Spine Chillers - Mark L'Estrange

A Psychological Horror Fiction Anthology

Spine Chillers by Mark L’Estrange

Book excerpt

The first night was the worst. Or, at least, the most unsettling.

I had reached that time in life where I could no longer go through an entire night without at least two bathroom visits. As I dried my hands off afterwards, I suddenly became aware of a sense of foreboding. It was hard to describe, there was nothing specific that I could put my finger on, it was just a feeling that something was different.

As I was staying in a rented cottage far off the beaten track, my imagination was apt to run away with me from time to time. Being a writer of horror fiction, my mind was forever exploring new and more twisted ways of telling a story, and as such, it did not usually take much to plant such a seed in my thoughts.

For a second, in my half-asleep state I had to remind myself that I was awake and not in the middle of one of my more gory tales. But as I switched off the light and began to make my way along the corridor back to bed, that original feeling of unease refused to release its hold on me.

I stopped in my tracks and listened.

At first, there was nothing. But then, just as I was about to continue towards my bedroom, I heard what sounded like a faint clink. It was the sound of a china cup being placed back in its saucer.

I rubbed my eyes and tried to feel more awake and in touch with my senses. The sound had been faint, and had lasted all of a spilt-second but, nonetheless, it was still discernible.

I must have stayed in that same spot, holding my breath as best I could, for at least five minutes. Whenever I was forced to expel the air, I tried to do so by making the least sound possible.

After five minutes I decided I must go downstairs and investigate.

There was no way of descending the stairs without announcing my presence. Each and every stair made its own unique sound when you placed any weight on it. Ironically, when I first viewed the property, I saw that as a bonus, thinking that at least if someone tried to break in, I would be able to hear them before they reached me.

As I made my way down, I half expected to hear the sound of someone running out the door, bumping into tables, and knocking over chairs in their haste to escape detection.

But there was none of that.

This in turn made me presume that the perpetrator was instead lying in wait to pounce the moment I came into view. I had heard that some burglars were brazen enough to face their victims when discovered, rather than escape without their booty.

Though, to be honest, what treasure the thief might hope to find was a mystery to me. The cottage was rented out with the bare minimum of furniture in situ, and as I was on a travelling holiday, the only possessions I had with me were what I could comfortably hold in my rucksack, and sports bag.

Even so, perhaps the mere sight of the chimney being used was enough to inspire some local thief to decide to investigate the lay of the land.

I say local. The nearest property to me belonged to the owners of the cottage, and that was almost a mile away. After that, I think they said the next closest was at least a mile further. Therefore, this intrepid burglar, if he existed, would have had to have made quite a trek on the off chance that I had something worth the effort.

There was of course my fold-up bike, which at the time was probably the most expensive item I had with me. But that was safely tucked away under lock and key in one of the outhouses.

Once I reached the bottom of the stairs, I paused and strained to listen for any indication that I was not alone.

I heard nothing, save the sound of the wind outside, when it picked up speed.

I was standing in the main reception room which housed the fireplace, a sofa with matching armchair, and an occasional table festooned with magazines and books on the shelf underneath. There was a television and old-fashioned stereo unit in one corner, and the walls were adorned with paintings courtesy of the lady owner, who had informed me, proudly, that if I was interested in any of them, she would consider all serious offers.

I could see the main door for the cottage just to the right of the television unit, and even from here I could see that the chain was still on.

On the other side of the room was a stone wall which separated this room from the kitchen/diner. Because of the angle of my view from where I was standing, I could not see the back door which was tucked away at the far end of the kitchen.

Once I was convinced that whatever I had heard was not in fact an intruder, I strode purposely into the kitchen so that I could double-check the kitchen door was locked.

As I turned the corner to enter the kitchen, my blood froze in my veins.

There, sitting at the table, a cup and saucer before her, was a beautiful woman.

I had never seen her before, nor had any idea who she was. I would estimate that she was probably in her early to mid-thirties, with beautiful chestnut-coloured hair which she kept tied back in a loose ponytail.

She turned to face me when she heard me enter and smiled.

My heart was still thumping ninety to the dozen in my chest at this point, however, I found myself smiling back as if everything was just as it should be.

After a while I found my voice and said, “Hello.”

“Hello,” she responded, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

My mind was racing. Due to my profession, I had conjured up all sorts of scenarios similar to the one I now found myself in, where the hero of the piece kept his cool and toughed it out, even when there was a macabre ending to look forward to. But now that I was actually in the middle of the story, I found myself completely stripped of all bravado.

The woman turned away and gazed out of the window, into the night.

I, meanwhile, looked around to see if there was any evidence of an accomplice waiting to pounce the minute she took my attention away. But it appeared as if we were alone, after all.

I watched her for a moment longer before speaking again. “Sorry,” I began, keeping my tone gentle and non-confrontational, “but may I ask what you are doing here?”

The lady turned back to face me and lifted her cup. “Just enjoying a cup of tea,” she replied, nonchalantly. She had a strong French accent, and if I’m honest, I have always found French ladies to be incredibly seductive. It was not just their accents but more a ‘total-package’ kind of aura they seemed to exude.

