Read Online Figures of Fear: An anthology by Graham Masterton - Free Book Online
Authors: Graham Masterton
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however, was the same woman, in her grey hat and her grey raincoat, with her Bedlington terrier on its lead.
Lily walked across to her. The woman’s image appeared to ripple, as if she were seeing her through running water.
‘ You’re dead ,’ Lily whispered. ‘ That’s you, lying in the road. You’re dead .’
‘I did try to warn you, Lily,’ the woman told her. ‘You should have walked out over a year ago, when he first started to hit you. But you were too frightened of being on your own. And – secretly – you enjoy being his victim, don’t you? It makes you feel wanted. You should have stayed. Because now look what you’ve done.’
Lily said, ‘I’m so sorry.’ But the woman turned around and walked away, leaving her dog standing on the pavement. As she turned the corner, and disappeared from sight, Lily called out, ‘ I’m so, so sorry! ’
THE NIGHT HIDER
D awn was dreaming of Christmas and snow and jingle bells.
She was sitting in a black-painted sleigh, sliding across a frozen lake under a charcoal-grey sky. The steel runners hissed on the ice, the jingle bells jingled. Strangely, the sleigh seemed to be self-propelled, and as it came closer and closer to the edge of the lake, she began to worry about how she was going to stop it.
Help! she called out, or thought she called out. But there was nobody in sight, only snowdrifts, and fir trees, and the louring grey sky, and the sleigh continued to glide across the ice with its runners hissing and its jingle bells merrily jingling.
Somebody help me! She was panicking now, but seconds before the sleigh could reach the edge of the lake, she woke up, and opened her eyes. She wasn’t in a sleigh at all, she was lying in bed, in her own flat in Chiswick.
The jingling, however, carried on. She frowned, and listened. Jing-a-ling-jing-ching . She couldn’t work out where it was coming from, but she could hear it quite distinctly. How could she still be hearing the sleigh bells from her dream, when she was awake?
She lifted her head from the pillow and reached across to the bedside table for her mobile phone. As she did so, she heard a soft creaking sound, like a door being opened. The jingling grew louder for a moment, jing-chingle-jing-ching , but then it became softer, and more sporadic, as if the sleigh had come to a halt. Then it stopped altogether, and there was silence. She pressed her phone and saw that it was 2.37 a.m.
Another creak, but more like a floorboard this time. She sat up in bed, her heart thumping painfully hard. Her curtains were velvet, and tightly closed together, and so her bedroom was totally dark. Yet another creak, and now she was so frightened that she didn’t even have the breath to ask if there was anybody there.
There was a long, long silence. She remained sitting upright, one hand gripping the bedcover, listening. She could hear her own blood rushing through her ears, so loudly that she wasn’t sure if she could hear somebody breathing, too. Was there somebody else in the room? How could there be, when her bedroom door was locked and her window was bolted? And yet she was sure that she could feel somebody’s presence. She sniffed, and she thought that she could smell something burnt.
Very slowly and carefully, she leaned sideways until her fingertips found the button on the base of her bedside lamp. She stayed in the dark for a few seconds longer, still listening, and then she pressed it. Her bedroom was instantly lit up: her white wickerwork chair, with her smiling pink teddy bear sitting on it; her dressing table, crowded with creams and lipsticks and nail polish; her own watercolour painting, on the wall, of the blood-red autumn trees in Firestone Copse.
And standing by the door, with his hand reaching out for the handle, there was a man.
Dawn was too shocked even to gasp. The man was dressed entirely in black, with black hair and a black face, not African black but soot-black, although his eyes and his
Lily walked across to her. The woman’s image appeared to ripple, as if she were seeing her through running water.
‘ You’re dead ,’ Lily whispered. ‘ That’s you, lying in the road. You’re dead .’
‘I did try to warn you, Lily,’ the woman told her. ‘You should have walked out over a year ago, when he first started to hit you. But you were too frightened of being on your own. And – secretly – you enjoy being his victim, don’t you? It makes you feel wanted. You should have stayed. Because now look what you’ve done.’
Lily said, ‘I’m so sorry.’ But the woman turned around and walked away, leaving her dog standing on the pavement. As she turned the corner, and disappeared from sight, Lily called out, ‘ I’m so, so sorry! ’
THE NIGHT HIDER
D awn was dreaming of Christmas and snow and jingle bells.
She was sitting in a black-painted sleigh, sliding across a frozen lake under a charcoal-grey sky. The steel runners hissed on the ice, the jingle bells jingled. Strangely, the sleigh seemed to be self-propelled, and as it came closer and closer to the edge of the lake, she began to worry about how she was going to stop it.
Help! she called out, or thought she called out. But there was nobody in sight, only snowdrifts, and fir trees, and the louring grey sky, and the sleigh continued to glide across the ice with its runners hissing and its jingle bells merrily jingling.
Somebody help me! She was panicking now, but seconds before the sleigh could reach the edge of the lake, she woke up, and opened her eyes. She wasn’t in a sleigh at all, she was lying in bed, in her own flat in Chiswick.
The jingling, however, carried on. She frowned, and listened. Jing-a-ling-jing-ching . She couldn’t work out where it was coming from, but she could hear it quite distinctly. How could she still be hearing the sleigh bells from her dream, when she was awake?
She lifted her head from the pillow and reached across to the bedside table for her mobile phone. As she did so, she heard a soft creaking sound, like a door being opened. The jingling grew louder for a moment, jing-chingle-jing-ching , but then it became softer, and more sporadic, as if the sleigh had come to a halt. Then it stopped altogether, and there was silence. She pressed her phone and saw that it was 2.37 a.m.
Another creak, but more like a floorboard this time. She sat up in bed, her heart thumping painfully hard. Her curtains were velvet, and tightly closed together, and so her bedroom was totally dark. Yet another creak, and now she was so frightened that she didn’t even have the breath to ask if there was anybody there.
There was a long, long silence. She remained sitting upright, one hand gripping the bedcover, listening. She could hear her own blood rushing through her ears, so loudly that she wasn’t sure if she could hear somebody breathing, too. Was there somebody else in the room? How could there be, when her bedroom door was locked and her window was bolted? And yet she was sure that she could feel somebody’s presence. She sniffed, and she thought that she could smell something burnt.
Very slowly and carefully, she leaned sideways until her fingertips found the button on the base of her bedside lamp. She stayed in the dark for a few seconds longer, still listening, and then she pressed it. Her bedroom was instantly lit up: her white wickerwork chair, with her smiling pink teddy bear sitting on it; her dressing table, crowded with creams and lipsticks and nail polish; her own watercolour painting, on the wall, of the blood-red autumn trees in Firestone Copse.
And standing by the door, with his hand reaching out for the handle, there was a man.
Dawn was too shocked even to gasp. The man was dressed entirely in black, with black hair and a black face, not African black but soot-black, although his eyes and his
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