Fourteen Days Read online

  Nothing could distract him.

  His only focus was getting as far away from this God-awful place as possible.

  Reaching the car, he carefully placed the baby onto the passenger seat, started the engine, and with one hand holding the baby down, he drove off slowly down the narrow lane.

  When Richard had arrived a safe distance from the cottage, he glanced down at the baby. Little Dean had stopped crying and was smiling up at him. Richard returned a smile, noticing his deep blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair.

  But as he joined the main road, back to civilization, back to reality, Richard’s smile turned to tears. Whether they were tears of joy or sadness he couldn’t be sure.

  All he knew was that he had a young child in his passenger seat, a broken jaw—and an unbelievable story to tell.

  And a skeptical wife was the last thing on his mind.

  Epilogue

  Richard reattached the smoke detector to the kitchen ceiling. He climbed off the chair, and then noisily slid it back under the kitchen table. Picking up the two other smoke detectors, he started for the hallway. Just as he approached the doorway, he noticed the dreaded chair. He stopped for a moment, trying to push away a shudder, and continued on toward the staircase.

  Arriving at the foot of the stairs, he climbed the first few steps, reached over to the hallway ceiling, and proceeded to reattach another detector, placing the other one on the step.

  “Well it’s about time too,” Nicky said, passing him as she headed downstairs, wearing only a pink dressing gown, with her long brown hair tied back tight in a ponytail.

  “Yeah, I know—sorry,” he struggled to say, as he slotted the second detector into place. “There we go,” he proudly said, as he stared up at his accomplishment. “Just one more left.”

  “Well done you, babe,” she said, sarcastically. “Only took you a month.” She then carried on through to the kitchen.

  Picking up the last remaining smoke detector, he ascended the stairs to the landing.

  He dragged the desk chair out from the office and positioned it under the missing detector. The chair wobbled as he mounted it, and he had to use the wall for support.

  “You be careful,” Nicky said as she walked up the stairs toward him. “Don’t want you breaking your neck.” She entered the bathroom, leaving the door wide open. “Not today anyway.”

  “Thanks, babe,” he said, sarcastically, as he reached up to the high ceiling, almost losing his balance in the process. “I’ll try not to.”

  “Have you phoned your mother back yet?” she said, applying her mascara in the bathroom mirror. “She’s been calling all weekend. I don’t want her to think that it’s me not giving you the messages.”

  “Yes, I’ve called her.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Frowning as the plastic device clicked into place, he replied, “Of course I’m sure. How could I not be sure?”

  “Well, I know how you like to forget things—especially calling your parents.”

  Richard jumped off the unstable chair and landed with a loud thud onto the carpet. “I did call her. She just wanted to know if I’ve been to see my uncle for his birthday yet.”

  “And have you?”

  He wheeled the chair back into the office. “Not yet, no.”

  “And why not?” she asked, her tone clearly playful.

  “Because it hasn’t exactly been on the top of my priorities lately.” Stepping back out onto the landing, he leaned against the bathroom doorframe, looking at Nicky. “And besides, when was the last time he paid us a visit? Not for ages. So why should I worry about it? My mother just needs something to moan about. If it wasn’t my uncle’s birthday it’d be something else. You know what she’s like. She’s just looking for an excuse to call us. In fact, I don’t think I’ve had a card off him since I was fifteen. And even back then there was never any money in it, not even a bloody gift-voucher. Never give a kid a birthday card unless you put some money in it. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

  “If you say so.” She slipped the mascara back into her pink makeup bag and pulled out a lipstick. “I still think,” she applied the lipstick to her top lip, “you should at least give him a quick call.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, maybe a text message, or even a—” But before he could finish his sentence, there was a knock at the door.

  Nicky turned to him, grimacing in confusion. “Who’s that?”

  “How the hell should I know—I’m not psychic.”

  “Can you get it—I’m half-naked. And I look a mess.”

  “Fine,” he replied as he headed for the staircase.

  Walking downstairs to the front door, he wondered who it could be. Please not my parents, he thought. Anyone but them. He took hold of the handle and swung the door open. Richard gasped when he saw the person standing out in the blazing sunshine, clutching the handles of a blue baby-buggy.

  “Carl,” Richard said, his eyes wide with surprise. “How are you?”

  “I’m all right,” Carl said without conviction, nervously wheeling the buggy back and forth.

  “Would you like to come in?”

  “No it’s all right, I’m fine,” Carl replied, shuffling timidly. “I’m really sorry to drop in on you unannounced like this. But I needed to see you—to thank you.”

  Richard held onto the doorframe nervously, his expression blank, his stomach tied up in knots. “There’s no need to thank me. I did what anyone would have done.”

