Unlucky For Some

Melanie had no idea her black stilettos led to her being abducted. Accosted and taken by force from the street, she'd been brought to this awful derelict building, where horror seeped into the dank air. Peering into the gloom, she looked around.

Her eyes became accustomed to the dim yellow-tinted light. She found that she was in a cellar. High above her head was a barred opening through which foul-smelling air entered. Just below this were three torch shaped lamps, which cast eerie shadows on the flagstone floor. In one corner was a rusty grid bolted into the floor. Opposite her was a small table. The atmosphere was spooky, a shiver ran through her, she could almost taste evil, almost hear the silent screams, trapped in the bare, damp concrete walls.

Unknown to Melanie, thirty feet away, in a room not unlike the one she occupied, stood the man who brought her here. The only difference was, on his table stood a pumpkin with a garish face carved into it. A gash of shark-like teeth formed the mouth, through which shone a candle.

The man was holding Melanie's stilettos and stroking the shiny black patent leather. Staring at the shoes he remembered, as if it were yesterday, the pain, the exquisite pain, his mother had inflicted. She had stamped on him in her stilettos as a punishment for his spying on her as she 'worked' one night. Then nine years old, he remembered clearly the sight of her diamond patterned stockings and shiny black shoe-clad feet as they repeatedly came down on his face and body. It had been Halloween, he'd been unable to sleep, still scared by the ghost stories heard earlier. The flickering light from the flame in the pumpkin reflected in the shoes both then and now.

Melanie had been hurrying to a Halloween party, which was why she was wearing a black cloak and long black skirt; her witch’s hat she’d carried in her bag, which now lay abandoned where it had fallen in the struggle.

Melanie was unaware that she was the thirteenth victim of 'the Tormentor'. That was the name given to her abductor by the police. Over the years he'd led them on a merry dance.

The ghosts of the twelve murdered women watched Melanie in dismay. They knew exactly what 'the Tormentor' had planned for her.

First he would cut letters out and stick them on paper. This ransom note he would then show to his victim, tormenting her by saying that no one would pay what he was asking for her release, that she was worthless and he would spit the word at her as he said 'worthless.' Then he would take plastic fangs from his pocket, put them on and try to scare her by pretending to be a vampire. As if he wasn't scary enough, with multiple scars which were etched deeply into his gaunt face. His cold, dead eyes and his mirthless laughter had chilled them to the bone, long before he had slit their throats and thrown them down the well beneath the iron grill in the floor.

Melanie stood by the table with a troubled look. She was frowning, wondering how much her kidnapper knew about the thirteenth hour. Did he know that every thirteen years on 'All Hallows' eve that the night does not end at midnight? For then there are thirteen hours between noon and the days end, when dreadful things can happen. She shivered again.

The door to her room opened, in limped the most hideous looking man Melanie had ever seen. He advanced towards her, holding a piece of glaringly white paper visible even in the dim light. He drew nearer, Melanie could see there were shapes on the paper. They looked like big black capital letters. The remnants of the newspaper from which he'd cut them was tucked under his arm, he tossed this onto the table as he approached. Melanie clearly saw the headline, she read, 'Beware The Tormentor.' The paper mesmerized Melanie. The words he was uttering she didn't fully take in until she heard, "worthless whore like all the others". She felt his spittle as he spat out the words.

She watched with bated breath. He thrust the paper at her face and then flung it on the floor at her feet. She couldn't help but be fascinated as he took plastic fangs from his pocket, placed them so they covered his teeth and protruded grotesquely over his lips. He jutted his chin forward and then turned his head as if he was going to bite her neck. She took a step back he looked like Dracula. His eyes appeared to be lifeless. He threw back his head laughing like a maniac. A high-pitched laugh, devoid of humour or feeling, a sound that made blood run cold reverberated around the room.

Then Melanie noticed a knife had materialized in his right hand. She'd not seen where it had come from, probably he'd kept it hidden up his sleeve, but she had heard the sound of the click above the laughter as he flicked it open. She didn't like knives.

The ghosts in the wall felt helpless as they had every year when similar scenes had been played out in front of them. The fear that they were witnessing was tangible, but wait, something was different this time.

"What's the time?" Melanie asked 'the Tormentor'.

