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  SHADOW GAMES

  A NOVELLA OF TERROR

  by

  SAM WEST

  SHADOW GAMES

  A NOVELLA OF TERROR

  by

  SAM WEST

  COPYRIGHT SAM WEST 2017

  COVER IMAGE

  by

  [email protected]

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced or used in any way without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews. The characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  CHAPTER ONE

  2017

  “Are you really that much of a walking, talking, cliché? I mean the secretary, for fuck’s sake,” Jane said.

  “It does not become you to swear.”

  “It does not become me? Jesus Christ, Seb, it does not become me?”

  “Stop shouting, the neighbours will hear.”

  “Fuck the neighbours. You’ve been shagging around behind my back and you expect me to give a toss about the fucking neighbours? Fuck them and fuck you.”

  The hate-filled words spilled forth, beyond her control.

  “I think I should go. I can’t talk to you while you’re in this state.”

  “You mean you’re going to her.”

  His silence was an admission of guilt. She shook her head sadly, the fight momentarily knocked out of her. “I can’t believe you’re throwing our marriage away for a girl young enough to be your daughter.”

  “I’m sorry, Jane, but you’re out of control. I think we should do this when you’ve calmed down.”

  The anger surged back and she straightened her back against the AGA cooker.

  “Fuck you. If you walk out that door now, that’s it. We’re finished.”

  “But we already are. I never meant to hurt you,” he said softly, edging backwards towards the kitchen door.

  He’s really going to do it. He really is leaving me.

  Her mind reeled at the sheer magnitude of the situation. This was preposterous, this was insane this was….

  Happening. This is really happening.

  A hand instinctively snaked behind her back, her fingers curling around the handle of the frying-pan that sat atop the hob.

  A fleeting image of bashing him round the head with it slammed into her mind, but disappeared just as quickly.

  I am not that woman. I am not a fucking fishwife…

  Fishwife. Her hand dropped away from the frying-pan, a strange sensation of emptiness tightening in her guts. A frown creased her forehead as she thought of her first love. Of Malcom.

  How strange. She hadn’t thought of him for years, so why would she suddenly think of him now? She shook her head to dislodge his kind face.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, one final time.

  Then he was gone.

  She stared at the spot where he had just stood, not believing that he was actually gone.

  Gone to her… I have been dumped for a woman almost twenty years my junior.

  “He doesn’t even have any stuff with him,” she said to herself.

  But then, she reasoned, he probably did. The fact that he had admitted he’d been shagging her for ‘a few months’ probably meant at least six, in ‘man’ speak. He would have ‘supplies’ in their little love nest.

  Jesus Christ, the fucking secretary.

  She found she was shaking, and she wrapped her arms around her trembling body. The opened bottle of red on the marble countertop caught her eye and she went to it, pouring herself a large glass then downing it almost in one. Instantly, she refilled it.

  On jelly legs, she wandered out of the kitchen and down the wide hallway. What was she supposed to do now? The rest of her life stretched out before her – a life unknown and frightening – a life without Seb. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, she had given up everything for that man, even her own career as a journalist. Seb Miles was a brilliant doctor, a man that was at the top of his game and in the prime of his life. He had never liked her working, deeming it unseemly, and preferred her to keep house.

  No. Don’t go down that bitter, jilted wife road. That can surely only end badly…

  Without realising it, she had wandered into the downstairs bathroom, clutching her glass of red. A wild-eyed woman stared back at her in the big mirror above the sink; a woman she barely recognised.

  Look at the state of you. No wonder he left you.

  She decided that she was looking old. Old and past it. She had seen his bright-eyed, twenty-two-year-old secretary – at thirty-nine, how the fuck was she supposed to compete with that?

  Then she thought of her eighteen-year-old daughter, currently away at Uni and for the first time her eyes welled with tears. Even when he had announced that he was leaving her just now in the kitchen, she had not cried.

  What was the point of all this money, of this stupid fucking house if one’s life was an empty shell? She was used-up, washed-up. Past her prime. Her daughter was grown-up and didn’t need her anymore. Who would want her now?

  Malcom would. He always did.

  But that was a crazy thought. It made no sense to think of him now, not after firmly putting him out of her mind for twenty years…

  She concentrated on her reflection once more.

  I look like shit.

  Critically, she examined her face, clutching the rim of the sink – Venetian marble, no less – and leaned in close to the mirror. Her once pretty, if not beautiful face, was easily showing the passage of time; it looked like she had aged ten years in the past ten minutes. Her jawline seemed a little soft, the once-plump mouth slightly less full and curving downwards at the corners. Seb used to say that she looked like Jane Birkin in her prime, with her slim face, symmetrical features and big, brown eyes.

  Yeah. He hasn’t said that for years though, has he?

  Her gaze shifted to her immaculately cut, brown hair, which hung in a glossy curtain to her shoulder-blades. But lately, no matter how often she dyed her hair, a few pesky white strands always shone nastily through, weaving through to the ends.

  I’m old and I’m ugly.