  Carl shook his head. “No, you did much more than that. And I’m really sorry for what I said to you—and what I did. I should never have lost my temper and threatened you like that. It was stupid. Really stupid. And not me at all.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I don’t blame you, Carl. No one would. You were hurting. It’s understandable.”

  “No, it was wrong of me. I should have listened to you—instead of acting like a prick. You were just trying to help me. And I…”

  Richard smiled tightly. “It wasn’t the easiest thing for someone to try to believe. My own wife thought I was crazy. Hell, even I thought I was crazy. But I knew I had to do something. I couldn’t just leave it. And there wasn’t much chance of convincing the police until I was one hundred percent certain.”

  “But that bastard could have killed you, Richard. He had a bloody shotgun pointed at you.”

  Richard nodded as he recalled the incident with revolt. “I know he did. But I’m still here, and you’ve got your boy back.” He peered inside the buggy at Dean as he slept soundly. “How is he? How’s his hearing?”

  Carl smiled, looking down at him as well. “He’s great and his ears are fine. He’s a very happy little boy, always grinning and laughing. Just like his mother. He even looks like her. He has the same eyes, same mouth.” Carl looked like he was fighting off a bout of tears. “He’s amazing. I can’t believe he’s here. Safe.”

  “I’m glad. At least he’ll never remember what happened. At least his first memory will be of you.”

  Carl nodded as he adjusted his son’s blue blanket, which was draped over him. “So anyway,” he said, looking back up at Richard. “I just came to say thank you and to ask if there’s anything I can do to repay you for what you did.”

  “You don’t need to repay me, Carl. All I wanted was to get him home safely to you, and I did. I don’t need anything else from you. Honestly.”

  “There must be something I can do. Anything. I owe you so much.”

  Richard shook his head. “There’s nothing, really. Please, just look after him and be happy again. That’s all you can do for me. You’ve both been through so much. Just keep him safe.”

  “All right. Thank you.” He let out a long breath. “Right, well, I’ll leave you to get back to your life. You know where I am if you change your mind, or even if you just want to chat. Or see this little one. You’re always welcome. And I promise—no baseball bats.”

  Richard smiled and shook Carl’s hand. “Thank you. I might take y
ou up on that offer one day.”

  “Well, I suppose I’ll see you then.”

  “Thanks for coming ’round. I really appreciate it, Carl. Take care of yourself.”

  “I will. No worries.” He turned away and started to leave, pushing the buggy in front of him. Richard began to close the front door, his stomach still in knots. “Is she still here?” Carl said from the pavement.

  Richard turned to him. “Sorry?”

  “Christina. Is she still here? In your house?”

  Richard paused, unable to think of a suitable answer.

  “I’m sorry,” Carl said, as he wheeled the buggy back over to the door. “I just need to know.”

  Richard shook his head. “No. I’m sorry—she’s gone. She left when you got Dean back.”

  Carl’s chin started to quiver. “That’s good.” He rubbed a tear from his eye as he sighed. “I’m glad. I just hope she’s found peace. I hope she’s happy.”

  “I hope so too. Are you sure you don’t want to come in? Maybe for a coffee or something?”

  Carl glanced past Richard inside the house. “No, it’s all right. I don’t think I can face it right now. Too much has happened here. Too many bad things.”

  Richard nodded sympathetically. “I understand completely. But this is a happy home now. What happened here is in the past. My wife and I will make new memories in this house. The present is what’s important. Giving Dean a great life is what’s important. And just make sure you tell him how wonderful his mother was.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  “Good.”

  Carl nodded and then started to walk away again. “Thanks, Richard.” He then stopped and turned back. “You’ll let me know, right?”

  “Let you know what?”

  “If she ever comes back. You’ll let me know, won’t you?”

  Richard hesitated. He could feel Carl’s desperation in his tone, his need to feel Christina’s presence at least one more time. “I will.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise. I’ll let you know. But she won’t come back, Carl. She’s gone. She’s done what she set out to do. She’s gone to a better place. I’m certain of it. And you will see her again. You both will.”

  Nodding, Carl forced a smile, trying to mask his sorrow, and then continued on down the street. Richard watched as they disappeared quietly around the corner. He then closed the front door. Inside, he leaned heavily against the door and let out a drawn-out groan of relief. He too found himself fighting off a bout of tears as he rubbed his eyes with his palms, before running his fingers through his hair.

  Moving away from the door, he stepped back into the hallway. The newly fitted smoke detector caught his eye. For him, seeing it reattached was a symbol of how his life was slowly returning to normal now that Christina Long was gone, and that his house was once again his own.

