Psychopathia: A Horror Suspense Novel (35 page)

She had to stop again and again to scare the rats away. They touched her skin and made her scream, their scaly tails draping across a calf as they crept closer. One crouched by a thigh a moment, its hot body pressed against her and she didn’t wait for the sharp bite, but bucked and screamed and cried, and went back to the knot with determination fueled by horror, waiting all the time for fur to brush her skin again, hot little fangs to sink into her body, burrow in between her legs. By the time she got the knot undone she was screaming with each breath.

The rats had gotten braver and she swatted at them with her free hand, picked one up and flung it into the darkness, her stretched and strained muscles burning, and the rat hit the floor, or perhaps the wall with a dull thud and an inhuman screech.

Her fingertips were raw but she dug them into the knot tying her other arm above her head, twisting over to lie on her side, no longer caring now that the mattress under her was soaked with her best friend’s blood, her thoughts on the rats, on knives, on the minutes ticking by as fast as her heartbeats.

Then it was done, and only her ankles were bound. But it was taking too long. He’d be back any moment, back and coming downstairs with swaying lantern and gleaming knife, gleaming eyes, bared teeth white in the shadows of his face. She’d see his wide mouth, his dancing eyes, and then she’d see the knife and she wouldn’t be able to take her eyes from it;
she’d freeze and he’d tie her again and she’d watch the knife rise and fall over her skin and the blade would drip drip drip and the blood would rain down on her skin and around them the rats would gather and watch and sniff the air, whiskers twitching at the hot scent of fresh blood.

One ankle left and she was sobbing, convinced she wasn’t going to make it, completely sure Tobias would be back down the stairs before she could get off the bed, out of the basement, out into the night and away to safety.

Then she was free, a ragged strip of cloth still around one wrist, but she was free, and everything hurt, every inch of her cried out but she was off the bed, hands out in front of her groping for the door, and she found it, and there were the stairs, the kitchen, and it was brighter up here and she could see, and there was the front door and the moon looked down at her from beside a wire-wool cloud and it seemed to say well done, well done, but you’re not there yet.

Scrambling around the side of the building, Tully crouched in the grass and hugged herself. She hadn’t stopped to look for her clothes, and it was cold out here, winter,
the night air cut into her, all sharp edges that set her teeth on edge. The only things hot were her tears.

She wasn’t going back inside. Not even for clothes. She had only to get down the track to the road. There were houses there, she could run up to a door and pound on it, and they would take her in, put a blanket around her shoulders, lead her to the fireplace to warm, and they would call the police and she would be saved.

They would call the police. Tully huddled tighter into a ball, trying to think it through. They would call the police, the nice people behind the door, of course they would. She was naked, covered in blood, wrists and ankles raw where they’d been bound. She would be sobbing, hysterical, would fall into their arms, that waiting blanket. The police would come, and they would get the story out of her.

And they would arrest her brother. Hunt him down and press him to the ground with a knee on his back and put handcuffs around his wrists and they would take him away and she would never see him again except behind bars.

Tully listened over the chattering of her teeth, straining to hear his footsteps, but somewhere an owl hooted, and something scuttled in the undergrowth, hurrying from the wind, but there was nothing more. He wasn’t there yet. He would be soon, she was sure of it, but not yet. Not quite yet. There was time to get away. If she went now.

Going back in the house wasn’t an option. She turned her face from it and ran crouching into the woods at the back, hoping she was retracing her steps, hoping she was going the right way.

The moonlight struggled to light the way under the trees, but she could see enough. There was the pile of disturbed ground, and she fell to her knees, digging her fingers into the soil, scraping it away, a furious, frightened animal scrabbling at the ground.

She shook out a dress, pulled it over her head, threaded hands and arms into it, went back to the dirt, held something up to the moon, black, leggings. She tucked them under an arm and bent back to the task.

Here was Lara’ coat. Tully remembered when her friend had bought it. They’d both gone shopping, carefree, not knowing that one day Tully would be brushing the soil from a grave from it. She squinted at the hole, looking for a purse.

There wasn’t one, and Tully didn’t dare linger. The dress, some silky fabric, clung to her skin, stuck to the blood and she stifled a sob, picked up the coat, and scuttled off into the trees, moving away from the house and clearing, even the track, angling herself down the hill.

She stopped when she judged herself to be far enough away to be reasonably safe, for a minute. Hopping around, she pulled the leggings on, relief flooding through her as he legs warmed briefly, and she was no longer so vulnerable, covered beneath the flimsy dress. Then she remembered who the dress belonged to, and swallowed a sob. Lara. He’d pay for what he did for her. The coat was short, but warm and Tully fumbled with the buttons, got them done up, tightened the belt around her waist, felt her blood thaw a little. She flipped the collar up to warm her neck.

There was no way to see the lights of the port through the trees. She only knew it was below her somewhere, and tried to bring up a map of the area in her head. All the hills above the town were green, festooned with forest. It was part of the reason she liked the city so much.

It was best to stay in the trees. As long as she was deep in them, he wouldn’t be able to see her, wouldn’t know which way she’d gone, not specifically anyway. She could stay safely tucked up among them until the sun rose in a dirty winter dawn, and then she could step out onto the roads and make her way safely.

Except she was covered in blood. Bare-footed, blonde hair matted with
Lara’s blood. If she walked down the road like that, someone would call the police for sure. Then everything would be harder. She could say someone else did this to her, of course she could, but better if she could keep it quiet for as long as possible. That way, she might stand a chance of getting her brother back.

Hopefully.

She’d misjudged where she’d gone. Now
there was a road, but that was all. The road around the harbour into town. Not where she’d planned to come out. A glance at the moon, and it told her hours had passed, that dawn was on its way whether she liked it or not. Coming ready or not, the moon said, and she shivered. What to do?

