. Sheep, goats and cattle, all animals normally killed for food. Helen had explained the ritual was similar to a kosher killing. She had said it was relatively painless, and kinder to the animal than a modern slaughter-house. The Stephens even had a license to kill animals in a kosher way, and a man who butchered the meat, which they then used for food.

  Doris had never attended any of the rituals but had long since come to terms with her employers’ ways. The animals were raised locally, fed organic food, and allowed to roam. They lived as naturally as possible. All in all, Doris thought they got a better deal than most.

  Footsteps echoed on the floor, somewhere behind her. She stopped, coming sharply out of her reverie, as fear ran a cold hand down her spine.

  The door opened from the kitchen into the hallway, the hinge screeched, like some horror movie soundtrack.

  He was after her.

  Did he see her?

  He had to know someone was here, all that mess, and the tracks. She had been tiptoeing to keep her heels from betraying where she was. Looking down, she knew why he did not hurry. Little bloody marks led a trail to where she stood, exposed in the corridor. The blood looked obscene on the polished marble floor, sobbing she felt the urge to clean the once immaculate floor that she was so proud of.

  “Doris, darling, I have a lovely surprise for you. Come on out now.” His voice was calm and mocking, it carried through the marbled hallway, and was followed by measured and unhurried footsteps.

  Quickly, she kicked off her shoes, and grabbed her keys from her blood-soaked bag. Shoving the betraying items behind a huge ornamental flower vase, full of more pink highly scented lilies, she set off down the corridor. Her intention was to double back on him. If she could get to her car, maybe she could get help.

  Right now, she could have kicked herself for not having a mobile. They always wanted her to, in case of car trouble or other problems. It had seemed so unnecessary, and she hated modern technology.

  Oh, Doris you always were stubborn. Get to the car!

  Trying not to go directly, she worked her way through the house, taking a route she hoped would avoid him. Each second seemed excruciating long, and she expected at any minute to be slashed from behind with a knife. Cut down like her friends and left to die. Shaking uncontrollably, she realized she had stopped. Her knees felt weak, and her heart was pounding. Not much further, but where was he? And why hadn’t he caught her?

  Moving once more she reached the rear hall-way and rested against the cool wall. Peering out she checked the room before she crossed it. Her heart pounded in her chest, and a pulse beat in her head. Taking a deep breath, she willed herse
lf to be calm.

  This was an old building, she was not sure what period, but it had huge high rooms and this was the one with the highest ceilings. It went all the way up to the third floor. Twin circular balconies surrounded the hallway, and a domed glass ceiling crowned it.

  On a normal day, that dome filled the place with sunshine. It was one of her favorite rooms, and she often came here to read, think, or just to soak in the sun.

  Where was he?

  Cautiously, she sneaked around the corner into an empty hallway. She was so close, yet so far. Where was he?

  It had been some time since she had heard him. Maybe he had fled, afraid she would call the police. Praying this was so she moved out, and peeked into the room ahead.

  Her heart was pounding; her breath was short and rasped in her throat. She needed to cross the open space, or to go all the way around to get to the back door. With leaden legs and sweat running down her cheek she paused for a moment. Should she stay or run? She could not decide. What if he waited for her? Or what if he was closing from behind? Not knowing was a subtle form of torture.

  The empty house mocked her with its silence, lulling her to believe she was safe, yet every nerve told her he was waiting. Making the decision, she stepped out onto the floor. Tentative step by tentative step, she inched her way across the exposed area. Her body was tense and stiff, each foot placed with infinite care. This room she loved for its light and open aspect now felt like a death trap. The very air seemed charged with menace.

  Where was he?

  Instinct warned her to freeze, her breath stopped. For a second, she felt like her whole body was somewhere else, and she was just observing. She was going into shock, she had to mobilize herself if she wanted to escape, and escape she must for Jenny’s sake. This thought stirred her, broke the spell, she forced her rubber legs to move, just one step after the next.

  Moving across the brown and gold marble tiles she loved so much. She inched toward the seat in the center of the room, a round golden bench surrounded a huge purple bougainvillea. She was so proud of that plant, and would sit on the gold bench and talk to it in her spare time.