What if the real monsters looked like you and me?

They arrived at the castle at 10am- the storm clouds were gathering- low, skimming the turrets ready to strike. Miss Sanderson led the way up the heavy stone steps, her gaggle of kids following loosely behind. They got to the top of the steps and were stood in front of huge wooden doors, decorated with wrought iron shaped into beautiful but eerily indistinguishable patterns.

Outwardly, Mr Blake did not appear an odd man. Not strange, not unusual, not in any way out of the ordinary. A simple minded man. Amiable, however exceedingly mundane.  No-one would suspect the twisted thoughts that tormented his mind day and night. Everyone was blissfully aware of the horrific cognitions that poisoned his very existence. His putrid desires, his terrible secret…

…Mr Blake was a murderer…

When one is not quite awake, but not quite dreaming,

You visit a place, make the skeletons weep.

You visit the Midnight Tea Party.

He would always regret it. It was late, a Friday night; Sarah had taken his children to stay with their Grandmother in the country, Jacob had stayed on the farm. Sat by the unlit fire, he was shivering from loneliness, exhaustion, the bitter cold of a late August evening. He was dozing off, his breathing keeping pace with the steady drip of a water pipe. BANG! What was that? He heard a shout. Running through the door, he grabbed his shotgun. It had hung by the door for as long as he could remember, been kept to protect the sheep from foxes but in Jacob’s memory, it had never been used.

 The next few days of my life were filled with anticipation, a post mortem was being carried out, and of course I was the prime suspect. I told the truth, that I hadn’t done it, but as my fingerprints were on the glass, I was put in a lonely cell until evidence against could unlock me from my chasm of fear.

“Madeline Adams, you were there when he choked to death, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You rung the ambulance?”

“Yes.”

“The post mortem revealed that Mr Harolds was killed by a large proportion of cyanide in the wine he drunk. You touched the drink minutes before his death, why?”

 “I was going to drink from that glass, and then he wanted me to use his least favourite.”

“Do you think that he realised that it was poisoned and wanted to save you?”

 “No, if he knew it was poisoned he would throw it away wouldn’t he? Nobody needed to drink it if it would kill them.”

”Did anything seem unusual about his behaviour before he died?”

“When he came back with the drinks he seemed a little wary.”

“Do you think he could have seen anything when he went to the kitchen to make him wary?”

I fiddled with my long black hair impatiently; I had already heard most of these questions. “I don’t know, he wasn’t there long, I didn’t hear anyone come in.

“Do you think there could have been a way of someone entering the house unseen?”

“I don’t know, I’ve only ever been to his house that time.”

“Why were you at his house?”

I hesitated. I couldn’t tell him about the will otherwise it would seem almost certain it was me. “I had come to visit him in his illness, as a friend of his late daughter.”

“Anything else you would like to tell us?”

I swallowed, they would never find out I was there about the will.

“No.”

Consequently, I was left alone with only my thoughts for company. Though my thoughts were in an evil form, after they had convinced me to do something sneaky, I wished they has left me alone.

Out of nowhere the figure appeared. Not too far away from Raven herself. It was creeping closer. She could see what the figure actually looked like now. She was wearing a worn out red shawl which had various holes all in it. A top which had stains all down it, it’s original colour probably being white but now a deep grey colour. A dark green skirt which had been ripped at the knee which also had many stains on it. All her or its clothes looked distraught as though they had been through so much. It was definitely a woman or girl, her hair was long and dark brown, it was frizzy, it probably hadn’t been brushed but it had a beautiful flower in it, a sparkling pink colour.

It was the only thing which looked as though it had been cared for. Her eyes, there was something about her eyes. They looked so innocent but they also looked as though they had been traumatized. They were green, dark green. She was carrying a bunch of flowers but the flowers were dead. There was no life to be seen with in those flowers. Their life had been betrayed, as though they had been promised a beautiful life with someone who cared for them but ended up with a poor girl who can barely look after herself.

I didn’t quite know how to cope. My body did not react in the way that it had prepared, so desperate to see him after all this longing; all this time. Instead, it was left hanging off the edge by a thread, so ready
but stopped at the last moment. My heart raced, but not in the way it longed to and my cheeks flushed, but not because I was flattered, but because I too, was scared. The hands at the side of his body locked into defence, his body rigid, fixed by the taught way in which he had fixed himself – it all scared me. He
looked as though still, now, he was standing to attention, lined up for battle in the khaki green that, as he had walked away, was woven with threads of promise and aspiration. Now, unravelled as though it had been worn for generations, it was stained with blood, crimson echoes of the horrors that were
past, but present also.

