Read Online The Monster Man of Horror House by Danny King - Free Book Online
Authors: Danny King
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been a pleasure meeting you,
but it’s been memorable. Stay lucky.”
“Yes,
you too, er…” I faltered, realising I didn’t know her name despite making her a
gift of my own.
“Shandy,”
she told me.
“Shandy?”
“It’s
what they call me, because I’m half and half,” she explained, adding, “I dig
girls as well” when the fog refused to lift from my face.
“I
see,” I pretended, fully five years before I actually did. “Well take care then
Shandy. Don’t come back. And if anyone asks…”
“I
know, I know,” she replied before I could say the words myself. “If anyone
asks, I’m dead.”
viii
I snuck into Shandy’s bedsit, found her letters right where she’d left them and
picked up a few undergarments too. The night was fast turning to dawn, but I
had just enough time to get back out to the Lanes to sow the seeds of another
disappearance before fleeing the scene.
When
I got home the house was quiet. My dad’s bed had not been slept in and there were
no signs of him lurking behind any fixtures or fittings so I thanked the Lord
for small mercies and collapsed into bed, falling into a deep sleep before I’d
even finished bouncing.
*
I came to four hours later. The house was still quiet, but there was evidence
that my father had been and gone. His tweeds were back in the wardrobe, a cup
and saucer sat on the sideboard and the number plates were back on the Oxford.
Despite
him being my beloved father, and despite our having slept under the same roof
as each other for more or less the last eighteen years, I couldn’t help but
feel uneasy about being asleep while he’d been creeping about the place this
particular morning.
Still,
I shook these heebies from my jeebies, had a wash and put the kettle on for a richly
deserved cup of tea.
That
was when I noticed the scrapbook.
I’d
not seen it before, but it was a thick leather-clad volume with cuttings
bloating out the first thirty pages. Next to it were a pair of scissors and the
lunchtime edition of today’s Evening
Herald – minus the front page.
I
found the missing page hanging out between the pages of the scrapbook. It was
yet to be pasted in but read: GIRL MISSING: FENS STRANGLER FEARED.
The
previous page held a similar headline, only this one carried a picture of my
father’s first victim: WHERE IS SHE? COUNTRYSIDE SCOURED. And yet another article
featured a picture of Juney, my father’s second victim: DEAD! STRANGLER
STRIKES.
I
couldn’t believe my eyes, my father was keeping a record of his atrocities, but
I flicked back through the book, through headlines and front pages until I
realised I was no longer reading about the three girls I knew of. I was reading
about at least another dozen.
FENS
VICTIM 9: POLICE HUNT MADMAN
RAMPAGE
– ANOTHER BODY!
POLICE
BAFFLED: FENS STRANGLER STILL AT LARGE
GIRL
FOUND IN RIVER
In
all, I counted sixteen separate girls who’d either fallen victim, or who were counted
as abducted, by someone known as the Fens Strangler and I was just coming to
the obvious conclusion that my father was that same Fens Strangler when I
realised he couldn’t be. Some of the earliest cuttings dated back to 1917, before
my father had even been born, and a good proportion of them were from the
1920s, when he would’ve only been a nipper. He couldn’t possibly have been
responsible.
I
went through the scrapbook again and made a note of all the dates, finding that
the murders seemed to come in waves of two or three before petering out: 1917 1925
1929 1939 1944 1946 1955 1962 – the years were there in black and white,
there was no escaping the facts.
“The
first were done by my father,” explained a voice from out of the blue, near
separating me from my internal organs. I spun around to find my father setting
his billycock on the sideboard while shaking himself from his overcoat.
“I
didn’t hear you come in,” I gasped, hardly able to catch my breath.
“No,
I can be quiet when I want to
but it’s been memorable. Stay lucky.”
“Yes,
you too, er…” I faltered, realising I didn’t know her name despite making her a
gift of my own.
“Shandy,”
she told me.
“Shandy?”
“It’s
what they call me, because I’m half and half,” she explained, adding, “I dig
girls as well” when the fog refused to lift from my face.
“I
see,” I pretended, fully five years before I actually did. “Well take care then
Shandy. Don’t come back. And if anyone asks…”
“I
know, I know,” she replied before I could say the words myself. “If anyone
asks, I’m dead.”
viii
I snuck into Shandy’s bedsit, found her letters right where she’d left them and
picked up a few undergarments too. The night was fast turning to dawn, but I
had just enough time to get back out to the Lanes to sow the seeds of another
disappearance before fleeing the scene.
When
I got home the house was quiet. My dad’s bed had not been slept in and there were
no signs of him lurking behind any fixtures or fittings so I thanked the Lord
for small mercies and collapsed into bed, falling into a deep sleep before I’d
even finished bouncing.
*
I came to four hours later. The house was still quiet, but there was evidence
that my father had been and gone. His tweeds were back in the wardrobe, a cup
and saucer sat on the sideboard and the number plates were back on the Oxford.
Despite
him being my beloved father, and despite our having slept under the same roof
as each other for more or less the last eighteen years, I couldn’t help but
feel uneasy about being asleep while he’d been creeping about the place this
particular morning.
Still,
I shook these heebies from my jeebies, had a wash and put the kettle on for a richly
deserved cup of tea.
That
was when I noticed the scrapbook.
I’d
not seen it before, but it was a thick leather-clad volume with cuttings
bloating out the first thirty pages. Next to it were a pair of scissors and the
lunchtime edition of today’s Evening
Herald – minus the front page.
I
found the missing page hanging out between the pages of the scrapbook. It was
yet to be pasted in but read: GIRL MISSING: FENS STRANGLER FEARED.
The
previous page held a similar headline, only this one carried a picture of my
father’s first victim: WHERE IS SHE? COUNTRYSIDE SCOURED. And yet another article
featured a picture of Juney, my father’s second victim: DEAD! STRANGLER
STRIKES.
I
couldn’t believe my eyes, my father was keeping a record of his atrocities, but
I flicked back through the book, through headlines and front pages until I
realised I was no longer reading about the three girls I knew of. I was reading
about at least another dozen.
FENS
VICTIM 9: POLICE HUNT MADMAN
RAMPAGE
– ANOTHER BODY!
POLICE
BAFFLED: FENS STRANGLER STILL AT LARGE
GIRL
FOUND IN RIVER
In
all, I counted sixteen separate girls who’d either fallen victim, or who were counted
as abducted, by someone known as the Fens Strangler and I was just coming to
the obvious conclusion that my father was that same Fens Strangler when I
realised he couldn’t be. Some of the earliest cuttings dated back to 1917, before
my father had even been born, and a good proportion of them were from the
1920s, when he would’ve only been a nipper. He couldn’t possibly have been
responsible.
I
went through the scrapbook again and made a note of all the dates, finding that
the murders seemed to come in waves of two or three before petering out: 1917 1925
1929 1939 1944 1946 1955 1962 – the years were there in black and white,
there was no escaping the facts.
“The
first were done by my father,” explained a voice from out of the blue, near
separating me from my internal organs. I spun around to find my father setting
his billycock on the sideboard while shaking himself from his overcoat.
“I
didn’t hear you come in,” I gasped, hardly able to catch my breath.
“No,
I can be quiet when I want to
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