  A fresh bout of tears blurred her vision and she tipped back her head to regain control of herself, staring up at the high ceiling. When she had herself sufficiently under control, she met her gaze once more in the mirror…

  And let out a strangled cry. There was a figure standing next to the walk-in shower. The tall, thin, all-too-familiar figure was cast entirely – and impossibly – in shadows. Impossible because the bathroom was brightly lit and shadowless.

  Impossible because the man was not in the shadows, he was the shadows.

  It was Him.

  It’s The Undertaker.

  Spinning round, she stared at the spot where He had been standing, but of course, there was no one and nothing there.

  No, no, no, this can’t be happening. I’m seeing things. My husband has left me so I’m seeing things…

  But if that was true, why was her heart pounding so violently and why was her breath coming in shallow little gasps? She closed her eyes and shakily exhaled, remembering her promise.

  If he comes back, then we have to stop him, all of us, together. Only we can stop him.

  Memories that she had suppressed for twenty-seven years were suddenly at the forefront of her mind; memories that she thought she had long forgotten. Wrenching her gaze away from the empty spot by the shower, she stumbled out of the bathroom, an anguished cry on her lips.

  She flung herself onto the designer sofa in the living-room, burying her face in a cushion with a groan. She stayed like that, assaulted by the violent rush of memories.

  She was twelve-years-old again, back when her surname was Halliday, not Miles,
hanging out with her four best-friends. It was a warm Summer’s day that had started out like any other. A day that signalled the start, and the end, of everything.

  It was the day of the dead cat…

  CHAPTER TWO

  1990

  It was as if the old woman had appeared from out of nowhere, materialising at her gate at the end of her long, front garden. Her name was Marjorie Reid, but most kids just called her ‘The Witch’.

  “Why don’t you kids go and play down the beach? Or the cliff-path?”

  “Because Sean wants to learn to skateboard,” Brett called over to her from the pavement on the other side of the road. “And this is the widest street with the least traffic.”

  Jane elbowed him in the ribs. “Don’t be rude,” she hissed.

  “I’m not being rude,” Brett said in a too-loud voice. “I’m just sayin’ that this is a public road, that’s all.”

  The old woman looked thunderous. She opened her mouth, but her reply was cut dead by the sound of a high-pitched scream.

  Sean had parted ways with the skateboard, and lay in a heap in the middle of the road. All four of them – Jane, Brett, Malcom and Amber – rushed over to him. Amber got their first, just like she always did where Sean was concerned.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, pulling him to his feet.

  “Fine,” he said, his cheeks flaming in embarrassment. “I almost had it, but there was this really big stone…”

  Malcom placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked with a gravity that by rights should have belonged to a person much older. “Thank God you didn’t land on your head, you really should have been wearing a helmet.”

  Brett rolled his eyes. “Fuck, Malcom, you’re such a fusspot.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Why don’t I show you how it’s done?” Brett said, grabbing the skateboard and expertly hopping on.

  Malcom shook his head, sadly. “It will end in broken bones. You’d never catch me on one of those things.”

  But everyone ignored him, even Jane, who secretly quite agreed with him – she would’ve much rather been swimming or just chilling out on the beach.

  She watched Brett on the skateboard. Out of the five of them, he was the shortest, but physically, he was maturing at a faster rate. Despite only being twelve, he was already beginning to get a man’s shape. Unlike rake-thin Sean and slightly-plump Malcom, his shoulders were already beginning to fill out, his arms wiry and strong for someone so young.

  Jane secretly thought that he had taken to working-out because he was over-compensating for being a redhead. That, and she knew his dad took the belt to him when he’d had one too many.

  “See? Piece of piss,” he called over his shoulder as he glided effortlessly down the street.

  “Wanker,” Sean called back.

  “There is no need for such coarse language,” the old woman shouted over to them, her voice thin and watery.

  Jane smiled at her, but the gesture was not returned. “I’m sorry Mrs Reid, he doesn’t mean it.”

  “You are such an arse-lick,” Amber said softly in her ear. “I’m bored, anyway. Let’s go and smoke on the cliff.”

  “Where’d you get fags?’ Sean asked, rubbing his elbow. Despite this, by some miracle he appeared unscathed.

  “Nicked them off my parents.”

  “Naughty girl,” Sean said with his customary, lopsided grin.

  Amber giggled, pleased as always to be basking in Sean’s attention.

  Jane, however, wasn’t so pleased at this sudden turn in events. Her parents would kill her if they found out that she had so much as looked at a cigarette, and she knew that Malcom wouldn’t want to smoke either, because even at the tender age of twelve, he was so moral it hurt.

  They turned their back on the glaring woman at the end of her garden, and crossed the wide street. Jane leaned against the stonewall, beyond which was the wilderness of the cliff-top that eventually dropped to the crashing sea below.

  “I wish that old bag would stop staring at us,” Sean said.

  “Maybe she’s got a point,” Malcom said, speaking for the first time in ages. “We’re disrupting her peace.”

  “It’s a free fucking country,” Sean said. “Besides, everyone knows she’s a witch.”

