Langdon Manor: An Extreme Horror Novella by Sam West

Author:Sam West [West, Sam]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-01-28T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

Susan stumbled away from the kitchen, heart hammering and legs trembling so violently they threatened to buckle with every staggering step down the seemingly endless hallway.

Dimly, she was aware of more muffled music coming from the room where she had left Dale with Psychopath Number Two – not Billy Joel anymore, but some oldish pop song that she vaguely recognised.

I’m getting stronger, sang the female voice.

Oh, God, Dale, she thought in anguish.

For a fleeting second, she contemplated bursting in there and screaming at her husband that Lady Farrell-Hawke was an imposter, and a murderous, psychotic imposter at that, but she thought better of it. Dale would surely be too dazed to properly digest what she was telling him, and in his inevitable moment of hesitation and incredulity, God only knew what that bitch would do to him.

She paused, slumping against the wall, aware that she was close to losing it completely. Her fear was making her hyperventilate; she couldn’t draw sufficient breath into her lungs, nor stop the violent shaking. She had to make the ground stop lurching unsteadily beneath her feet – she had to make her vision stay straight.

She clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling the whimpering, forcing herself under control.

Come on Susan, she told herself sternly. You have to do this. You have to get your phone…

The thought had a sobering effect. She could do this. Everything was going to be just fine…

When she drew parallel to the foot of the sweeping staircase, one side of the double-doored entrance swung inwards. Cold terror swamped her from her head to her toes, but, unlike when she had seen Lady Farrell-Hawke’s mutilated corpse on the serving dish, her mind sharpened, not dimmed. Everything dramatically slowed down and took on a hyper-real clarity. She could hear the squeak of the door hinges as one half of the heavy doors pushed inwards, and she could feel the sudden rush of cold, rain-soaked air against her face, entering her lungs at am insanely slow pace.

As she sucked down the cold breath, she hurled herself at the base of the stairs, her limbs fully coordinated and as graceful as a prima ballerina. And, as if she really were Margot Fonteyn, she pranced up the first six steps, taking two at a time, where she pirouetted gracefully on the spot, reached out with her left hand to grip the wrought-iron banister, and extended her right foot to daintily – slowly – take a step downwards.

The door swung fully inwards and the psychopath posing as Harry appeared in the doorway, feet planted far apart in a masculine, threatening stance, an axe thrown over one shoulder, like he was the goddam woodsman from Little Red Riding Hood.

Susan had a split second – less – to decide how to play this. She was firing on all cylinders now; she had got this far and there was no way she was going to fuck it all up at this late stage of proceedings.

“My goodness, Harry, your bathroom is bigger than the entire downstairs of my house.

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