Stephen Jones - The Mammoth Book of Terror

He had asked Charlotte to come down there before dinner, to discuss something important with him; he often worked at home. The suite of rooms below was warm and well equipped; there would be nothing to arouse her suspicion. They often talked – or rather argued – there.

Martin caught a bitter smile on his mouth in the gracious oval mirror opposite; was conscious at the same moment that Kathy’s strange violet eyes were watching him. It was almost as though every evil thought in his head was exposed to that candid gaze. He changed his expression to normal, waited until the child had turned away again.

Kathy was the problem. She and her mother were very close. She would be immediately suspicious at Charlotte’s disappearance. She would be at school early in the morning of course; the housekeeper usually got her breakfast and saw her to the bus. Charlotte always slept late and she and Martin had long occupied separate rooms.

Kathy would be in bed before nine o’clock tonight. After tomorrow Kathy would not matter. She might be suspicious but she was a mere child and in no position to prove anything. Janet would not want her custody; that was for certain. Perhaps his brother-in-law and his wife would take her. That was a problem best left for the future.

He glanced at his watch surreptitiously; his nerves were raw and it would not do to let the child see his rising agitation. Children missed nothing; she might persuade her mother not to come down below this evening. That would throw out the whole timetable. He had spent six months screwing himself to this point. He could not go through it again.

The steel tank had been filled that morning. He could not keep its contents there indefinitely. The vapour given off would start to corrode material in the workshop. It had to be this evening. He would have an hour at least. The housekeeper had gone to the cinema and would not be back until at least ten-thirty.

Martin shifted violently in his chair as a faint screaming came from the boulevard. An open tourer drifted by, its rear seats filled with weirdly attired teenagers. Kathy was kneeling up excitedly on the window seat now.

“Hallowe’en! Hallowe’en!” she chanted.

Martin swallowed, fighting to control his nerves. The child got up and came toward him. Her eyes seemed to fill the whole immensity of the room and he felt dizzy for a moment. He was becoming overwrought. He must watch his nerves. Especially in the difficult days to come. There were bound to be police inquiries; there always were in the case of missing persons.

Martin had a plausible story prepared; Charlotte would be visiting relatives, which would give him time enough. Time to drain the contents of the tank; he would not make the mistake of emptying it into the drains. He would convey the sludge in the original drums to a garbage tip at the edge of the city and empty it out gallon by gallon, making sure there were no identifiable remains. He had thought it through very carefully.

He frowned at the child, who watched him with those large accusing eyes. Martin was vaguely aware that she had never liked him. He did not care for her if the truth were known; she was too much like Charlotte in her nature. Vindictive and spiteful; even a child could show these traits in a dozen ways without displaying open hostility. Kathy was a strange, deceitful child. Martin would have to watch her. Someone with her alertness and gift for being in the wrong place at the wrong time could upset all his plans.

She leaned toward him, her head on one side.

“It will soon be Hallowe’en!” she breathed.

The man was startled by the sudden staccato beat of footsteps at the side of the house. The child had heard them too and glanced quickly at a shadow passing the window.

“You’d better hurry! Mummy is going down to the workroom!”

III

Martin went down the steps hurriedly, his heart thumping irregularly in his chest, a dull rage against the child in his heart. He had sent her to bed quickly. The plan was not working. It might even have to be postponed. Firstly, Kathy had seen her mother on her way to the outside steps. Perhaps Charlotte had gone out without him knowing.

And she was almost an hour early. Everything was falling apart and his nerves were ragged as he got to the shadowy corridor at the foot of the stairway. He had left the lights off. For his own purposes, of course. But one had to be careful here; the steps branched off to the old wood-store at the right.

There was a sheer drop to concrete here which was dangerous. He had been meaning to have it railed off for years but had never gotten around to it. It would have been the ideal solution to his problems but Charlotte would never come this way to the cellar; she always went around to the side of the house and down the shallow flight of steps to the outside door there.

He hoped she would not go through into the main laboratory; then he remembered he had kept it locked. He suddenly felt giddy again. He leaned against the wall for a moment. He recalled Kathy’s eyes. Their strange, violet gaze seemed to haunt him. He pulled himself together, descending the remaining steps carefully. He was himself once more by the time he found his way to the room where he worked on his experimental theories.

The door was ajar and the small radio he kept there was playing dance music loudly. That was one of the things which irritated him about Charlotte. Even in small matters her habits made his nerves raw. But things could not have been more propitious this evening. Apart from the problem of Kathy. He looked in quickly. Charlotte was sitting at the desk with her back to him, going through some papers he kept there. He was committed now.

He had the iron bar from the bench. In two steps he was at her side. Before she could turn the heavy metal was descending. He caught her at the nape of the neck, as he had planned. She was already dead before he began dragging the body out to the laboratory. It was the work of a few moments to carefully immerse her, still fully clothed, in the tank, making sure none of its lethal contents slopped.

He did not stop but fled from the place, locking the door behind him. He did not know how he came there but presently he awoke to find himself at his desk in the living room. He was perspiring heavily, his pulse racing, his face white and curiously elongated in the mirror. He glanced at his watch, saw with a shock that only some two minutes had passed since he went to the cellar.

He held the dial to his ear. It had not stopped. Then he heard the brittle clatter of footsteps passing along the concrete path at the side of the house. His heart froze. Had he slept then and dreamed of the horrible event in the workroom below? Had he to go through it all again? He got to his feet, conscious of Kathy’s strange eyes boring into his own.

No, he had not been mistaken. His wife’s footsteps were real enough; the clock in the corner went on ticking gently. It showed the same time as his watch. He almost expected to see his daughter’s ethereal-looking form huddled in the window seat but there was nothing there. He remembered then she had gone to bed.

He crossed the room quickly, made his way to the door which led to the cellars, his brain confused and bewildered. Charlotte was dead; there was no doubt about that. There were cobwebs on the front of his suit where he had descended the steps some time ago. But it could not have taken less than two minutes. The thing was impossible.

He must have been mistaken about the footsteps. Perhaps some child on a Hallowe’en prank had passed on the sidewalk. That must have been it. He was halfway down the steps now, the light from the hall door above sending yellow beams down the wooden stairway. He had forgotten the light switch in his agitation.

“Martin! Martin. Where are you?”