The Collection Read online

  THE COLLECTION

  EXTREME HORROR

  by

  SAM WEST

  THE COLLECTION

  EXTREME HORROR

  by

  SAM WEST

  COPYRIGHT SAM WEST 2017

  COVER IMAGE:

  BETIBUB

  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.

  I

  Helen Clarke stretched out on the long, red leather sofa, her gaze drawn to the clock above the bookcase.

  It’s only half-seven, what am I going to do with myself for the rest of the night?

  Sighing heavily, her gaze travelled down the six shelves that made up the bookcase. Absently, she considered finding a film on Netflix, but she felt too on-edge to concentrate on the TV. Outside, a thunderstorm raged and she lay there listening to the rhythmic pitter-patter of the torrential rain lashing against the window.

  Flumpy, the black cat jumped up onto her pink, pyjama-clad thighs, startling her. Helen scratched her behind her ears, forcing herself to relax.

  The furry body felt nice and warm as she settled down against her legs, but she knew that was a lie, seeing as cats only pretended to keep you warm. Yeah, cats are such selfish wankers, she thought affectionately. Instead of creating a nice, warm spot, the little bastards absorbed all of that person’s heat into their own bodies, much like a vampire would suck blood.

  “I expect Roger will get soaked-through on his precious pub-crawl,” she said to the purring cat.

  The thought cheered her up, somewhat. As much as she professed not to mind him going out with his mates, she was still secretly miffed at being left behind.

  What if he starts flirting with other women?

  The nasty thought slammed into her mind, causing her heart to twist painfully in her chest.

  “He wouldn’t do that, would he, moggy?”

  A clap of thunder made her flinch, and Flumpy meowed, digging her claws into her thighs before scrambling away.

  “Ow,” she complained, jumping to her feet. “Stupid bloody cat.”

  And sure enough, now her legs were bloody freezing.

  Muttering to herself like the crazy cat lady she was secretly worried that she might one day turn into, she hobbled into the middle of the living-room, frantically rubbing her tender – and very cold – thighs.

  Over the mantelpiece, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. She looked wild, and an equally wild sounding giggle escaped her lips. Her shoulder-length, black hair stuck up every which way and her dark brown eyes were wide and crazed. A flash of lightning illuminated the room, immediately followed by a fierce explosion of thunder. Her skin, usually a rich and deep shade of brown, appeared bleached-out by the brief flash of lightning.

  I look like a ghost.

  The odd thought made her shiver, despite the warmth of the room. She noticed her arms were speckled with goose-bump and she wrapped them tightly around her torso. All she wore was a white vest-top, and her hard nipples strained against the flimsy fabric. Feeling inexplicably self-conscious, she retreated over to the sofa and grabbed the grey fleece that was flung over the back of it, wrapping it tightly around her shoulders.

  Yet again, her gaze was drawn to the bookshelf.

  When in doubt, read.

  She took a step closer. At exactly eye-level, on the second shelf from the top, a book caught her eye. Unlike the others, it wasn’t neatly lined up with its spine facing outwards. It was propped up in the middle of the shelf, leaning against the row of books.

  The cover was a simple affair – the words ‘The Collection’ were written across the front in big, red letters which were set against a mottled, greyish-pink background. There was no author name written on it, just those two words.

  She plucked it down to look at it more closely. On closer inspection, the entire jacket of the book was made of some kind of leather – it felt dry and soft to the touch and she ran her fingertips over the raised lettering.

  She shuddered when realisation dawned on her. It really looked as if the jacket were made of human skin, and the lettering was jagged marks cut into flesh.

  “It’s not real,” she said softly to the empty room. “It can’t be.”

  Part of her wanted to throw it the ground with a cry of repulsion, the other part of her clung onto it with morbid fascination.

  Of course it wasn’t real. She was an idiot to even think such a thing for a second. But it was pretty gross, and so realistic.

  It must be some special edition horror book, or something.

  But she didn’t much like horror, so how the hell had it ended up on her bookshelf?

  She frowned in confusion. Nope, she didn’t recognise it at all.

  Maybe it’s Roger’s.

  But Roger wasn’t much of a reader; every single book in the house belonged to her. Helen was a self-confessed book-whore – not a day of her life went by where she didn’t snatch at least ten minutes reading time. Books were her life and reading was her passion. Ten years ago, she had graduated from Oxford University with a first in English Lit, going on to teach English at a grammar school.

  The strangest feeling washed over her.

  I shouldn’t be touching this.

  But she didn’t put it down.

  Where did you come from, strange little book?

  Even though she didn’t like horror, she found herself opening the cover, wanting to see the copyright page for information on the author and the publisher. There was nothing. No copyright page. No information. No nothing. The damn thing opened up straight to the first story.

  Her frown deepened when she read the title, ‘STICKY-TAPE’. There was no author name there, either. Almost in a trance, she carried the book over to the sofa and wrapped the grey fleece around her body in a tight cocoon.

  She began to read….

  II

  STICKY-TAPE

  “Ugh, I hate these places. Remind me why we came here, again?”

