Playing Dead: Book One of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 34

It was the smell that hit me first and it was enough to make me shrink back against the wall with my hand clutched over my nose, fighting the urge to gag as bile swamped my throat in thick acrid waves.

It was animal. The pure, heavy scent of many beasts, like the thick cloying stench of sweat and urine and something else, something that made my nose wrinkle in repulsion and I knew it was her I could smell. And not just her, but the foul taste of her arousal in the air and it was so strong that for a moment, I thought she must be here somewhere, maybe curled up in my bed, her hair draped over my pillow and sheets bunched up between her thighs. But it was not her; just her smell and it seemed to shroud this place, covering every surface as if she had writhed everywhere and not just with Brandon, but the others too. I could smell them all and suffered images of them all here together, taking their female again and again in my home, on the furniture I had chosen and the sheets that I had bought.

Trying to recover a sense of control over the nausea that was creeping towards the surface, I reached and pulled the door shut quickly, the sound of the latch clicking into place echoing through the house. With my back pressed against the door, I waited, straining to listen and hearing nothing but torturous unnatural silence resounding back at me.

Get in, do what you have to do and get out.

Garrick's voice whispered in my ear and I took a big gulp of air and pulled back my hood, glancing warily around the hallway as if it were the first time I had ever stepped foot inside these walls. Everything felt alien and yet somewhere in the back of my mind, objects seemed strangely familiar. The pictures that hung on the walls. Carpets that I had once trod upon with bare feet, revelling in the feel of the thick pile between my toes. The large mosaic effect vase that sat on the table in the hall, that was once always filled with large bouquets of yellow lilies but was now empty with the remnants of dark pollen stained around the rim. I stepped forward, my legs trembling and my breath caught in my throat. And the further away from the door I got, the harder it felt to breathe as I felt myself become entwined in this place which had once been my own and was now their lair.

The pains thundered down my back, making me wince with every step as I fought desperately to control the fear that was gripping me and threatening to cripple my body. I shouldn't be here. I knew it. I could feel it. I was an imposter. But instead of being the dark stranger breaking into somebody's home spreading fear and terror, it was I who was in danger.

The lounge was dark except for the blue flashes coming from the fifty inch television screen set on the wall above the fireplace. The sound had been muted, clearly by Dan having heard the disturbance outside but the screen continued to spew out images across the room. I stared at the large corner sofa, with its cushions strewn about and one of Clara's dresses tossed casually across the back. I saw them here, wrapped in each other's arms with Clara bent over the arm of the chair, sweating out onto the soft leather. Leaning against the doorway, I moaned in pain and thrust my fist into my mouth, biting down on my knuckles to pacify my agony.

Staggering against the wall, I carried on down the hall, staring wildly into the kitchen, brightly lit with the harsh halogen light bulbs, the darkness of the garden pressing against a the patio windows. I daren't enter that room, with its exposed glass that allowed anyone to look in and see who might dare to trespass in the Varúlfur's den.

I looked back down the hallway towards the door and I just wanted to run, to flee, to rid myself of the fear and pain and just keep running, running away from this nightmare and this sick feeling that seemed to rage through my veins like the blackest of plagues. Closing my eyes, I concentrated on breathing in and out very slowly and it was then I heard them, just whispers at first, their tortured cries soon building into terrified screams that made me  clap my hands over my ears as if that would banish them, only I knew it wouldn't. I couldn't muffle these cries, because the shrieking was in my head and engrained in my bones, a permanent reminder of why I was here. The ghosts of the hospital asylum were here with me and my eyes flickered open as they whirled around me and in me, spurring me on, forcing my legs to move except not towards the door, but towards the stairs instead.