Ok, first?
SHUT-UP!!
Just because there's been no terrible SMUT lately, does not mean my story is CRAPPY!!
. . . You're MOTHER was crappy.
Last night.
So SUCK ON THAT!
Nevertheless, here, have a chapter. While there are not any romantic declarations in this one (and I fail to understand why you all seem to like those,) there is, in my typically big-headed opinion, a relative amount of artistic value to this chapter.
. . . All I wanted was my story to have a few pathos.
SORR-Y!
Rotisserie StyleHere's the thing about wide-open front doors.
. . . Either you're expected, or there's no one left alive to close them.
Mrs Grey's front door was wide open.
Pushing all non-cheery thoughts to the back of my head, I sucked in a deep breath and pushed the door of my little rental car shut. Its slam was louder than I'd anticipated, making me jump.
Shame, I know.
And you know what? I felt like GOLDILOCKS. Defiantly sneaking somewhere I knew I shouldn't, and scared of what I might find, yet unable to resist.
In hindsight, I really should have remembered what a dumb broad Goldilocks was.
I began up the pebbled pathway (pebbled pathway's hate heels, and I was wearing Steve Madden, which was a real bitch,) towards the wide open and perfectly still front door of Mrs Greys home.
I didn't let myself look to the left, and over the pine trees where I knew I could see the top of my home.
I'm not that much of a masochist.
Instead I kept my eyes firmly locked on Mrs Greys door as I stepped over the terracotta pieces of a broken potplant that was scattered over the path.
. . . Please tell me a cat broke that, I thought fervently to myself.
. . . And please tell me that Mrs Grey just . . . forgot to close her door, or something dumb like that.
My heel twisted a little on the pebbles, and I stumbled a little, but I didn't pause as I reached the doorstep, Even though my shoes were about 200 a pop.
Because I couldn't help it. I was WORRIED.
Mrs Grey is, lets face it, annoying. She's like the Miss Marple of Carmel-by-the-Sea. And while it may have been true that everyone that met Miss Marple may have just wanted to punch her in the ovaries for being so freaking nosy, Miss Marple NEVER forgot to shut—and lock—her doors.
So yeah, I was DAMN worried.
I tentatively reached out and pressed the gold door buzzer, trying to avoid looking down the gaping hallway.
No response.
"Mrs Grey . . .? You there?"
I was so badly hoping for a cheery "Yes Melinda, dear, here I am, safe and sound! Now have some Ovaltine!".
But I really shouldn't have been surprise that there was no response. Unless you count that the silence seemed to get LOUDER.
I then surpassed worry, and begin to panic.
"MRS GREY!"
. . . Shit.
I took a careful step inside her house and began down the hallway.
Something was really . . . something was . . .
Firstly, there was the open door. Secondly, everything was just too quiet. There was no old people television shows playing in the background (no Coronation Street, or Family Fued), no kettle boiling (for the Ovaltine, of course), No hundred CATS yowling . . .
This was NOT my idea of a good and well old lady's home.
The only sounds in the house were the sounds of my own steps as I clipped down the hallway and came to a stop at the door of what I remembered to be Mrs Grey's living room. I tentatively pushed open the door, expecting the worst . . .
. . . horrifying images of all the creative ways Keith could possibly have killed an old woman by running flashing through my mind . . .
But the room was eerily still, and meticulously neat as I remembered.
Yet this still did nothing to ease the horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. Quickly I began to search the house. Eventually, after having checked two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom and a laundry room . . . I could find no conclusion other than that I was over-reacting.
Not that with my track record, anyone would blame me. Do you know how awesome it is to NOT stumble across a scene as traumatic as, I don't know, Keith lounging around the kitchen, spit roasting a withered and flaming carcass, recognisable only by the rollers in the wiry hair . . .
What an over active imagination, huh? And all just because of an open door! The Ninth floor of Bellevue just gets closer and closer each day . . .
