Bad House (2 page)

Jacob’s little arms wrapped tighter around him and his good humour evaporated to be replaced with a lump in his throat.

Daddy hopes so too, little man
.

A few hours and two bottles of red wine later – of which Ian had consumed the lion-share – they were in their new bedroom and Holly was perched fully-clothed on the edge of the newly made-up bed, taking off her make-up with a wet-wipe.

“How’s the hand?” she asked.

“Fine.” He looked up from the moving box he was rummaging through; he was sure the contents of his underwear drawer were in this box.

“I had a good look at the banister in the hallway just now, I figured I’d tie a towel around it or something if it was sharp to stop Jacob from touching it. But it looks as smooth as glass to me.”

He looked up from the box and regarded her with a smidgen of irritation. “It
is
sharp. I cut myself on it.”

“No, it’s not.”

Why was his wife being so argumentative? “I cut myself on the god-damn banister. Come on, I’ll show you.”

He marched out into the hallway and Holly followed, sighing theatrically.

“Really, Ian, I can’t see the need for this.”

He stopped in the middle of the hallway, exactly where he had cut himself. His blood ran cold when he trailed his fingers over the wooden rail; Holly was right, it
was
as smooth as glass.

“I don’t understand…”

“See? I told you so.”

A strong urge to puke gripped him by the throat and he fought it down. He didn’t want to be standing here, having this conversation. He just wanted to go to bed and crawl under the covers and forget everything.

“Let’s just go to bed,” he said, turning to leave.

Back in the bedroom, he flopped face-first on the bed with a groan. His head was pounding and when Holly spoke it grated badly on his nerves. All he wanted to do was sleep.

“Don’t get so uptight, Ian. Maybe there was something on the banister. Maybe something sharp dropped out one of the moving boxes, or a nail or something fell out of a wardrobe when the removal-men were lugging furniture up here. They weren’t exactly the most delicate of men.”

Ian conceded she had a point and he rolled onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow. “I’m sorry I’m so moody. I’m just shattered and my head is
killing
me.”

She managed a thin smile for him, but at least it was genuine and he returned the gesture. Apparently she had already forgotten about the banister incident and had moved on to the subject of Jacob as she busied herself rooting through boxes looking for God-only-knew-what.

“Jacob seemed a little out of sorts when I put him to bed. Still, he’ll get used to everything soon enough, I’m sure. I just hope he pulls himself together sooner rather than later.”

Ian regarded her thoughtfully. Part of the reason he loved her so much was her no-nonsense approach to life, her unwavering pragmatism which he believed was a perfect foil to his creativity. But sometimes she seemed a little cold. He supposed that certain characteristics went hand in hand with being a Maths teacher, such as her total lack of imagination and a briskness that bordered on rudeness.

Stop being so hard on her. If it wasn’t for her you’d probably still be teaching art in the same crappy secondary school
.

He shuddered at the mere memory of teaching. There was no doubt about it – he had hated his job with a passion. The kids were okay, but it was the staffroom politics that defeated him. He lacked the bitchiness necessary for survival and his easy-going nature meant he quickly became the staffroom scapegoat. Not to mention all the red-tape bollocks that went hand in hand with the job. Holly had helped him to push his art, and now thanks to her, his paintings fetched five figures.

She’s still a cold bitch, though
.

Ian flinched at the bitter thought. He had
never
had such a negative thought about his wife before. He
loved
his wife, Christ, if he’d known moving was going to be so bloody stressful then he might not have bothered.

“What’s wrong Ian? You’re being really quiet and you’re looking at me funny.”

Ian attempted a smile. It felt unnatural on his face and instantly he was reminded of his reflection in the mirror grinning at him.

I know I didn’t smile
…

Pushing away the bad thoughts, he sat upright and swung his legs over the side of the bed, patting the space next to him. “Come here, you’re making me dizzy.”

She plopped down next to him with a sigh. “It’s really nice to have an en-suite bathroom, don’t you think?”

“Sure.”

Maybe the mirror in this bathroom won’t be haunted.

“Ian, what
is
it? I know you, something’s up.”

Ian found himself staring into his wife’s dark brown eyes. His gaze flickered over her face, taking in her familiar, petite features and dark, shoulder length hair that she always wore scraped off her forehead in a tight ponytail. She wasn’t a true beauty, but to him, her small face and little rose-bud mouth had always been perfect.

She looks like a fucking rat
.

“I have a headache, that’s all.” That much was true, at least. “I think I just need to sleep.”

“Don’t you want to christen our new bedroom?”

No, he really didn’t. He was sitting there thinking that the woman he loved looked like
a rat
. Sex could not be further from his mind.

I’ve drunk too much and I feel like shit. Everything will be better tomorrow
…

“I love you, baby, but I feel like crap, I really do.”

“Fine,” she said, jumping to her feet. “Mind if I use the bathroom first?”

“Don’t be mad, I just feel like shit.”

“I’m not mad,” she said in a tight voice as she stalked to the bathroom.

When the bathroom door slammed, he fell sideways on the bed, groaning. God, he was so fucking tired. He thought about taking off his jeans but couldn’t quite summon the strength to do so.

I need to piss,
was his final thought before sleep claimed him.

