It was the witching hour. The clock in the church belfry had just
struck twelve. The house stood alone
amongst the swaying trees, with the wind howling through the bare branches,
imitating the mournful cries of the dead, calling out their cold, spine
chilling message to all those who might be foolish enough to venture out on
such a night. Dark clouds scudded across
the cold, blue tinted light of a full moon and in the distance a flash of
lightning lit the horizon, followed a short while later by a deep roll of
thunder.
The sky darkened as the storm grew ever
closer and successive flashes of lightning lit up the lonely house in stark
blinding light; the accompanying thunder ripping through the heavens and
tearing through the hearts of mortals who crouched in their beds, trying in
vain to sleep and praying that soon, the sun would throw its welcoming warmth
on another day.
Even at that late hour, someone was abroad,
as footsteps scrunched their menacing way up the long gravel drive, illuminated
only by an occasional flash of a torch and the seemingly more frequent streaks
of lightning. Great droplets of rain
started to fall on the gravel, at first in single globules of water but rapidly
followed by others, until the heavens had opened up and the rain fell from the
black sky, lashing across the drive and adding its hissing, pounding sound to
the already terrifying noise of the screaming wind and the heart shattering
thunder.
The footsteps hurried now and the shadowy
figure let out an ungodly oath, cursing the heavens and the earth for sending
him out on a night like this.
Inside the house, the thick walls and heavy
curtains muffled the cry of the elements as they tore at the Gothic windows,
clawing at anything loose that might tear away and allow it to gain access to
those unfortunate enough to sleep inside.
Doctor Helen Harrison lay in her bed, tossing
and turning, trying to sleep but only succeeding in dozing in between the
flashes of lightning and the tearing, ripping crashes of thunder. They were so
loud, directly overhead, that one particular clap shook the whole house and
even the bed felt as if it lifted. She
was wide awake and lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering whether or not
to climb out of the protection of the warm bed and make herself a hot
drink. She decided that tea would be a
good idea and reached out to the bedside cabinet to switch on the light. The switch clicked and as nothing happened,
she clicked the switch again, not quite believing that the light wouldn't
work. The light stubbornly refused to come
on and, swearing under her breath, she swung her legs out of the bed, pushed
her feet into her slippers and pulled on her towelling dressing gown.
Groping her way across the room, taking
advantage of the lightning, when it decided to illuminate everything before
plunging her into darkness again, she located the switch on the wall but that
proved as ineffective as the bedside lamp.
Obviously the power lines were down somewhere and she would have to
manage without electricity for that night, which also meant that the kettle
wouldn't boil.
"Damn!" she said under her breath
but decided that she could at least get a cold drink from the freezer before
that defrosted itself.
She opened the bedroom door and stepped into
the upstairs hallway just as a crash of glass sounded from somewhere down
below, possibly from the kitchen.
For a second she froze where she was, at the
top of the stairs, her heart beating furiously, before taking a deep breath to
calm herself and compose her thoughts.
"That old tree's blown over, I wouldn't
be surprised," she mumbled to herself and groped her way down the flight
of stairs towards the kitchen to investigate the sound and to collect her cold
drink.
There was no sign of any broken glass in the
kitchen, or the other downstairs rooms but at least the storm had rolled away
now and the sky was partially clear, even if the wind did continue to howl its
mournful tune.
Sipping her drink, her thoughts turned to the
stables and her pony. If the wind had
blown in the window there, the poor thing would be terrified. She had better investigate. She went over to the cupboard under the
stairs just as a dark figure stepped unnoticed silently back into the shadows.
Retrieving her wellingtons and PVC raincoat
from the back of the cupboard door, she retraced her steps to the kitchen to
finish her drink and to pull on the wellingtons. Slipping the shiny black plastic mackintosh over
her dressing gown, she gave an involuntary shiver at the feel of the cold
plastic, then fastened it, tightening the belt and pulling up the collar to
protect herself from the elements.
The shadowy figure in the hall crept forward,
silently approaching the kitchen door but despite the caution, his rain soaked
coat brushed against a small table and the potted plant wobbled and then
crashed to the ground.