My body did not allow me to step forward and take his hand, to be the wife that he needed me to be, to be the comfort, the rock. Instead it made me turn away and walk, my legs suppressing the run, the gallop that they wanted to explode into, to escape the change, to run back in time, to make it all go away. As I walked and he followed, his pace echoing slowly, cautiously, I could not stomach it any longer and I allowed a single tear to roll down my check. I did not usually indicate my emotions, but that single tear said it all.

It was circling me. Around my feet, then my ankles. I tried to move. But I was stuck; frozen stiff with the fear. My chest grew tight as I began to panic. There was nowhere for me to go. Everywhere I looked, I saw huge monsters willing to attack me if I gave them the chance. I was too weak and afraid to fight them all. So, I listened to each insult and degrading word they spat at me, until my soul was thoroughly worn down.

Fathermother was now level with me on the other side of the tunnel he was leaning outwards
preparing to leap straight at me claws bared. He leapt and I did the same like knights at a tournament we jousted through thin air. I twisted round to avoid his claws and swung my climbing spike at him as we passed in mid-air he parried it with one hand sparks flying around us he threw a kick at me his razor claws aimed for my throat I got my gauntlet in the way barely in time and was knocked off balance. The whole exchange took less than half a second. I hit the opposite wall hard and almost fell barely keeping my balance Fathermother had no such problems and was already flying back towards me I did something desperate using my spike as a lever I flicked myself upwards onto a higher section of wall almost dislocating my arm Fathermother hit the empty wall a split second ago I had inhabited. I catapulted myself downwards again shoulder first straight into Fathermother and empty air I connected with him like a bullet aided by both gravity and the force of my own arm. We both fell lost in
a furious melee sparks raining downwards like tiny suns. Seeing an opening I swung my spike straight for his mask and whatever lay beneath it he rolled in the air and brought his arm up my spike cut straight through it like it was soft clay and it fell away down the tunnel in a crimson bloody geyser which covered the two of us. I kicked off his body and back to the wall planting my spike firmly in it I watched Fathermother tumble down the tunnel He landed easily grasping the bloody mutilated stump of his arm he hissed and ran off into the shadows.

But that little piece of paper. The solemn face at the door. The cold hard floor that rushed to greet me as I fell. The news. The words. The change.

Make sure to subscribe.

I scampered down the long lane, my thoughts and fears entwining into one great monster of greed, but fear. I kept a low profile as I made my way towards his gloomy dwelling. A dark mansion, just like him, he could afford anything.

I knocked on his large wooden door and slightly heard the sound echoing through the walls. His long waited reply was ‘You are two minutes late. An ill man cannot afford to lose any of his time by waiting.’ I muttered an apology and followed him through to his candle lit table.

‘So, Miss Adams, this offer with my will. You are only a friend of my late daughter; do not expect a mention in a will. I may be ill but hoping I’ll take sympathy doesn’t work.’

I took a deep breath. ‘As a dying man, Mr Harolds, you have to consider your grandson.
With his mother dead, and you going that way he needs a new carer.’

‘Don’t be sympathetic then, will you, go straight into “you’re dying what about your grandson.”’

I wasn’t being sympathetic; I hadn’t come here to be. I had come here to secure Toby’s future, and mine.

‘What I am saying is, he needs looking after when you’re gone, and I need the money to look after him.'

He laughed in a patronising way. ‘You expect me to give you money to look after Toby?’

‘Please, I don’t have enough money to support myself, and as I can’t have children I can look after Toby.’

He gave me a dirty look that spelt out ‘no’. With no way to persuade him I sat there staring at my feet.

‘Now are you just going to sit there or should I bring you a nice meal or something because you’re sad you can’t get your own way?’ He said sarcastically, mimicking the voice of a caring person. But at this moment in time I didn’t care, about his sarcasm.

‘A wine would be lovely.’  Alcohol cheered me up better than anything. This was obviously not his intent; he was being patronising to try to get me to go away.

The house was so gothic, my imagination started to run away with gothic horror. But I was interrupted almost immediately by the drinks being brought back in.

Though there was something a little different about him, his tone of voice sounded a little nervous and he was very watchful. At the time I little noticed his strange manner, I reached out for a drink, clasping my hands around the patterned glass, until he snatched it from me.

“That just happens to be my favourite glass.” He gave me a hard look and thrust the dirty, dull glass into my hands. “This just happens to be my least favourite glass, it’s more than you deserve.”