What to do? She needed a phone. Pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes and bent down in the grass and moaned. She needed more than a phone. She needed her own one. Where else to find Matt’s number? She didn’t know it, barely even knew
her own. That’s what a contacts list was for. Storing phone numbers so you never had to remember them. Just press the right button and presto bingo you were talking to the right person.

Tully stood up and edged closer to the road. Only one thing to do. She turned left and headed back towards the port.
Homeward bound. Out of choices, home was the only option. She’d be quick. In and out before Tobias could catch her. He wouldn’t be there, she was counting on it. He’d be out looking for her, would never expect her to come home. Would he? No, of course not. What would he be doing? Looking for her, or running?

She hoped he was traipsing around the hillside looking for her. If he ran, he’d be running from her as well as the police, and she needed him where she could find him. She didn’t know what she was going to do yet, but there had to be something, had to be some way she could save her brother.

The car was gone. Tully stood in the driveway and blinked. It was the first time since she’d brought him home that he’d used the car. She knew why now, of course – Tobias, for whatever reason, couldn’t drive. Until now. He had obviously given up trekking through the bush after her.

But at least she knew one thing now. He wasn’t home. She’d get inside – she was pretty sure she could get in through the bathroom window, the glass louvre window wasn’t secure, and then she’d get cleaned up real quick, and dig out her old phone. That still had all the contacts on it, Matt’s among them.

Good plan. The car was gone and none of the lights were on in the house. She stopped by the front door, hand outreached to try it, just in case he’d left it unlocked.

What if it was a trap? What if he’d moved the car out of sight, and was this minute lurking inside the house, crouched in the dark, knife in hand? It made sense. If she didn’t go straight to the police, she’d come back to the house.

He was inside. She was sure of it now. He was tricking her, making her think it was okay to go inside and when she did, he’d leap out of a doorway or from behind some curtains, and wrap his arm around her throat again, and it would all start over. The bindings, the cutting, the blood, the screaming.

She inched her hand closer to the knob, then grasped it, twisted it, slowly, so slowly, wincing in case it rattled.

The door clicked, wanted to swing open. Was it a trap? Or not? Tully couldn’t hear anything over the beating of her own heart. She glanced out at the driveway again, and the car was still gone. Was he looking for her, or was he waiting for her?

A long minute passed, and Tully strained to hear any noise from inside the house. It was impossible to tell. He
r fingers cramped.

She pushed the door open wide enough to slip through.
Her hand was sweaty on the inside knob when she closed it again, other hand flat against the wood, easing it shut with nothing more than the faintest snick. She turned her head towards the darkness of the hallway and stared into it. It stared back at her, black, unmoving.

There were bedrooms to her left and right. Hers on the left, Toby’s on the right. Both doors closed. She inched towards Toby’s, sliding along the wall, head tipped back, pulse jumping in her throat.
Was he waiting for her to open his door? Was he standing there on the other side with his knife? She pressed her ear to the door and listened. Nothing. Maybe he was standing as still as she was.

There was no choice but to open the door. Turn the light on? Blink in the sudden brightne
ss, lose precious seconds blind?

Leave the light off. The moon would help, its face at the window. Maybe she’d be fast enough. See him before the glinting blade reached her. Off out the front door again, down the drive. She’d go to the neighbour’s, call the police. She’d let them take him away.

If he was here. The doorknob rattled under her shaking hand and she snatched it away as though she’d been bitten. But it wasn’t yanked open from the other side, he didn’t loom up over her in the darkness. The house stayed still, holding its breath. She eased the door open, let go of it, poised to run, but the room was empty. Her hand snaked up the wall to the light switch, then hesitated, and withdrew. Best not to turn it on. Best not to risk that blindness. If he wasn’t in here, he could be in another room. The kitchen, or living room.

Bare feet retraced their steps, turned down the hall towards the kitchen. Passed the bathroom, the door open. She stuck her head in there, but it was empty. A longing look at the shower and she went on.
Kitchen or living room?

Kitchen. Knives in the drawer. She had no experience wielding them to cut anything except peppers, potatoes, bacon, but she figured she’d be a quick study if it came to that. It made a nice, comforting sound as she drew it out of this knife block. Which way to hold it? Stabbing or jabbing? Decided on jabbing, which could become stabbing in a matter of moments. She’d seen Psycho, and holding the knife like that worked when the person you wanted was behind a shower curtain, unknowing, unsuspecting. She held the knife in
her hand, arm down by her side, ready to leap up, she’d slice and dice if she had to, if it came to that. Maybe if she opened him up, the spirit would ooze from the wound with the blood.

The living room was empty, except for the furniture hulking in the shadows. She moved quicker now, checked the laundry room, also empty. Outside, the night looked in, pressing flat eyes to the windows, but no sign of Toby. Tobias. The car was gone, and so was he.

The knife stayed in her hand. She looked longingly at the bathroom as she went by, but the phone was in her bedroom, and if he came back suddenly, she didn’t want to be in the bathroom, clean, but no phone.

It was only as she burst into the room, mind already on phone, shoes, a baby wipe for the blood dried on her face, that she realised he could be in there. Hiding in her room. It made sense. He’d listened to her creeping around.
Waited for her in here, grinning that wide, white smile, waiting, listening, thinking about how the knife would slide though her flesh.

She screamed, clapped a hand over her mouth and whimpered, eyes flicking wildly around the darkness. But nothing jumped out at her, no one snatched her up, the room was empty.

There was no time to lose. He wasn’t here now, but he would be. She pulled open her dresser drawer, dug around under neat piles of winter clothes, and unearthed her old phone.  She pressed the button to turn it on.