Chapter One

 

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 cliché, 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 windblown, 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.