  Charlotte shot her boyfriend Jason a withering stare. “Because funfairs are fun, dumbass.”

  Charlotte took in her surroundings as they wound their way through the crowds beneath the night sky. How she loved the brightly coloured, tacky rides, and the many different pop songs that pumped out from numerous speakers. Funfairs just had this energy about them, and it was infectious.

  “Yes, well, I haven’t had this much fun since I had my wisdom tooth extracted.”

  Disappointment crashed down on top of her – he was just such a killjoy. Not for the first time, she wondered why the hell she was with him, anyway. In the beginning, it had been their differences that had first so attracted her to him. He was kind of geeky, bookish and introverted and she was a party-animal that had left school at sixteen. He was studying for his PHD in Mathematics, and she was a pursuing a career in modelling. Except the work wasn’t coming in like she’d hoped it would, and mostly she found herself drifting from one shitty waitressing job to the next.

  Pompous arse, she thought uncharitably.

  “Some of us aren’t fusty and old before our time. Some of us actually like to get out and live a little.”

  “You call this living? Good Lord, I call this dying a slow, painful death. And that music. I have such a headache.”

  “You know what, Jason? Beethoven gives me a fucking headache, because it’s fucking crap. And don’t even get me started on that opera shit you listen to, it sounds like fucking cats dying.”

  Charlotte slipped her hand out of his and stopped dead in her tracks, glaring at him. In that moment, she couldn’t think of
a single reason why she was with him. At twenty-four, he was just two years older than her, but right then it felt like at least twenty. Everything about him and his stuffy attitude grated on her, from his already receding hairline, to his glasses, to the corduroy jackets with leather elbow patches that he wore that she used to think were so adorably cute. Now she just thought they made him look like a pretentious wanker.

  “I wish you wouldn’t swear like that. It makes you sound trashy.”

  Charlotte bristled. “Trashy? You think I’m trashy now? Am I not good enough for you? Why are you being so rude? You say I’m close-minded, but what about you? There’s more to life than books, and Universities and boring old equations.”

  Behind his little round spectacles, his gaze softened. “Charlotte…”

  “No,” she said, snatching her hand away when he reached for her. “I think you’ve said enough.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She glared at him, but felt herself thawing a little. Still, there was no way she was going to apologise. He was the one in the wrong, not her. He could go fuck himself if he expected her to say sorry. But apparently, he didn’t.

  “Can we start again? You’re right, I’m just really stressed with the work load at University. I’ll buy you some candyfloss.”

  “Will you go on the dodgems with me?”

  “Let’s not push it. I said I was sorry, I didn’t say I’d have a personality transplant.”

  But he said it with a smile; his first proper smile since they had arrived here ten minutes ago.

  Despite herself, she smiled back. Maybe she was being a little harsh. Jason was a good bloke, a real catch. He was intelligent and kind, even if he was a little smug sometimes, and more importantly, one day he was going to be very rich. And maybe, if she could persuade him to start going down the gym, he could do something about his puny body, too.

  She allowed him to take her hand in his and once more they resumed their walk.

  “Oh look,” Charlotte gasped in delight, grinding to a halt. “A fortune teller. How exciting! Come on, let’s get our fortune told.”

  She gazed in awe at the small tent that was sandwiched between a tombola stand and a candyfloss stand.

  Jason rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. Do we really have to go and see some stupid, theatrical old hag in a shawl, crouching over a crystal ball and wearing a prosthetic nose?”

  “A prosthetic nose? Really? I thought you said you were going to stop moaning and try to live a little. Come on, it will be fun.”

  Jason opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to think better of it and shut it again.

  “Please? Come on, our song is playing too, it’s a sign.”

  The Pet Shop Boys floated towards them – the only pop music that Jason seemed to tolerate. It wasn’t exactly her favourite pop group, but at least it wasn’t bloody Mozart or some other classical crap. The lyrics of ‘their song’ – a song she secretly disliked – drifted over her. It was the song that had been playing on the car radio when Jason had asked her to move in with him.

  …’cause when you least expect it, waiting round the corner for you. Love comes quickly, whatever you do, you can’t stop falling…

  Invisible, icy fingers tickled the back of her neck, and for a moment she stood stock still, irrationally gripped by the idea that someone, or something was watching her. Her heart hammered and the lyrics of the song seemed to take on a whole new, sinister meaning. The crazy notion that something bad was waiting round the corner for her, caused her to sway slightly on the spot. The music, and all the noise of the funfair seemed to distort around her, like she was heavily drugged. The joyful screams of the people on rides suddenly sounded like screams of terror, and the jostling crowd and clanking machinery of the rides caused her vision to narrow, like she was falling down a well.

  “Hey, are you alright? You’ve gone quite pale.”

  Jason’s voice instantly snapped her back, and suddenly everything was normal again. Her heart hammered wildly and she placed a hand over her chest.

  “I’m fine, I think I had a panic attack, or something.”

  She’d had them before, but not for many years and never that bad.

  The flap of the tent swished to one side and her gaze fell upon the newly revealed entrance of the tent.