"One o'clock" he answered.

Melanie nodded to herself, good she thought, he doesn't know about the thirteenth hour.

Instead of continuing towards her the man stopped, looked puzzled, unsure of himself as if he didn’t know what to do next. Suddenly, he felt afraid, a real gut-wrenching fear. Shocked, he watched open-mouthed.

Melanie grew to a menacing thirteen-foot tall apparition; he saw razor sharp talons had replaced her fingers. He stepped back, retreating from this terrifying creature. He did not notice the grill was no longer covering the well, but he soon discovered it. He fell backwards and down, down, down.

Melanie listened to his screams until they had faded beyond her hearing. They can join the other screams that I know are trapped here, she thought. Melanie shivered, as she had all evening, with pleasure and anticipation.

"Well I may only appear once every thirteen years but I do enjoy myself," she said, then added "I have always believed that thirteen is unlucky for some."

The ghosts in the wall watched. Melanie became shadow-like, slid up the wall, disappearing through the bars into the night.

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Melody felt really pleased with her first attempt at writing a scary story. For the umpteenth time she had re-read it, the last being, whilst speeding across town. She gathered the papers together and carefully she replaced them in her document case, snapping it closed with a click. The taxi drew to a stop outside the literary agents office. As she stood on the pavement the icy wind was whipping her long blonde hair across her face. It was already getting dark and the fluorescent lights were bright and dazzled her momentarily as she pushed open the door to the outer office. She brushed her hair into place with her hands as she walked over to the desk. Melody found it difficult to speak as her mouth was so dry but managed to say that she had an appointment.

“Mr. Frog will see you in ten minutes” the receptionist informed Melody and returned to her computer screen. Melody sat on one of the hard chairs in the waiting area. She always felt nervous when she saw this agent as he had rejected her previous two manuscripts. She had written two romantic short stories, that she had also thought were very good, but he had not been impressed or very complimentary about her writing. She was just wondering if Mr. Frog would turn into a prince if he were kissed, when the door to the inner sanctum opened. “Come on in Miss Muse” Mr. Frog said, smiling, but the smile did not reach his eyes.

She stood and walked into his stuffy office that was stacked high with books and papers and sat where he indicated. Melody leaned forward and handed her story to Mr. Frog hoping that he would not notice the dog-eared corners of the pages that had resulted from her many readings. . She sat with her hands together on her lap examining first her long red painted nails and then she glanced down her long, slim and shapely legs to admire her new elegant and fashionable suede boots while he was reading her story. When he spoke she jumped. “Tell me Melody to whom is this aimed at?” He nodded at the papers in his hands, “someone with no brain?” She sat up, “No of course not,” she said indignantly, “I have written the story with teenagers in mind. I thought…”

“No you did not think,” Mr. Frog raised his voice as he tossed the pages back at Melody. “That is the problem, this is written with no imagination at all.”

“But, but,” Melody tried to speak but was rudely interrupted as Mr. Frog continued, overriding her interjection. “I can list four reasons why this is a no-brainer.”

One, you have named your heroine Melanie, that is not very different to Melody, Two, you have based your so called fiction on the story of the recently imprisoned serial killer. Guess what he was called by the police and the media, yes, full marks, “The Tormentor.” Three, your description of the cellar could have been copied directly from one of the numerous articles that have arisen since the twelve bodies have been discovered and four, eh, um, um, well not even a computer playing, thrill seeking nerd of a teenager today would be scared not even for a minute. Mr. Frog stood up, signaling that the meeting was at an end. He avoided looking at Melody although he was aware that her big blue eyes were filling with tears.

She gathered up the precious pages and placed them back in her folder. She turned to leave and heard Mr. Frog’s parting shot, “you want to be glad that ‘The Tormentor’ has been caught. He would be insulted by your pathetic version of events.” He added in a squeaky voice, “she grew to a menacing thirteen-foot tall apparition with razor sharp talons.” Melody heard him cackling with laughter as she closed the door. Melody held her head high as she left. Hateful man, she thought.

As she stepped into the street there was still a cold wind blowing. Melody wished that she had worn her long coat. There was no sign of a taxi; she would have to walk to the main High Street about ten minutes walk away. With the wind tugging and flapping her skirt around and between her legs she started to walk. The thin material of her blouse and jacket did not afford her much protection from the elements either.

