Malice of the Soul by Brian Ball

Author:Brian Ball
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: horror, supernatural, evil, suspense, terror
ISBN: 9781479403394
Publisher: Wildside Press LLC
Published: 2015-02-05T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 12

Over the next few days, I tried to establish a pattern of normality. I saw to the welfare of my clients with exemplary efficiency and compassion, and I arrived at the office looking neat and calm. Fortunately Marguerite Friend didn’t cross my path, otherwise I might have cracked.

As it was, I didn’t make any attempt to investigate the disappearance of Miss Vardy. I was sure every last trace of the referral would have been removed from the office, and I hadn’t yet summoned up the resolve to return to the neighbourhood of The Red House. But a new development strengthened my resolve.

Mrs. Peters died. I learned about it on Thursday afternoon.

All week I had masked my anxieties. Phil rang a couple of times in the evening, but I was sure it was on instructions from the hell-bitches who owned him. He would be making sure that I was at home and reasonably cowed, and unlikely to make indiscreet inquiries. From his tone and the probing questions it was obvious that he was simply checking up on me.

I made the right replies and he seemed satisfied with them. I was quite determined to keep away from Marguerite Friend.

I wanted to be away from her and her terrifying mother for a long period of time—their influence could only be diminished by days or weeks of separation from them. I didn’t want their spinning eyes and their subtle, evil smiles on me; they could damage my will to the point where I believed they owned me, and their spell worked on me for days. When they were near, I trembled and obeyed.

So, if it was possible, I would do my work and keep Marguerite at a distance. I would recover my nerve. And, when I was ready, I would revisit The Red House.

The next time I visited The Red House I wanted to be certain as to how much was hallucination, and how much reality.

I couldn’t trust memory, not now. I was too far gone into my impending breakdown. I knew the signs too well to place much reliance on recollected events. I delayed. I made excuses to myself.

The days passed, and I said, tomorrow, maybe tomorrow I’ll go and buy a camera with the kind of lens that will adapt instantly to changes of light. Tomorrow I’ll get a new tape for my little micro-recorder so I can keep a minute-by-minute recording of what I saw and heard. Then, on Thursday, I heard that Mrs. Peters was dead.

There was a message in my message-book; ‘Ring The Meadows’.

“Di Knightson,” I said.

“Bill Pedley,” said the Warden. “I thought I’d better speak to you myself. It’s about Mrs. Peters.”

I knew she was dead from his tone. He would be thinking that all the social workers in the district would be putting in a claim for the vacant bed. He sounded rather defensive, and something else too: if anything, there was a hint of puzzlement; in his voice. Marguerite Friend, I thought.

I felt a cold chill like frozen lightning.

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