  For a second, everything around her seemed to fall silent. Framed in the tent’s entrance was quite possibly the most gorgeous man she had ever seen in her life. He was tall with thick, glossy black hair that flopped over his forehead. His complexion was the smoothest olive, his eyes a glittering black.

  She marvelled at the perfect, manly angles of his face. He had the bone-structure of a young Brad Pitt. No, scrap that, she thought, this guy was a zillion times hotter than Brad ever was. His utter perfection made him appear ageless, yet she doubted he was over thirty.

  Her gaze lowered to his mouth, and her lower stomach flipped in arousal. She squirmed uncomfortably, conscious of the sudden, wet heat that flooded between her legs. His mouth somehow managed to be both soft and inviting yet hard and cruel at the same time. His beautiful lips looked as if they were carved out of stone, and the corner of one side lifted up in a cruel smirk that made her breath catch in her throat.

  Her gaze travelled lower, drinking in the sight of his body encased in the simple white t-shirt and tight, faded Levis.

  Oh my, that body… Fuck me, those muscles…

  Her pulse quickened and she felt her face flush.

  “Can I read your fortune?” he asked.

  His accent was thick and one she couldn’t place. Romanian, perhaps? He sounded like a campy Count Dracula from some ancient, black and white movie. His glittering, black eyes bore into her, making her face flame further. Not once did he look at Jason.

  “No, it’s alright,” Jason squeaked, then cleared his throat.

  She jumped guiltily at the sound of his voice. “You promised,” she said, not quite able to bring herself to meet his eyes.

  “I promise I won’t bite,” the sexy stranger said with that knicker-soaking smirk.

  He stepped to one side, holding up the flap of the tent to let them pass.

  Charlotte entwined her fingers with Jason’s, gently tugging on his hand.

  He sighed heavily. “Okay, okay, we’ll do it.”

  As she brushed past The Hunk, a jolt of electricity shot through her body where his bulging bicep grazed her shoulder. Her legs were jelly beneath her when she entered the tent with Jason close behind her. On the inside it was a simple affair; just one, small, white table with three chairs surrounding it.

  And there was no sign of a crystal ball.

  “Please sit,” the man said, pulling out two chairs and gesturing for them to sit down.

  They did, and the sexy stranger sat opposite them.

  “I do not need props to read a person’s fortune,” the man said as if he could read her mind. “I am the real deal. I want one of you to lay their hand palm up on the table. Who shall go first?”

  Jason sighed and Charlotte glared at him. “I guess I’ll go first, then,” she said, shooting Jason a warning glance.

  You promised you would be nice.

  She smiled at the man, peeping coquettishly up at him through her eyelashes.

  “It is not so easy to perform on sceptics,” the man said, his eyes glittering and narrowing into slits. “But I sense a deep, mystical soul within you, my child.”

  His words made her shiver, like they had touched her physically.

  When he touched her, his big hands were warm, dry and slightly calloused. With her heart in her throat she stared down at his fingers cupping hers, marvelling at how big and masculine his hands were; how small and dainty her hands looked in his.

  How a man and a woman should look together, she thought through the haze of lust. Jason’s hands were so small and pathetic in comparison.

  He began to trace slow, languid patterns with his fingertips on her upturned palms. Her whole body flooded with endorphin
s and her head swam. The tickle of his fingers made her entire world spin. Barely touching her skin, he followed the faint lines on her palm.

  “Interesting,” he said, staring hard at her palm, that all-knowing, sexy smirk firmly in place. “So. You are twenty-two years old, and you are an aspiring model.”

  She gaped stupidly at him. “How did you know that?”

  He lifted his gaze to meet hers and felt herself falling into the unfathomable, dark pools of his eyes. “I read people, Charlotte, that’s what I do.”

  “I didn’t tell you my name,” she whispered.

  “That’s right. You didn’t.”

  “Yes, well, you had to be eavesdropping on us then, didn’t you?” Jason said. “And if not you, then someone else.”

  “Please, Jason, can we just do this? At least try to make an effort, try and get into the spirit of things.”

  “Fine,” he said, rolling his eyes. “For you.”

  “Your life is at a pivotal moment,” the fortune teller continued as if Jason were invisible. “This very night will determine your future. You are a beautiful woman, Charlotte, you will go far in modelling if you choose the right path tonight.”

  “The right path? How’d you mean?”

  “I mean that tonight you will be given a choice, and whatever you decide will make or break you. Tonight, you will realise that you are with the wrong man. A woman as breath-taking as you will never go the distance with a man like Jason. He is not good enough for you. Yes, he will one day have a brilliant career and make lots of money, but he could never satisfy you. A tall, dark, handsome stranger will come along and sweep you off your feet; he will show you who you really are.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” Jason said, pushing back his chair and jumping to his feet. “This tall, handsome stranger is you, I suppose?” He looked down at Charlotte, pushing his glasses up his long nose. “This guy is the worst kind of predator. He’s a spy, a liar and a charlatan and I have no intention of staying here to have my intelligence insulted for a second longer. It is time to go.”