Chapter 1
Tuesday 30th November. Parchment Street, Winchester.
Sharon Cutler quick sorted the morning mail and tossed the unopened bills and bank statement on the hall table - bad news could wait ‘til later. The small, curiously padded envelope that remained had her attention. She followed the smell of burning toast wafting from the kitchen and slung the rigid envelope down on the table next to her MacBook, popped the smoking toaster, and yanked open the top window.
Crunching down on the brittle toast she tugged out the contents of the envelope and frowned. Unless Amazon had moved into the bootleg market, the disc in her hand - with her name printed neatly on the cover spine - wasn't the Classical CD she'd ordered online for her mother.
Unhinging the case she slid it into the disc drive and settled back in her chair, washing down the gritty toast charcoal with a swig of hot tea as the media player whirled into action.
She clicked the big fat ‘play’ arrow flashing on the screen, and frowned when the unremarkable footage showed rooftops silhouetted against the night sky. She glanced at the clock, hoping the show was going to get better soon; she couldn't afford to be late for her 9.30 meeting this morning.
The camera slowly turned into the room, and a dressing table zoomed into sharp focus. Her brow furrowed as she leaned into the screen, recognising her own bedroom. What the fuck?
“I want my bloody key back Sarah,” she muttered, then flinched as a gloved hand - far too large to be her teenage sisters - slowly caressed the wood of the dressing table, fingering her things. Squirting her favourite perfume into the air like it was some cheap Avon shit. Her nostrils flared with fury, that scent cost a bloody fortune.
The hand explored the life mementoes her jewellery box contained; she sat stunned in wide eyed silence as the velvet drawstring pouch, an 18th birthday gift from her parents, disappeared before her very eyes. She damn well knew they were in there. Thieving bastard. Anger bubbled when she realised she’d been robbed, an apology in order for the younger sister who always borrowed and never returned.
Her jaw clenched as the gloved hand stroked the silver frame containing the photo of 6 women, their arms around each other, smiling broadly beneath a Class of '94 banner.
“Put it down arsehole. Get the fuck out of my house!”
The camera panned wide. Her crisp white bed linen came into view. Her eyes narrowed, it looked like someone was in her bed.
“If that's you Sarah, you are so dead,” she whispered.
The camera slowly began moving as the intruder stalked towards the bed. Sharon shifted in her seat, craning her neck, her face so close to the screen she could feel the warmth of her own breath bouncing back against her cheeks.
Close up, the glittery nail polish of the female hand glistened in the light of the bedside lamp. When the gloved hand stroked the unresponsive arm, lying limp against her bed linen, the hairs on the back of her neck stood to attention and goose bumps pimpled her crawling skin
The camera zoomed to the pillow, only a mass of long red hair visible until the hand pushed the hair aside and turned the head towards the camera.
“Oh my god, no!” The clatter of the chair against the kitchen floor startled her as she leapt to her feet, backing away from the computer.
“It’s me, it’s me. Oh god. Please. No.” She flayed wildly around the room, hands on her head arms covering her face, trying not to see but unable to divert her eyes from her own face filling the screen.
He's gone. Her breathing shallow, her legs weak, she splayed her hands on the table to steady herself as the camera slowly retreated to take the whole bed into view. Where is he, where’s he gone? From the foot of the bed, it was just her sleeping now. Alone and safe.
Suddenly he was back; all of him from behind filled the view. She pressed her face close to the screen, trying to see his face, willing him to turn around. And when he did, she stumbled backwards across the kitchen in terror. His eyes stared out at her from the ski mask; she recoiled as he ran his tongue across his lips and smiled straight at her before returning his attention to the prey on the bed.
She wrapped her arms around herself, hugged herself tight. Trembling, her wide eyes darted around the room. Was he watching her? Could he see her now? The window. Frantically she tugged at the rod of the Venetian blind, it clattered unevenly to the sill smashing her herbs into the sink, the terracotta pots shattered on impact. Sharon pressed her back up against the draining board when he threw her duvet to the bedroom floor. On screen she was naked, exposed. Dead. “Wake up! For fuck’s sake, wake up! Please!”
Letting out a small cry, she covered her mouth as he straddled her on the bed, forcing his tongue between her silent dead lips. Her shallow breathes became more rapid as sheer helpless panic gripped her. Can’t breathe. Her fingers clawed at her throat, desperate for air. “Don’t. Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare,” she whimpered as his hands moved to his crotch.
Her frantic eyes stared at the screen as he peeled off his gloves and discarded them from view. The noise of his zip was sickeningly loud against the eerie silence of the film and the sounds of her laboured breathing in the kitchen. While her mouth hung open, her parched throat only capable of making strangled sounds, Sharon Cutler’s head filled with screaming.
At the first thrust of his hips she slumped to her hands and knees on the floor, throat constricting and body convulsing in harmony with the sickening grunts and groans echoing around her kitchen.
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