  Jane couldn’t help laughing at that one. “Oh, please, just because a woman over sixty-five lives alone in a big house and has long white hair in a bun, it doesn’t make her a witch.”

  Malcom smiled at her, probably pleased that she was joining him on his moral high-ground. Or at least, the ground where everybody was judged fairly, and everyone was kind and decent, like him. It felt good, when he smiled at her like that.

  “And she’s got a black cat,” Sean continued. “So she’s definitely a witch. Oi, mate, we’re going now,” Sean shouted over to Brett who was now all the way down the other end of the street where the road ended and the cliff-path began.

  Jane almost felt sorry for Brett. Even though she was only twelve, she got that he was trying to impress them. Her and Amber especially. But the trouble was, Amber only had eyes for Sean – not that she would ever admit it – and as for her, well, she and Malcom had a special connection. He made her feel safe.

  Sean cupped his hands over his mouth. “I said we’re going now, fuck-brains!”

  Brett’s head jerked backwards to look at them, and the rest happened so fast that Jane didn’t have time to so much as draw breath.

  Brett’s fall was so much worse than Sean’s had been because of the speed he was travelling. He was flipped up into the air like a ragdoll. For a moment he seemed suspended there, all loose-limbed and resembling a broken starfish, before he crashed to the floor. His body smacked against the concrete, bounced once, and lay still.

  “Brett!” Jane cried, rushing over towards him, at the same time as the old woman erupted out of the gate with a speed that belied her sixty-plus years. She was aware of her three friends keeping pace next to her and they arrived at the same time, skidding to halt by Brett’s side.

  “Jesus, are you okay?” Jane asked, peering down at Brett who lay sprawled on his back.

  He groaned in reply, shakily lifting his head up off the ground.

  Malcom crouched down next to him and Jane, Sean and Amber did the same.

  Malcom placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Told you you should’ve worn a helmet.”

  “Christ, mate, have you broken anything?” Sean asked.

  “Abigail,” the old woman cried.

  “Oh shit,” Amber muttered under her breath.

  Jane’s head swivelled to look where Amber was looking, and her heart lurched in her chest.

  “Oh shit,” she said too.

  Just a few feet from where Brett lay was a sizable clump of black fur next to the overturned skateboard. It took her a second or two to work out what it was, exactly, that she was seeing.

  Oh fuck. It’s the old biddy’s cat.

  And it most definitely wasn’t moving. The old woman was crouched over it, tears streaming from her eyes.

  “Oh my giddy aunt, you heathens have run over Abigail.”

  For the briefest of moments, Jane almost felt sorry for her. She cut such a pitiful figure in her navy-blue carpet slippers, with her flesh coloured tights wrinkling around her swollen ankles.

  “We’re so sorry…” Jane began, not knowing how to finish.

  “Yeah, it was an accident,” Sean said.

  “Ow,” Brett groaned, struggling to raise his head before it flopped back down again.

  The fall he had taken was much worse than Sean’s had been. Jane did a quick scan of his body – no blood, thank God.

  The old woman let out an almighty howl, and all concern for Brett was temporarily forgotten. Tenderly, she reached out to stroke the bloody pile of fur that had once been her beloved pet. Her grief was absolute, making Jane think of a woman crouching over the gravestone of her dead infant.

  Broken, Jane thought. We’ve brok
en her.

  As if reading her mind, the old woman raised her head and locked eyes with Jane. Her watery brown eyes glistened with tears and anger. She pointed a trembling, bony finger in her direction.

  “I curse you. You’ll pay for what you’ve done.”

  Jane remained frozen to the spot, withering under the old woman’s hateful glare. Sean and Malcom pulled Brett to his feet.

  “Come on, Jane,” Amber was saying to her. “We have to go. Now.”

  “Get out of my sight!” the old woman screamed, making Jane flinch.

  Amber extended her hand down to her and pulled her to her feet.

  The five of them fled the scene, leaving the dead cat and the heartbroken woman far behind them.

  CHAPTER THREE

  2017

  Sean Walker wasn’t feeling it tonight; this was a tough crowd. There was alternative, and then there was alternative, and this fucking shower were rough. The audience was less goth and more neo-nazi, if the bald heads and fleeting glimpse of ‘almost-but-not-quite’ Swastika tattoos were anything to go by.

  He belted out the song nonetheless, hoping that the heavy, industrial sound of his band, ‘Disassociate’ made up for the distinct lack of white-supremacist lyrics.

  “…if you leave me I’ll die, but not before I rip out his heart and yours toooo, yeah. You trample on me, trample on me, trample on meee,” he wailed, deliberately off-key.

  When he had finished, there was a half-hearted round of applause, but most of them looked too pissed to stand.

  “I need a fucking pint,” he said to the keyboardist and long-term friend, Kevin White.

  “Not a fucking chance, mate,’ Kevin replied. “I am out of this dump.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Greg King said, the guitarist, and third and final member of ‘Disassociate’. “Promised the wife I’d be home straight after this gig.”

  A wave of sadness crashed over him, which he glossed over with a generous dose of sarcastic anger.

  “Well, fuck both you pair of henpecked cunts. I need a fucking drink.”