I sipped, not caring about the glass; I controlled my drinking carefully, so as to keep a clear head. I thought that if maybe if he had too much without realising he might end up drunk and agree to what I said. What a forlorn hope! It turned out the amount he drunk was barely enough to fill a teaspoon.

Soon, I was looking in awe the magnificent sculptures looming above my head, a beast with so much emotion it was almost alive. My eyes fluttered over to Mr Harolds' side of the table, and a horrific sound startled me. The monster of greed and fear inside me was now totally engulfed with fear as I watched Mr Harolds choke.

“Mr Harolds? Can you hear me?”

He let out another ear splitting scream of pain, as he started spitting and vomiting. I was frozen with fear, but I have the luck of being a person who can keep a cool head in these situations.

“I’m going to call an ambulance!” I sprinted to the hall to pick up the phone, the image of his horrified face to every thought that came into my mind.

No sooner had the ambulance arrived, so had a long black car, accompanied by a wave of tearful friends and relatives. I didn’t cry, I didn’t like him or know him. This made me feel more heartless than I can describe.

The next few days of my life were filled with anticipation, a post mortem was being carried out, and of course I was the prime suspect. I told the truth, that I hadn’t done it, but as my fingerprints were on the glass, I was put in a lonely cell until evidence against could unlock me from my chasm of fear.

“Madeline Adams, you were there when he choked to death, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You rung the ambulance?”

“Yes.”

“The post-mortem revealed that Mr Harolds was killed by a large proportion of cyanide in the wine he drunk. You touched the drink minutes before his death, why?”

“I was going to drink from that glass, and then he wanted me to use his least favourite.”

“Do you think that he realised that it was poisoned and wanted to save you?”

“No, if he knew it was poisoned he would throw it away wouldn’t he? Nobody needed to
drink it if it would kill them.”

”Did anything seem unusual about his behaviour before he died?”

“When he came back with the drinks he seemed a little wary.”

“Do you think he could have seen anything when he went to the kitchen to make him wary?”

I fiddled with my long black hair impatiently; I had already heard most of these questions.

"I don’t know, he wasn’t there long, I didn’t hear anyone come in."

“Do you think there could have been a way of someone entering the house unseen?”

“I don’t know, I’ve only ever been to his house that time.”

“Why were you at his house?”

I hesitated. I couldn’t tell him about the will otherwise it would seem almost certain it was me.  “I had come to visit him in his illness, as a friend of his late daughter.”

“Anything else you would like to tell us?”

I swallowed, they would never find out I was there about the will. “No.”

The police didn’t know that I had try to get myself in Harolds’ will, he was secretive about his will before he died, he didn’t let anyone know what it included, he also had requested it was read a week after his death, which meant it wouldn’t have been looked at yet. Suppose that I was to change it, suppose
that even though Harolds had forbidden it, I was to give myself mention in the will. It wasn’t like he was here to say anything.

There was only one thing concerning me about changing his will. I thought that something was just was a little weird, the fact that everything just fitted me murdering him so perfectly, the motive, the fingerprints and the fact that I was there at the time. Was it possible that someone was trying to frame me for murder? Had someone killed him at a time when it looked like I must have done it? And if I had been framed, wouldn’t sneaking into his office to change his will condemn me even further?

I got out of the prison easily. Setting off the fire alarm, then sneaking off in the chaos of it is the oldest trick in the book. Within minutes I had arrived at Harolds’ house. As luck might have it, there was a fancy dress shop nearby, where I stole a police officer’s uniform. Everything seemed to be going
swimmingly, almost as it was made to be, as if the will had to have me included in it.

The police’s stupidity astounded me, could they not see through my ‘perfect for parties’ disguise? It was all too easy, they were so easily foiled, I could have picked out that will, unnoticed blindfolded, not that I was.

The worst I had to do was pretend to interview neighbours, finding out that they had access to the house. Their words were engraved in my skull, I would not let any clue get away if it meant I was accused of being guilty. After that it was simple, I took the will whilst no one was looking, took it home where I mimicked everything on the computer, and tried five times to get his signature perfect. ‘Madeline Adams inherits £50,000, looks after Toby with that money, she also inherits my mansion after my sister, Jenny.’ I smiled smugly, who said evil is never rewarded?

I froze. There was significance in that phrase. What if evil is not rewarded? What if when you try to do something it turns back on you? What if Harolds was wary because he meant to murder me? It would make sense, he took the wrong glass, meaning to get me out the way? It would all fit. It seems that your bad deeds never go unnoticed. I had changed the will. Would anything happen to me?
 

…Mr Blake was a murderer…

~ Miss Fletcher and Miss Dolphin