John Manning - The Killing Room

“Then he’s human,” Paula said. “Not some apparition from that room.”

Carolyn shuddered. “He’s human. At least, he was.”

Paula gave her a tight smile. “Then he’s not so dangerous that a bullet through his heart won’t stop him.”

“No!” Karen was crying hysterically. “Please, Paula, please don’t go out there!”

“Oh, baby.” Paula lightly touched Karen’s face. “There’s no way I can just leave my brother,” she said, before opening the door and heading back out into the foyer.

When she was a girl, Uncle Howard had taught her how to shoot, and she’d always had very good aim. She’d have to trust that she hadn’t lost the talent. Holding the rifle out in front of her, her eyes scanned the foyer for the maniac. He was nowhere to be seen. Uncle Howard was somewhere in the house. Perhaps he was in danger.

Then she spotted Dean.

Her brother lay on the floor in a pool of blood. Paula hurried over to him. The blood was gushing from his shoulder, and he was struggling to stand. Thank God he was still alive.

“I’ll get you into the parlor,” Paula said, helping him up, “and they can bind your wound.”

“Should’ve known you’d come for me,” Dean said, his voice weak. “But you shouldn’t have risked it.”

“Where is he?” Paula asked.

“He went outside.”

From the parlor now there came screams. Paula rushed forward, flinging open the door, rifle at the ready.

“We were getting ready to go out the window,” Linda said, “but he was out there, trying to get in.”

“Where is he now?” Paula barked.

“He’s gone around the house,” Douglas shouted.

The terrace, Paula thought. He’s going to come back in through the French doors on the terrace. Uncle Howard was out there. He’d kill Uncle Howard.

She hurried down the corridor to the dining room, looking furiously around. She saw no sign of anyone. But the French doors were open. He’s back inside the house…

Cautiously she moved from room to room, the rifle ready in her hands. Her breathing was labored. Everything was on high alert. Her vision, her hearing. The fine hairs on her arms stood at attention.

And yet she didn’t see him until too late.

He was behind the kitchen door, waiting. As she passed him, he lashed out. She felt the sting of the blade pierce her side, and the warmth of the blood flow down her leg. She spun, pointing the gun and firing. But he was too fast. Superhuman fast. She shot an enormous hole in the plaster of the kitchen wall. Then he was behind her again. A part of her brain knew she was about to die. The knife was positioned at the small of her back.

But then, chaos.

Paula heard a shout and then a thud. She whipped around to see her brother, bloodied but unbowed, tackling the man, sending him sprawling across the kitchen. Copper pots and pans, hanging over a counter, clattered to the tiled floor in all the commotion. Paula steadied her hands despite the pain in her side and tried to get the maniac in focus. But now he was tussling with Dean. She didn’t want to shoot her brother by mistake.

“Dean, get away from him!” she shouted.

For a second she saw the man’s face-his crazy dark eyes, the terrible scar down his left cheek. For that one fleeting second she had a chance to blow his head off. But then Dean grabbed the knife, trying to wrest it from his hands. Instead, the maniac growled like a beast and plunged the blade deep into Dean’s abdomen.

“No!” Paula screamed and fired.

The bullet blew a hole in the madman’s chest, and he fell back.

Paula rushed forward. Behind her, she realized, were Douglas and Carolyn. Dean was bleeding profusely now.

“We’ve got to get him to a hospital,” Carolyn said.

“Paula, too,” Douglas added.

“No, I’m fine,” Paula insisted.

She looked down at the man she had shot sprawled on the floor. There was no blood coming from the hole in his chest.

“Paula.”

The voice was Dean’s.

She bent down.

“You’ve always been there for me,” he managed to say.

She smiled. “You saved me this time, little brother.”

“Take care of Zac and Callie for me,” he rasped.

The tears began dropping down Paula’s cheeks. “We’re going to get you to a hospital,” she told him. “You’ll be fine.”

But even as she said the words she saw the life disappear from his eyes.

“Dean!” she cried.

Douglas lifted his body and carried it down the hall to the study. Carolyn followed, helping Paula walk. She could feel the blood still flowing steadily from the wound in her side. But all she was really aware of was the fact that her brother was dead.

Something made her turn back to see the madman who had killed him one more time.

And to her horror, he was no longer on the floor.

“Daddy?”

Chelsea peered into her father’s room.

The noise from downstairs had terrified her. She’d run to Ryan’s room, only to discover he was not there. There were screams and thuds from the foyer. What was going on? Had the terrors of that room escaped into the house?

Then she’d heard the gunshot. With mounting fear, Chelsea hurried down the corridor to her father’s room, barefoot and still in her pink nightie.

“Daddy?” she called again, taking a step into the room.

He didn’t seem to be here either. Where had they gone? Chelsea began to panic. Was she the only person left in the house?

She noticed her father’s suitcase on the floor. He had packed to leave. But he clearly hadn’t left quite yet.

That was when she noticed the splatter of red dots on the wall.

Blood.

She took a couple of steps around to the other side of the bed. The moisture on her feet told her she was walking in blood.

She saw her father lying on the floor. His arms were twisted up in an odd angle.

“Daddy!” she screamed.

Her foot hit something. At first she thought it might have been a boot or a shoe.

But then the object rolled over like a bowling ball.

Dead eyes looked up at her.

It was her father’s head.

Chelsea screamed.

“What is going on in this house?” Karen asked as she wrapped Paula’s wound with a tablecloth.

In one corner of the room, Linda was trying to console her crying, terrified children. At the window, Carolyn kept watch, while Douglas, now holding the rifle, stood guarding the parlor doors.

“Where’s everybody else?” Douglas asked. “Uncle Howie, Uncle Philip, Ryan, Chelsea?”

“Last I knew, Philip, Ryan, and Chelsea were still in their rooms,” Carolyn said. “Your uncle was in the dining room. But he must have fled when he heard the commotion in the foyer. Let’s hope he’s hiding.”

“Or that maniac got him already,” Douglas said.

“Who is he?” Paula wanted to know. “You said you knew him, Carolyn.”

Carolyn sighed. It was surreal. The jubilation of just an hour ago had been turned topsy-turvy into a nightmare of disbelief. They had thought they had won. The curse seemed to be ended. They had survived the night in the room; they had sent Clem’s spirit to rest in peace. It should have been over. The power that room held over their lives should have been ended.

But instead Carolyn now faced the greatest fear of her life.

David Cooke.

“I was in a relationship with him some time ago,” she revealed. “He killed a girl. I found out about it only after he was gone. Then I gave evidence to the police.”

“Well, that creature I shot,” Paula said, “is definitely not human. I blew a hole right through its chest, but still it got up and walked.”