I vividly remember laughing at myself and feeling relieved as I walked back down the hallway, intending to head back out that stupid open door and away from this doily filled, floral wallpapered little house. But once more, my illusions of safety were violently wrenched out from under me.
Let me tell you. I am so over all this 'impending death' shit. SO OVER.
I mean, I could see that hideous white Mitsubishi rental! I was already trying to decide what flavour ICE-CREAM I'd get when I stopped for gas on my way back to the motel . . .
I remember I was tossing up between a lemonade popsicle or a jelly tip.
It was when I walked past the living room door on my way out.
I froze.
And back tracked the two small steps that put me back in the doorway of Mrs Grey's living room.
Keith reclined on one of her pink floral print sofas, staring out the sliding glass door that led to the small patio like he had a perfectly good reason for being in this old woman's house.
I gasped queitly.
Well, I hoped it was quiet. Probably not though.
Oh, how AWESOME.
God this . . . I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS SHIT!! ENOUGH OF THESE NASTY SURPRISES! CAN EVERYONE JUST CUT IT OUT NOW?!
. . . please don't let me find Mrs Grey revolving like a kebab in the kitchen . . . please don't let me find Mrs Grey revolving like a kebab in the kitchen . . .
"Hello Melinda," Keith greeted me casually, not looking away from the patio.
I didn't reply. I kind of just stared in horror.
And I know what you're thinking. "IF YOU HAD HALF A BRAIN, GIRL, YOU BE RUNNING FOR THE CAR AND BOOSTING IT THE FUCK OUT OF THERE ALREADY!!"
But it just doesn't work like that.
KEITH just doesn't work like that.
He'd never let me leave this house alive, I knew.
"Did you know Melinda," he said my name softly, like a caress, as he stared out at the forest green patio railing. "That lead-based pain is toxic?"
Well nah—
Wait.
. . . . . . please don't let me find Mrs Grey revolving like a kebab in the kitchen with her mouth stuffed full of lead based paint for flavour . . . please don't let me find Mrs Grey revolving like a kebab in the kitchen with her mouth stuffed full of lead based paint for flavour . . .
"Um . . ." I thought fast. "I dunno. But its kinda common isn't it? Not very creative AT ALL . . ."
And Keith liked to be creative.
He smirked, and I knew he'd seen through my dumbness.
He got to his feet then, and stretched with a groan. "Ahh . . . So. How you been, Melinda?"
??
" . . . Oh, yeah . . . just champion . . ."
"What do you think the old broad had to tell you, little Melly?'
. . . Huh?
I'd come here to re-hash the whole RED MUSTANG CONVERTIBLE thing with Mrs Grey (hoping that by pouring over old clues, new would miraculously appear. Like it does in Scooby Doo), but now Keith was saying she'd had something to tell me? Actually SOMETHING?
Like VELMA??
Instead of voicing any of this though, I said, "Don't call me that."
Impressive threat, right? Yeah, bet he was totally scared of me now. Especially with the shaky voice and all that.
He beamed at my attempt at a threat. "No, really, little Melly. Do you want to guess some more about this "red mustang" crap? Because I'm really getting a laugh out of how fucking dumb you've been." He chortled a little, as if to illustrate his point.
Yeah. Ok. I get it.
You're a humorous sadistic murdering bastard Keith. You really are.
Reluctantly I began to speak. What else could I do? "Well it's not YOUR red mustang, as clearly, you have no need for one . . . dead and all . . ."
I said this snarkily, going on the basis that most ghosts were really pretty damn sore about being dead. Keith, however—fat abnormality that he is—just winked.
Then something occurred to me. And I couldn't believe I hadn't seen it before.
Nick was right.
NICK WAS RIGHT!!
Keith was the type to drive an Aston Marton into a tree when he got a little pissy.
It was someone else entirely to orchestrate Stacy's murder, and make it look like a suicide.
Someone ELSE who decided to warn me off by sadistically murdering the people closest to me.