Stuck for something else to say, and not wanting to appear rude, regardless of the circumstance, I muttered, “You’re French, how exciting.”

She relaced her cup and held out her hand. “Chantelle,” she offered.

I walked over and took it in mine. Her skin felt so soft and light, it was almost as if her hand were not there. “Simon,” I replied, shaking it gently.

Her smile was captivating, her eyes alluring, and right then and there I knew somehow that I had nothing to fear from her. But that still did not explain her presence in my kitchen.

Even so, I took the chair opposite her and sat down.

She looked so small and petite I felt as if I could lift her up with one hand.

After taking another sip from her cup, she asked, “Do you like it here?”

By ‘here’ I presumed she meant the cottage, so I replied, “It’s my first time being here, but so far it seems very pleasant. Have you been here before?”

“Oh yes, I stay here all the time when I’m in Ireland. There is nowhere else like it in the world. The people are so kind and friendly, they really make you feel like you’re at home.”

Well, that at least told me something about her, unless she was making it all up.

My mind continued to try and fathom what was happening. I knew that there were two other bedrooms in the property, so I wondered if perhaps the owners rented them out separately. But if that were the case, then surely, they would have mentioned it to me when I booked? It was possible that they forgotten that they had already sub-let one of the other rooms. Or perhaps they each thought their partner had informed me.

Either way, it seemed a very rum arrangement to me.

“Are you planning on staying long?” I asked, casually.

She shook her head. “Not long, I just really fancied a cup of tea. I think it is the water here that makes it taste so lovely. Back home I stick to coffee.”

I nodded as if everything was just fine. Meanwhile, inside my stomach was churning.

I considered making an excuse and going back to my room to call the owners to try and find out what was going on. The fact that it was the middle of the night did not bother me in the slightest. After all, if they had sub-let the property without telling me, then they deserved to be woken up to explain themselves.

But there was something purely captivating about this lady which prevented me from wanting to leave her. Regardless of her reason for being there.

The horror writer in me continued to flood my mind with ideas about her having escaped from a mental institution for the criminally insane and making her way out here to the place where, years ago, she tore her husband to pieces with a carving knife, before devouring his entrails.

But one glance at her sweet smile eradicated all such thoughts.

It was hard to decide what topic of conversation to embark on, under the circumstances, so as she drained her cup, I offered to make her another one, stating that I would join her.

She thanked me, so I stood up and went over to the kettle.

Switching it on, I turned to ask her how she took her tea…but she was gone!

I looked around the room, astonished by the fact that she had managed to move so quickly and quietly. Even her cup and saucer were gone.

I called out to her, but there was no reply.

I honestly do not know if I searched the cottage for her before going back to bed, because the next thing I remember was waking up in the morning, with the sunlight shining in through my window.

My early hours encounter seemed more like a dream than anything else, and for a while I tried to convince myself that I had imagined the entire episode.

Yet, it felt so real.

This time I did make a search of the other bedrooms, just in case, but as I expected, they were all empty with no sign of anyone having stayed in them recently.

After breakfast I cycled down to the owner’s cottage on my way to town. I pondered whether or not to say anything to them, after all, what was there to say other than the fact that I had had a vivid dream.

I decided in the end not to say anything and to keep on heading into town, but just as I rounded the corner towards their abode, the lady of the house appeared at the gate and waved to me.

It would have been churlish not to stop and wish her for the day. After all, this was not London, and such rudeness would not leave a good impression. So, I braked and pulled over beside her.

“And how was your first night then?” she asked brightly. The owner was about the same age as me, that is to say mid-forties, and aside from a couple of silver hairs her features appeared unaffected by the strains and stresses one usually associates with people of our age, certainly those who live in the city.

The easy, laid-back approach to country life clearly suited her.

“Just fine,” I lied, “I slept like a baby.”

She smiled and nodded. “It is so lovely and peaceful out here, isn’t it? And none of that awful noise or light pollution you get in the towns.”

“Have you and your family lived her long?” I enquired.

“Let’s see now, we arrived her almost twenty years ago, now. Fell in love with the place as soon as we saw it. Couldn’t wait to move here from stuffy old London.”

I had not detected much of an accent when I first spoke to her the day before, and now I knew why. “So, you moved her from London? Not a native as such?”

“Good heavens, no, we’re both a couple of blow-ins. But the people in town accepted us right from the start. They’re very nice people in the main, one or two oddballs, but that is to be expected anywhere.” She laughed at her own joke.

Part of me was adamant that I was not going to mention the previous night. For one thing, I did not want my landlady to think that I was odd, or strange in any way. Also, she seemed so genuinely happy that I was enjoying my stay, that I did not want to bring her down by asking her if any of her previous clients had ever spoken about suffering from nightmares, or hallucinations.

For what else could it have been? My mind had obviously projected the woman onto my subconscious because the cottage seemed the ideal place to have a romantic adventure. My previous girlfriend and I had split up over six months earlier, and whether or not I admitted it to my friends, I was lonely.

Book Details

AUTHOR NAME: Mark L'Estrange

BOOK TITLE: Spine Chillers

GENRE: Horror

SUBGENRE: Psychological Horror / Horror Anthology

PAGE COUNT: 316

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