Helen looked up, startled, eyes wide with
fright and hardly able to form the words, as she opened her mouth.
"Who's there?" she called out, her
voice croaking with fear and feeling ridiculous that she should utter such a cliche, terrified that someone would answer but afraid that
if they didn't, she would have to investigate the noise.
As no answer came and no more sounds were
heard above the howling wind, she walked slowly forward and pushed open the
door that led into the hallway. The moon
cast it' pale blue light through the porch windows but seemed to create more
shadows than light. Her hand crept
around the side of the door and felt for the light switch, found it and clicked
it on, with the vain hope that the electricity supply had been restored and the
hall would flood with light. Nothing
happened. She moved her hand just as
something warm and hairy brushed across it.
With an audible gasp, she snatched her hand away and turned as a shadowy
figure loomed over her, lunged forward and with a wheezing roar, hands went for
her throat. A final, distant flash of
lightning lit up the hall to reveal the desperate, unshaven face of a man as he
took another grab at her.
She ducked and with sobbing, gasping sounds
issuing from her gaping mouth, she rushed for the stairs, panic stricken and
unable to think of anything but the desperate, self
preservation of escape.
"Police!" she sobbed to herself,
trying to bring some sense to her whirling, desperately confused mind. "I must phone the police!"
She fled up the stairs, not caring what noise
she made now, hearing the heavy footsteps of the man pounding directly behind
her, quite certain that she could feel his hot, stinking breath on her
neck. He made a grab for her, caught the
hem of her mac as she reached the upstairs landing. She reached out to keep her balance and found
her hand around a large ornamental vase.
To hell with the fact that it was a priceless antique, she swung the
heavy vase around and brought it smashing into the man's ugly face. He let out a scream, clamped hands over his
bleeding features and lost his balance, tumbling backwards down the stairs.
Without losing the momentum, Helen rushed
into her bedroom, turned the key in the lock and threw herself across the room
to pick up the telephone and call the police.
No sound came from the earpiece.
The phone was dead. The line had
been cut.
Cowering back, she wrapped her arms around
her shivering body as if to give protection and began to sob, now fully aware
how desperate she was, how terribly alone.
She stared at the bedroom door, resigned to her fate.
Another great sob left her trembling lips,
and her eyes opened wide in disbelief as she saw the bedroom door and its frame
shake. The great thud of a body hit the
door, resounding throughout the room, then another and another. Helen cowered back, petrified, as the wood
frame splintered and the door burst open.
There was a pause that seemed to last forever and then, not one but two
shadowy figures stepped into the room and walked slowly towards her. If she could have curled up into a ball, hide
her head in her hands, perhaps they would ignore her, but no, they walked
straight towards her.
She whimpered and started to pant; an animal
at bay, trapped and alone. Her last
moments had come.
"You are coming with us, Doctor
Harrison," boomed a deep voice of doom and two pairs of hands reached
down, grasped her arms on either side and lifted her bodily off the floor. She put back her head and screamed, a scream
to match the wind blown, moonlit night.
"Help me! Oh God, please help me!" she cried out
between great sobs, hoping that someone or something would rescue her but
knowing full well that they would not.
They dumped her sobbing body onto the bed
and. pulling various items from the pockets of their coats, began to bind
her. Huge hands held her firmly in their
grasp as other hands, no less huge, wrapped the cord around her wrists and
knotted it, securing her hands behind her back.
She struggled to free herself from this terrifying restriction but they
only pushed her face down into the soft bedding, so that she was forced to turn
her head and gasp for life giving air.
A massive arm wrapped itself around her legs;
rope went around her ankles and another around her knees. She kicked out as they let go and caught one
of the men between the legs, making him grunt in pain and suck in his breath.
"Gag her!" one of them ordered the
other and a long length of cloth, knotted in the middle, appeared in one of the
huge fists.
"You're not going to gag me, you
bastards!" she screamed and lashed out with her feet again. "You bloody well are not going to gag
me!"