Someone ELSE who was alive enough to own a red mustang convertible, and then drive past a murder scene multiple times to check that all was going to plan. THEIR plan.
It was someone else who was playing (and winning, present predicament remembered,) psychological cat and mouse with me.
Keith was too dumb for any of that.
He was just someone's bitch.
. . . But WHOSE?
"So I guess," I said slowly, and there was no mistaking the conviction in my voice, "that means you have a superior. Someone whose calling the shots."
Keith chortled again. "Oh very good honey!"
My newfound contempt for Keith as just someone's flunky was shattered as I remembered he was still the murderer here.
"In fact, SO good," he continued, "that what the hell, I'm going to give you ONE GOLD STAR!!" And he giggled.
There really was no other word for it. Giggled.
He was one screwed in the head motherfucker. He got actual pleasure out of violent suffering. He was unbalanced and dangerous, and he actually enjoyed the brutal murders he was instructed to perform.
He WOULD HAVE spit roasted Mrs Grey.
If he'd thought of it.
"Where's Mrs Grey?" I demanded then.
"Guess."
FUCKWAD.
"I don't know."
"GUESS."
"Just tell me where she is!"
"But why would we talk about her? When we could talk about YOU!!" Keith said, reaching out and laying a 'friendly' hand on my shoulder. "I hear that YOU'RE hiding from ME in a dingy little hotel! You must be scared little Melly . . ."
I jerked away from his touch and glared. "Or maybe, it's just that I REALLY LIKE THEIR CONTINENTAL BREAKFASTS! Ever think of THAT?"
Oh, good one Melinda. Thumbs up. You ROCK at this tough guy talk. Why don't you now throw in a 'butt-face" for good measure? Hell, why not two?
Keith snickerd.
"Keith," I pleaded, "Come on, where is she?"
Is she ALIVE? Is she HURT?
Keith slid his bulk back down into the pink rose patterned couch and sighed theatrically. "Aw, you're no fucking fun. The old broad's out doing her Sunday shopping."
But . . . it's Wednesday, you freaking douche bag.
I mentioned this.
. . . Without the douche bag remark attached, though. I mean, my life might SUCK, (more so right now than ever,) but I'm still kind of attached to it, you know?
Keith groaned like I was completely ruining the game by refusing to play properly. Like it was freaking hide and go seek or something. "Fuck up Melinda! Why do you ALWAYS have to ruin my day?"
I replied bluntly, "You don't have days Keith. You're dead."
He raised his voice over me, " POINT IS, THE OLD BAT'S NOT DEAD!! Lee-Lee thought it would be better to freak you out without having to do any of the work. Neat, eh? You should just be jazzed I didn't shoot the old bitch."
I managed a dry little laugh. "Yeah. I would be. Totally 'jazzed'. If you, the homicidal psychopath, could be believed."
Now if Keith had gone all "Cut me deep Shrek. Cut me real deep just now," or something, things might have somehow been ok.
Instead he said, "Yeah . . . You'll never know, though aye."
You'd think I'd be so used to his death threats by now. But every time, my blood runs a little cold and I can't help but feel terrified.
Not that I don't try my best not to let Keith know this.
"I assume that's another one of your fun little threats then? I said in what I really hope was bored drawl.
But if I couldn't even convince myself that it was a bored drawl, I doubt Keith was fooled. Dumber than an inflatable pool toy Keith might have been, but he wasn't, like, Lindsay Lohan or anything.
. . . Sorry Lindsay. No offence or anything.
"Yes! Congratulations Melinda! You can have another point!" Keith cheered.
What, not even a gold star this time?
No?
FUCK YOU THEN.
You know Keith even if you WEREN'T a krazy-for-kibble murdering RAPIST, then I STILL wouldn't like you.
Yeah. HOW YOU LIKE THEM COOKIES BITCH??
. . . Shut up. I get a bit like this every time people threaten to kill me. You understand. Its all to do with that horrible niggly little voice in the back of your mind telling you that any second now, this patho in front of you was going to get a phone call that would instruct said patho to skewer and torch you in an AWOL old ladies kitchen.
