Alan Baxter - The Gulp - Five Tales of Horror

Dace didn’t let go of the skinny ankle, thrashed blindly above his head with his other hand, still gripping the heavy metal pliers. He struck into something, maybe a hand, and Nikolov yelped. Dace rose onto his knees and swung his arm forward, felt a sudden and jarring impact, a crunch, a grunt from Nikolov, then the old man stopped fighting.

Dace shifted the mask back into place, looked up to see Nikolov sat back on the sofa, eyes swimming a little, blood flooding from his crushed nose. It sluiced over his mouth, stained blackly into his pyjama jacket.

Nikolov blinked, brought his attention back to Dace. Dace gripped the old man’s uninjured pinkie toe in the pliers. “Where’s the money!”

“No… fucking… money…” Nikolov panted. Hate emanated from his gaze like steam.

Dace gripped hard, the toe crunched, blood sprayed.

Nikolov yelled, a formless roar of pain and anger as he sat bolt upright. Dace hoped desperately none of this was loud enough to alert any neighbours. Nikolov leaned forward, gasped quick, short breaths. His eyes widened, he clamped a hand against his chest. His already pale face went grey, his lips blue. He shuddered. His breath hitched, like he had something stuck in his throat. Dace stared. What the fuck?

Nikolov tipped forward and sideways and thumped onto the floor.

Dace jumped up, dropped the pliers and stumbled back. “Oh, fuck, no!”

Nikolov lay on his side, eyes as wide and staring as his wife’s. And equally devoid of life.

Dace turned a slow circle. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!” He staggered back further and sat against the roll-top desk, leaned forward, hands on his knees. He gasped for breath, dizzy, like he might pass out at any moment. He’d killed them both. He forced himself to suck in long, deep breaths. His face was slick with sweat, so hot in the damned mask. But they were dead! He grabbed it by the top and pulled it off. It slid away and cool air flooded over his skin. His vision widened to take in all the murder he’d done, but his head cooled and his breath came easier.

“Okay, this is fucked, but it is what it is.” What did that even mean? It meant he had to search the rest of the house, that’s what. Simple.

The house was long and narrow. He saw the front door dead ahead, the frosted glass in it glowing orange from a street lamp outside. A short hallway led from the front door to the lounge where he stood, and that led back to the kitchen. Either side of the hallway were four doors, two on each side. Three bedrooms and a bathroom, he presumed. The first stood open, from where the old man had emerged.

Dace walked to it and looked in. He couldn’t see much. He felt around the walls until he found the light switch. The room was simply furnished. A wooden double bed, a dresser with a variety of creams and brushes, a tallboy with six drawers, and an old-fashioned freestanding wardrobe with arched doors, mirrors on each. He went to the dresser and searched it, and the two drawers underneath. No money. He pulled every drawer from the tallboy and upended each one. Nikolov’s clothes fell out, but no money.

The wardrobe was crammed with dresses and coats, he felt in all the pockets. He crouched and moved aside a variety of shoes. There was a shoe box shoved right to the back. His heart fluttered. He pulled it out and sat on the floor, put the box on his lap. He opened it and saw bundles of cash.

“Yes!”

It was all fifties and twenties, little wads held together with pale tan elastic bands. He started counting it. He hadn’t got far before he knew it wasn’t going to be enough. After a couple of minutes he sat staring at the notes on the carpet. Eleven thousand, six hundred bucks. Shit, that was a lot of money, but not even a quarter of what he needed. Though it was something. Would it be enough to buy him more time from Carter? Could he give Carter ten grand and beg for longer to get the rest? Maybe. But was it worth two lives? And did he dare take the risk that Carter would be mollified by less than a quarter of what he was owed?

Dace frowned, shook his head. No way. Definitely no way Carter would accept anything less than what he’d asked for. But if old man Nikolov had eleven grand stashed in the bottom of the wardrobe, he would surely have more stashed elsewhere, right? He needed to keep looking. He put the money he’d found in his backpack, slung it back on, and stood up.

Directly across the hall was a bathroom and Dace checked in there. The medicine cabinet, a laundry basket, he even took the lid off the cistern. Nothing. He stepped back out into the hall, pausing for a moment, dizzy with fatigue.

“Daddy?”

Dace’s heart thumped.

“Hello? Daddy?”

The voice was female, plaintive and nervous. Then a light tapping from the other door on the same side as Nikolov’s bedroom. Dace saw it had a sliding bolt on it, locked closed. On the outside. Locking someone in.

“What the fuck?” he breathed.

Pictures hung on the wall between the two rooms. Old, faded black and whites, they showed a handsome young couple, no doubt Nikolov and Elena. Several shots, different locations, but just the two of them. There had been no photos in the lounge that he recalled. Just the two of them lived here, he had thought. Daddy?

“Don’t be angry, Daddy, but are you there?” Tap tap tap . “Is everything okay?”

No, Dace thought. Everything is most definitely not okay. He had eleven thousand, six hundred in his pack. Maybe he should quit while he was ahead, just leave, try somewhere else for the rest. He looked at the locked door. Nikolov and Elena wouldn’t be letting her out any time soon, that was certain. She might starve to death in there. But what the hell was he supposed to do with her? Maybe just let her out and run? But he needed more money and he was sure Nikolov had more hidden somewhere. Maybe she would know.

He went to the door and slid the bolt open. He sensed the person on the other side still themselves. He turned the handle and gently pushed the door in. A young girl stood there, maybe fifteen or sixteen, wearing a long, white cotton nightdress, barefoot. Her hair was sandy brown and straight, long to her waist. She smiled widely, too wide, guileless. Her eyes were a little too open, shifting hectically as she looked him over with strange intensity. As Dace realised with a pulse of adrenaline that he hadn’t put his mask back on first, she said, “Hello! Are you a friend of Mummy and Daddy? What was all the noise about? I like your jumper.”

“Who are you?” Dace asked.

The room beyond her was less than simple. It was empty but for a single bed mattress on the floor, a ratty, stained doona piled on top of it and a thin pillow. Everything else was bare walls and floorboards. The light was off and Dace saw the fitting had no shade or bulb.

“I’m Baby.”

“Your name is Baby?”

“That’s what Daddy calls me.”

How could that ancient old relic out there – dead now, you killed him! – possibly have fathered this teenager? Even if he could, the woman was certainly decades past child-bearing age.

“The Nikolovs are your parents?”

“They are now. They have been for… well, for such a long time. I remember… others… a different Mummy and Daddy… sometimes… when I’m sleeping. Maybe a before family? Daddy says it’s nightmares, that’s all. I’m always so confused, but I take my medicine like Daddy asks.”

Dace stared, horrified. Was this simple-minded child kidnapped and brainwashed? Why? Her pupils were large, he noticed, even in the brightness of the hall light he’d turned on. She was drugged, obviously. He remembered all the bottles in the fridge. “What do you do here?” he asked, and it sounded like a stupid question.