  Shaking off his feelings of remorse for Carl, he headed back into the kitchen. Standing in the doorway, he ogled the dreaded chair. Did it still hold the same dread, the same horror he had felt all those weeks ago? After all, Christina hadn’t made so much as a peep since he got back from St. Clears. She was gone for good. He was sure of it. And the dreaded chair was now just a kitchen chair, nothing more, nothing less. Just something that was barely used in the first place. Just a wooden, inanimate object that held no significance whatsoever.

  He was sure of it.

  So why hadn’t he plucked up the courage to sit on it since the incident? Why did he still find it difficult to even look at it? And why did it still send a shiver down his spine at the very thought of it?

  He had to move past it. He had to face it once and for all if he ever hoped to make the house completely his own again.

  Letting out a loud breath to prepare himself, he marched around the table to the kitchen chair. He grasped the wooden backrest and pulled it from under the table; the legs screeched as they dragged across the tiled floor. Exhaling loudly again, he sat on the chair. It’s not so bad, he thought. Don’t know what all the fuss was about. It’s not scary at all. He glanced around the kitchen, trying to seem as relaxed as possible, as if sitting on the chair was just an everyday thing for him; as if he had sat on it a million times before. You’re there, Gardener. This is your house again. No one else’s. Just yours. No one’s gonna scare you in your house ever again. You’re the man of the—

  “You ready yet, Rich?” Nicky said, her face suddenly appearing in the kitchen doorway.

  “Jesus Christ!” Richard yelled in fright, almost falling off the chair.

  Nicky entered the kitchen, chuckling. “Did I scare you, babe?”

  Sighing loudly, he held a hand to his thumping heart. “Yes you bloody did.” He leaped up from the chair and moved quickly away from the table. “You scared the hell out of me.”

  “Sorry,” she said, still with a big grin spread across her face. “I didn’t mean to. Are you ready? We’ve got to go.”

  “I think so.”

  “Passports?

  “Check.”

  “Money?”

  “Check.”

  “Flight details?”

  “Check.”

  “Credit cards?”

  He felt his back pocket, and then nodded. “Check.”

  “That’s everything then. Let’s go.”

  They headed along the hallway. Nicky grabbed her handbag and a set of car keys from the stairs, and Richard wheeled out two suitcases from the living room doorway. “Ready?” Richard asked, excitedly.

  Nodding, she followed him to the front door. “Who was at the door earlier?”

  He hesitated for a moment, contemplating keeping Carl’s visit from her, but then reconsidered. “It was Carl Jones.”

  Nicky turned to him, trying not to show any concern on her face. She failed miserably. “Oh, right. Was he okay?”

  “Yeah, he just came to thank me.”

  She nodded sympathetically. “Oh, right. That’s nice of him. And the baby? Is he all right?”

  Richard beamed. “He’s great. Really cute.”

  Returning a grin, she checked her watch. “We better get a move on, babe. Might be a lot of traffic on the road today. Tell me about it on the way.”

  “Yeah, okay,” he replied, and then lowered the suitcases out onto the pavement.

  Richard took one last glance at the smoke detector. Stay quiet, he thought. He closed the front door, locking it behind him.

  Stay bloody quiet…

  - The End -

  Biography for Steven Jenkins

  Steven Jenkins was born in the small Welsh town of Llanelli, where he began writing stories at the age of eight, inspired by ’80s horror movies and novels by Richard Matheson. During Steven’s teenage years, as well as being a black-belt kickboxer, he became a great lover of writing dark and twisted poems—six of which gained him publications with Poetry Now, Brownstone Books, and Strong Words. Over the next few years, Steven spent his free time writing short stories, achieving further publication with Dark Moon Digest. His terrifying tales of the afterlife and zombies gained him positive reviews, particularly his story, Burning Ambition, which also came runner up in a Five-Stop-Story contest. Steven lives in Llanelli with his wife, Vicky, and their daughter. You can find out more about Steven Jenkins at his website or on Facebook.

  www.steven-jenkins.com

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  Building a Better Monster: Legend of the Chupacabra

  by Christopher Treagus

  Print ISBN: 978-1-935460-52-7

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-935460-53-4

  If enough people believe in something, can that belief make it real? Explore the creation of mankind’s newest monster, the Chupacabra, in this mesmerizing tale of the creature’s origins.

  The story begins with the earliest reported sightings of the Chupacabra in the American Southwest in mid 1990s, then weaves its trail of blood-sucking destruction into the folktales of Mexico and Puerto Rico. Part vampire, part animal, part alien, the Chupacabra is blamed for the slaughter of countless animals—and humans—throughout the region.

  While the Chupacabra seemed to come suddenly on the scene from out of nowhere, it would not be the first time that the collective consciousness of humanity’s wildest imaginings breathed life into a myth, giving it flesh and blood and deadly purpose…

  And now that we’ve created it, can anything stop its modern day reign of terror?