. . . You'd be a little WIDE-EYED too!
"But before we get down to all that—"
Oh cool. A 10 or so minute reprieve. Reckon I'd be allowed a bathroom break? Couple slices of cake?
"Lets get back on—oopsies, I meant to say 'to—" he grinned. "Your old lady friend. What did you think I'd done to her?"
"I don't know," I said, suddenly weary.
You can only take the piss out of your own impending murder for so long. It gets real old.
I wasn't ready to meet Keith yet! And I was nowhere NEAR finding out who this "silent partner" was.
And now I think I'm going to die this afternoon.
"Aw, come one Mel-Mel. GUESS."
I was scared, yeah. But I had to do SOMETHING. I wasn't the type of person to just stand there and hope like hell it didn't hurt too much. So even though I had no IDEA of anyway I could get myself out of this alive . . .
I had to know that I'd tried.
Quickly, hoping I could move fast enough that Keith would be still be occupied with his fucking guessing games, I lunged at him, pulling him back and punching him with as much force as I could manage.
I had a very brief second in which to admire the lovely feel of cartilage giving way . . . before it all went wrong.
I'd been kind of maybe hoping (slash counting-on-with-nothing-less-than-my-life,) that Keith would be a little too heavy on his feet to retaliate with any alacrity.
Boy was I wrong.
Well, not wrong as such, because my logic was not actually flawed . . . I'd just neglected to factor in that Keith could do all the WEIRD SHIFER SHIT that I could neither do, nor had any clue about, given that my computer had "mysteriously" crashed about twenty minutes too soon.
Yeah, oops.
Funny how such a trivial little mistake could have fucked me over so thoroughly.
. . . Arabia? You may have my Gucci handbag.
I was thrown across the room and made to slam into the very top of the far wall, right up by the ceiling. Then, lucky me, I fell gracelessly two or so meters to the floor and landed messily in a heap on the light grey carpet.
I tried to get up, really I did! But I was just too slow, and hurt too much . . . and Keith reached me before I had a change to even gather my legs under me.
His cold hands—cold only in my head, as he was, first and foremost still one dead fat bastard—closed around my throat, and with a heave, he lifted me, by his sweaty grip on my neck, into the air.
. . . . And I don't think he was overly concerned about my lack of ease drawing oxygen.
Yeah, Strangulation?
Not so fun.
'When will you fucking learn," he snarled at me, all guessing games forgotten. I'd made him mad enough to forget that his orders were to play with my head. "When I tell you to do something, you fucking DO IT!!"
This last part was screamed in my face.
And the spit did not even register on my top five list of most pressing problems at that particular moment.
Yeah. THAT'S how fucking screwed I was.
I flailed desperately, gasping for breath.
Keith looked me directly in the eyes and smiled peacefully (I was too busy trying to BREATHE to full appreciate the irony of this,) as he slowly began to tighten his hold on my neck.
My eyes were huge, as my lungs began to burn from lack of oxygen . . .
Things started to get blurry around the edges . . . I couldn't keep my head clear . . . my struggles ceased as my muscles failed . . . and Keith face seemed to be closing in . . .
The last thing I remember was the revolting feeling of Keith's lips on mine, stealing from me the last oxygen I had.
Thank you, Thank you. You know you loved it.
Now I have left MORE than enough clues for you to figure out who the "villain" (Keith's boss, lol,) is by now. GIANT hints. Me-after-a-week-of-eating-nothing-but-deep-friend-Mars-bars GIANT hints. These hints space out several chapters back.
I will write a lovely personalised "The Daughter Of" fanfic for the first person to correctly guess the true villain of this story in their review. It can be you and whichever "The Daughter Of" character you please, doing whatever you want—and if you insist, I will even write you a smushy romantic confessions.
Hint: you know them.
Kisses, as always,
Mariah