She heard a car pull to a stop beside her and on turning her head she sighed with relief, as she recognized the driver. Through the misted windscreen she could just make out the spiky hairstyle and thick-rimmed glasses of her friend. Chris, someone she had made friends with a few months ago and who had been helping and encouraging Melody with her story had appeared at just the right time. Thankfully she opened the car door and climbed in, out of the cold.

“How did it go?” asked Chris. Melody poured out her heart as she recounted what had just happened in her meeting with Mr. Frog. “I think,” she told Chris, “even if I had kissed him he would have remained a repugnant frog. They both burst out laughing and Melody felt a lot better. She leaned her head back on the rest and closed her eyes. They drove on in silence for a little way and then Melody heard Chris’s deep voice say, “I think that I know what you can do to improve your story.” Melody opened her eyes and sat up, interested. “I think that it needs a more realistic atmosphere. We both know that your description of the cellar was copied almost word for word from that magazine. I know a place where we can go and absorb the atmosphere for ourselves, for yourself,” Chris hastily said.

Melody felt excited. Perhaps her story could be saved, made brilliant and even Mr. Frog would be pleased and say that it should be published. She was nothing, if not a romantic and an optimist. “You are so good for me,” Melody said. Chris turned and smiled at her and said “ditto.” After driving for about an hour,

Chris turned off the road and parked the car up a track slightly behind a derelict church. Chris turned to Melody saying, “lucky for you I know the most useful places, this should set the scene beautifully. Melody followed Chris, stumbling slightly on the stony ground. It was still gusting a cold and now drizzle-laden wind. She was pleased to get inside the shelter of the building.

Chris led her to where a slab was pulled aside and started to go down some steps. Then stood back and switched on a torch, shining the way for Melody. “How lucky I was to meet you,” she said looking up at her friend. “Oh no, It was me that was the lucky one, not many people want to be friends with such a freak,” said Chris. Melody smiled and said, “Well you are not a freak to me;” she squeezed Chris’s hand, “Now I know you I’m glad that you’re my friend, you are the only one that has believed in me and my writing.”

She started to go down the crumbling steps to the crypt, glad of the beam from the torch. “Are you getting the atmosphere?” asked Chris. “Are you feeling a sense of horror?” “I’ll feel more when I get further down,” answered Melody. The light went out. Melody said, “What’s happened to the torch?” “ I want you to appreciate the evil of the darkness” she heard Chris say. All was quiet and very, very black. “Where are you?” Melody asked.

“I’m here” was said so close to Melody’s ear that she could feel Chris’s breath hot on her neck. Then Melody staggered as she felt a violent push in the middle of her back. It was so forceful that it caused her feet to leave the step and she was flung forward. Melody landed in a twisted heap on the flag-stoned floor fifteen feet below and screamed. “Help me, help me she yelled. Chris switched on the torch and shone it onto Melody and then slowly moved the beam so that it revealed that the stairway did not reach the ground. It ended just two steps below where Melody had stood.

Melody screamed long and loud, a scream that was filled with terror. Chris laughed, “ Scream as loudly as you like, no one can hear you and no one will find you.”

Chris continued, “How I laughed when the police arrested that poor caretaker. How dare they give him all my credit? How do you think that I could give you all that detail for your stupid story? Unlike your fairy tale there will be no happy ending for you. You should be able to fully absorb the atmosphere now. It’s a shame that my old cellar was discovered and all those women’s bodies taken away. That place was fiendishly atmospheric and that well was so handy, now I will have to start again.”

Chris climbed back to the entrance and shouted down to Melody, “I will come back in a fortnight or so, you should be dead by then. You want to know the reason I kill? There is no reason, there is no excuse, really, it is just that I am, what is known as, a psychopath. That is indeed unlucky for some!” With that Chris slid, with difficulty, the heavy stone back into place. Brushing her hands on her trousers she turned and walked away smiling and thought to herself and even if they do realize that the caretaker is innocent I will never be arrested. This time I have not used a knife and in all these years they have never suspected that ‘The Tormentor’ is a woman.

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