Backwards Into Hell

Part One: The Lodge

Sunday 24th October

My head!

It fireworked as the world span. She'd hit me. Bitch. Harriet had caught my reflection in the spoon, waited for me to strike, and whipped a bowl across my cheek.

It felt like I was underwater. Everything fuzzed as I pulled myself up and felt a kick to my side. I slid across the floor, my back cracking against the counter, hard. This was no longer murder. It was survival.

I grabbed onto the side and drew myself up like a kid learning how to walk. Harriet stood in the centre of the room, watching me with hawk eyes and holding the knife. How did she get it off me? I don't remember.

We didn't say anything—didn't need to—because an understanding passed between us. I kill you, or you kill me.

The adrenaline hit, waking my muscles and dulling the pain. All I thought about was Rachel as Harriet held out the knife with fear in her white eyes. Like a startled deer. For whatever reason, I found that funny.

A smirk crept onto my face. Rachel's life depended on this, on getting rid of some weak-willed, crass, old Chef. How ridiculous.

I charged.

I had no care for the knife. Whacking Harriet's arm out of the way, I smacked her across the jaw. Too easy.

She crashed onto the floor and for a moment, I worried someone had heard—that Darren would come dashing in, weapon in hand like a knight in shining armour—but not a soul stirred. The kitchen was too far away, and the sounds too quiet.

I picked up the knife. Rachel. Rachel.

Standing over Harriet, I could see her terror. This time the sickness returned, but I squashed it. For once in my life: no overthinking.

I brought the knife down and in minutes, it was done.

I'll save you, Dear Reader, from the detail, but, suffice to say, there wasn't much left of poor Harriet's neck by the time I was finished. As the life left her eyes, I shut out the guilt and forced myself to think only of what I'd achieved. No one gets in the way of Rachel.

I sat beside her, resting on my knees. Some people say you look peaceful when you're dead—but not Harriet. Her eyes, though glazed, dripped with terror.

As the adrenaline began to wear off and the shock set in, I forced myself to my feet. We're not done yet.

Taking hold of her hands, I dragged her to the back door that led to the grounds. My arms strained. I was too weak to take her far but there was a bush just outside the kitchen window that seemed a decent spot.

The killings wouldn't be kept secret for long—I wasn't a master criminal—but hiding Harriet gave me time. As I dragged, the other guests ran through my mind. Relatively, killing Harriet should've been easy—she was middle-aged and unathletic—but it wasn't. What did that mean for me when I had to take on Darren, or David? Could I overpower them? Or would they simply raise a hand and knock me out cold?

I reached the bush and did my best to cover her in the leaves and mud, tucking up her arms and legs, and as I did, light footsteps rang on the kitchen tiles.

Someone was awake.

I dropped Harriet and sprung up, peering through the window to the kitchen. Empty.

I shook my head. It had to have been something else, maybe the rattle of a pipe, or just wind blowing through The Lodge. Regardless, I tossed the knife some metres away and headed inside, pleased with my work.

Another noise. A flutter.

The hair on my neck stood up as I turned to face the door and when I saw it, my chest heaved in relief. It wasn't a guest, but it wasn't The Old Man either. It was a bird—a grey heron, to be exact.

It sat placidly until I shooed it away and closed the kitchen door behind me. Even in the dim light, it was easy to see the blood had splattered everywhere, lining every tile, cabinet, and counter. I grabbed some cleaning stuff from the cupboards and as I set to work, I was numb. The ecstasy had worn off. I thought of nothing as I scrubbed, knowing that if I let my thoughts free, I'd spiral.

The blood came off with just a sponge and some water—no need for bleach—and the smell, a strange scent of uncooked pork, went with a few sprays of air freshener. Still, the combination of the two was enough to make me gag.

Once the kitchen was clean, I spent a moment taking it in. There was no sign, no clue, of what had happened here. It was perfect.

My knees buckled suddenly, and I caught myself on the wall as my injured back burned. It was time for bed. And as I climbed the stairs, my thoughts came back to me.

Murder. Cold, pre-meditated murder. What if the Old Man never came back? What if this was some sick trick—leaving me to fend for myself?

I'd end up in prison. The people there would eat me as a light breakfast.

No. I had to have faith.

I crawled into bed and stared at the ceiling. What about her family? Her parents? Siblings? Had I just robbed someone of their daughter, their wife? And for what? A promise?

I screwed up my eyes. Thinking like that wouldn't help. I made my mind blank and buried my face into the pillow. However, as I did, I knew I was crying.