One man dived onto the bed but she twisted
sideways and stood up with the figure floundering on the bed, grasping thin
air. The other man approached her,
holding the gag and raised his hands to stuff the knot of cloth into her mouth,
but she moved her head sideways and bit him hard on the wrist, drawing a spurt
of blood. The man jumped back, yelling
in agony, then turned with his back to his intended victim.
"Boss!" he called out, in a
surprisingly high pitched and effeminate voice, considering his massive
build. "Look! The bitch bit me
again."
"ALL RIGHT, CUT!" boomed a voice
from beside camera number three.
"Everybody take five."
Brad Bekmayer got
up from his chair and walked onto the film set, still clutching his voice
amplifier, even though he had no need to amplify his voice. His powerful lungs made it quite adequate for
all to hear.
"What the hell is going on here?"
he roared, as if he didn't already know.
"She bit me on the hand, Boss,"
came a pathetic reply.
"She kicked me in the balls,"
wheezed the other, whose name happened to be nothing more romantic than
William, although everyone knew him as Big Willie.
"I've told you before and I ain't tellin' you again. Those creeps, nor anybody else is going to
gag me," screamed Gloria Tule, star of stage, screen and third rate `B'
movies. "Nobody gags Gloria
Tule."
"But it's in the God damned script, for
Christ's sake!" yelled the exasperated director, pressing his bright red
and fuming face up against hers as she struggled to maintain her balance. "You're an actress and actresses will
put up with anything for the sake of art."
"Not this actress," screamed
Gloria, as she finally lost her balance, collapsed in an undignified heap on
the bed, then struggled up into a sitting position, yelling out to everyone in
general. "Don't just stand
there! Isn't anyone going to untie these
blasted ropes?"
Big Willie, now complete with bruised balls
and a falsetto voice, put his bent over stance to good use and untied her
wrists. As soon as that was done, she
pushed him out of the way, pulled off the clumsy bondage securing her knees and
feet and stood up, to confront Brad Bekmayer,
director of such totally forgettable films as Booby Trap, Boob
Buster 1 and Boob Buster 2. Other
directors made blockbusters, he seemed to specialise in making boob busters.
"Look baby," said Brad, working his
face into the closest he could get to a smile.
"If you can't do this shot, how are we going to get the rest of the
film in the can?"
"Don't you damned well baby me, you
moron!" screeched Gloria, standing inches from his face but yelling as if
he were half a mile away, then grabbed the amplifier from his hand, pressed it
tight up to his face and the screams turned into a sonic boom. "STUFF YOUR CRAPPY MOVIE AND STUFF YOU
TOO! I QUIT!"
Brad Bekmayer's
face appeared to drain itself of blood as the shattering sound made his eyes
twirl in their sockets. By the time he
had recovered, Gloria Tule was out of the studio, the door slamming behind her
in a final show of defiance.
"YOU CAN'T QUIT. YOU'RE FIRED!" he yelled after her, even
though it was a waste of breath. At
least it vented his anger and confirmed to the film crew that he was still the
boss.
"Charlie," he called to his right
hand man as he slumped back into his chair, totally exhausted from the
confrontation. "Get on to the
agency and find me a girl who looks good, can act and is willing to do what I
ask."
"The agency bit is easy, Boss,"
replied Charlie cautiously, not wishing to upset the director further. "Finding one dame with looks, acting
ability and willing to do anything, is something else."
"I know, Charlie, I know," replied
Brad wearily, as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders. "Just do your best. There must be somebody out there who wants to
actually work for a living. Drag them
along here for auditions tomorrow."
He turned to the film crew, who were hanging
around expectantly.
"O.K!" he said, raising his hand in
resignation. "Pack it away. Back here tomorrow at ten for auditions and
maybe a dress rehearsal."
Brad ducked as the crew made a mad dash for
the door, no doubt heading for the nearest bar and within a brief space of
time, he was left to his own thoughts in the suddenly deserted studio.
"There must be someone out there stupid
enough to want the job," he mumbled to himself.