Read Online Death Trance by Graham Masterton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Graham Masterton
Tags: Horror
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these intruders. Mark looked up at the man standing over him and with a strangely hypnotized sense of obedience, stood up and followed him to the other side of the room.
The man with the axe pointed to the arm of the sofa; his colleague forced Mark to kneel so that his head was resting on top of the arm, like an executioner's block.
Marmie half rose and said falteringly, 'You can't do that. Listen, that's my son. He's only eleven. Please, if you have to kill somebody, kill me. But not my children. Please.’
The man with the axe stared at her. Then he looked around at his colleagues, but it was clear that he was in charge and that the others had no say in what he was about to do. None of them spoke. They could have been deaf and dumb for all Marmie could tell.
'Listen,’ she insisted, 'my husband is a very rich man. If you leave us alone, if you save our lives, I will personally guarantee that he pays you very well. Just leave my children alone and I will personally guarantee you a million dollars. I mean that. A million dollars. And you can take me as hostage to make sure the money is paid.’
The man with the axe said nothing but grunted when Mark tried to raise his tousled head from the arm of the sofa. His associate forced Mark down again.
'A million dollars,’ Marmie repeated. 'No tricks, no police tip-offs, nothing; I guarantee it with my own life.’
The man with the axe lifted the axe head up, licked the ball of his thumb and ran it down the edge of the blade to test its sharpness. Blood mingled with saliva; the axe must have been as sharp as broken glass. It was impossible for Marmie to tell whether the man was smiling or scowling, but she had the uncanny feeling that he was actually amused and that he was going to kill them and enjoy it.
She felt that she had to go on talking. The longer she talked, the longer her children would live. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she could barely speak, but she knew that her children's survival depended on her. Randolph wasn't here - Randolph was way off in Memphis - and she cursed him for having left them in this isolated cabin on Lac aux Ecorces when they could have been safe and sound at home, eating barbecued ribs, watching television and worrying about nothing more important than what they were going to wear for the Cotton Carnival.
'You could be wealthy men, all of you,’ she said, hoping to appeal to their sense of greed. After all, why had they come to kill her except for money? 'I could make each of you a millionaire; four million dollars, to be split four ways. I know the company could stand it, and I know my husband would be only too happy to pay it. Please, think about it, one million dollars, in cash, for each of you. No questions asked.’
With terrible disinterest, the man with the axe raised his weapon high above his head. For one split second, Marmie thought: This is a nightmare, I'm dreaming this, it can't be real. If I hit myself, I'll wake up and we'll be back in Memphis, opening our eyes at dawn at Clare Castle, nestling up to designer sheets, with the fragrance of flowering azaleas drifting in through the shutters and the maids singing as they mop up the tiled patios outside, preparing for us to come out to breakfast.
But then the nightmare became real and the axe whistled down. Mark screamed like an animal when the axe blade cut only a third of the way into his neck. Most of the force of the blow had been cushioned by the arm of the sofa. All the same, his carotid artery had been severed and bright red blood came spurting. The man with the axe had to hit him again, and yet again, and then suddenly his head dropped off his shoulders and tumbled onto the carpet with a noise like a falling salad bowl. Marmie stared down in horror as Mark - her precious eleven-year-old son - stared back at her from under the table with a face anguished and white, and utterly dead.
She tried to drop to her knees, to collapse, to crawl across the carpet to save
The man with the axe pointed to the arm of the sofa; his colleague forced Mark to kneel so that his head was resting on top of the arm, like an executioner's block.
Marmie half rose and said falteringly, 'You can't do that. Listen, that's my son. He's only eleven. Please, if you have to kill somebody, kill me. But not my children. Please.’
The man with the axe stared at her. Then he looked around at his colleagues, but it was clear that he was in charge and that the others had no say in what he was about to do. None of them spoke. They could have been deaf and dumb for all Marmie could tell.
'Listen,’ she insisted, 'my husband is a very rich man. If you leave us alone, if you save our lives, I will personally guarantee that he pays you very well. Just leave my children alone and I will personally guarantee you a million dollars. I mean that. A million dollars. And you can take me as hostage to make sure the money is paid.’
The man with the axe said nothing but grunted when Mark tried to raise his tousled head from the arm of the sofa. His associate forced Mark down again.
'A million dollars,’ Marmie repeated. 'No tricks, no police tip-offs, nothing; I guarantee it with my own life.’
The man with the axe lifted the axe head up, licked the ball of his thumb and ran it down the edge of the blade to test its sharpness. Blood mingled with saliva; the axe must have been as sharp as broken glass. It was impossible for Marmie to tell whether the man was smiling or scowling, but she had the uncanny feeling that he was actually amused and that he was going to kill them and enjoy it.
She felt that she had to go on talking. The longer she talked, the longer her children would live. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she could barely speak, but she knew that her children's survival depended on her. Randolph wasn't here - Randolph was way off in Memphis - and she cursed him for having left them in this isolated cabin on Lac aux Ecorces when they could have been safe and sound at home, eating barbecued ribs, watching television and worrying about nothing more important than what they were going to wear for the Cotton Carnival.
'You could be wealthy men, all of you,’ she said, hoping to appeal to their sense of greed. After all, why had they come to kill her except for money? 'I could make each of you a millionaire; four million dollars, to be split four ways. I know the company could stand it, and I know my husband would be only too happy to pay it. Please, think about it, one million dollars, in cash, for each of you. No questions asked.’
With terrible disinterest, the man with the axe raised his weapon high above his head. For one split second, Marmie thought: This is a nightmare, I'm dreaming this, it can't be real. If I hit myself, I'll wake up and we'll be back in Memphis, opening our eyes at dawn at Clare Castle, nestling up to designer sheets, with the fragrance of flowering azaleas drifting in through the shutters and the maids singing as they mop up the tiled patios outside, preparing for us to come out to breakfast.
But then the nightmare became real and the axe whistled down. Mark screamed like an animal when the axe blade cut only a third of the way into his neck. Most of the force of the blow had been cushioned by the arm of the sofa. All the same, his carotid artery had been severed and bright red blood came spurting. The man with the axe had to hit him again, and yet again, and then suddenly his head dropped off his shoulders and tumbled onto the carpet with a noise like a falling salad bowl. Marmie stared down in horror as Mark - her precious eleven-year-old son - stared back at her from under the table with a face anguished and white, and utterly dead.
She tried to drop to her knees, to collapse, to crawl across the carpet to save
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