CHAPTER THREE

Holly was riding him just the way he liked it; fast and furious. Her little breasts bounced in time to her gyrating hips and he dug his fingers into her slender hips.

It wasn’t enough for him, she wasn’t being
dirty
enough. A strong sense of dissatisfaction and sexual frustration took hold in the most primal part of his brain. He wanted to feel more, he wanted to make her
scream
. Easily, he pushed her off of him. He worked out regularly and she barely touched five-foot three, so it was with ease that he manhandled her onto all fours.

Without warning he rammed into her from behind in one swift movement. She let out a half gasp, half scream that further fuelled the angry, sexual beast within him.

He did her hard, fisting great wads of her hair so that her neck snapped back. The harder he pulled, the more she moaned in protest. He liked that sound and pulled harder.

His climax was drawing near and the pit of his stomach clenched in anticipation.

“Bitch,” he groaned, slamming into her so hard that her little body jerked with the force of his thrusts.

Now both his hands were around her neck. And they were squeezing. Those choking sounds she was making were music to his ears and worked black-magic on his cock.

Her body went limp and she let out an almighty fart, swiftly followed by a pungent squirt of brown liquid. He closed his eyes and breathed in the heady scent of death, the delicious odour of terror that comprised the final moments of her life.

He held her corpse in place by her neck and continued to fuck her, the most fierce orgasm of his life washing over him
…

Ian sat bolt upright in bed, his eyes snapping open and his body drenched in sweat. The room was in shadows and for a moment he had no idea where he was. His heart slammed in his ribcage and he trembled violently.

The sound of Holly’s slow, steady breathing next to him reminded him where he was, going some way to soothe him.

It was only a dream,
he thought, swiftly followed by;
I have a hard-on.

The realisation sickened him and he ran his shaking hands through his knotted blonde hair. How could he even dream such a thing, yet alone wake up afterwards with an erection? What the hell was wrong with him?

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the soles of his hot, sweaty feet instantly cooling on the floorboards. Absently he noticed he was dressed in only his boxers. Holly must have undressed him while he slept and he didn’t remember her coming to bed.

I was sleeping like the dead.

Not too deep to dream, though
…

Still feeling sickened at himself, he stood up on wobbly legs. His bladder was tight and heavy; he hadn’t pissed since the mirror incident.

What’s the matter, man? Scared of your own reflection?

The door to the en-suite bathroom stood slightly ajar, the interior of the bathroom even darker than the bedroom. He thought longingly of the bathroom sink, of sticking his head under the cold tap to quench his thirst and soothe the early onset of his hangover.

Shaking his head at the childish fear that curled around him along with the darkness of the room, he strode purposely over to the door.

At least my hard-on’s gone
.

Once in the bathroom he didn’t switch on the light, preferring to piss in the gloom and making sure his gaze didn’t stray anywhere near the mirror.

I don’t want to wake up Holly.

Yeah right. You just don’t want see your reflection…

Shoving such bad thoughts aside, he finished up, shaking his dick over the toilet bowl.

A noise coming from the bedroom made him freeze on the spot.

What the hell was that?

Snoring. Heavy snoring. How odd. When he had left Holly sleeping in the bed a few moments ago, she had been sleeping as quiet as a lamb. This deep rumble of a snore almost made him smile.

Almost.

Because if he
really
listened, it didn’t sound so much like snoring at all. More like the heavy breathing of a deeply asthmatic pensioner.

Ian found he was trembling, his spine suddenly icy cold and tingling. It just sounded
wrong
. He crept out the bathroom, not realising he had been holding his breath until he sucked in a mouthful of air out of sheer necessity.

His heart lurched in his chest. What the hell was that black shape bent over Holly? In the darkened room it almost looked like
a man
. Except it couldn’t be, because it was way too big. And too
crooked
. Then he noticed that the lumpy shape was see-through. It
had
to be some fucked up trick of the dark and his imagination.

The realization provided little comfort.

Fuck this shit
.

He lunged for the light-switch.

And recoiled in terror when instead of touching the cool plastic of the light-switch, his fingertips grazed what could only be warm flesh. He shrieked and staggered backwards, clutching his hand to his naked chest like he had been bitten. The snoring

(
it isn’t snoring
)

intensified, a deep, throaty rumble that made his toes curl.

Ian stared hard at the light-switch.

It’s just a light-switch
.

Indeed it was. If he strained his eyes, he could just make out the shape of the little white box. Without further ado he clicked on the overhead light.

The heavy breathing abruptly stopped.

See, nothing there.

No ominous monster-shapes looming over Holly. No strange hand on the light-switch.

Holly stirred in her sleep, flopping onto her back and throwing her arm over her head, one slender, bare leg hanging off the side of the bed.

She’s stopped snoring because the sudden light jolted her out of it.

Yeah. Sure
.
It wasn’t her snoring, and you know it
.

If he wasn’t feeling so jittery, he might even have smiled at that dumb thought.

Ian turned off the light before Holly woke up, and the room plunged into blackness once more. His heart slammed against his ribcage as he scurried over to the bed, diving under the duvet like a frightened kid. Drawing comfort from the warmth radiating off his sleeping wife, he lightly pressed his knees into her bare thigh.

I am an arse,
was his final thought before he drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.