Horror 100 Volume 2

April Fool

I closed my front door, entered the lounge - and gasped. Jesus Christ! I fought back the bitter-tasting bile flooding my mouth. Counting from one to ten as I slowly exhaled, I took a second look. This time the vomit won, and splashed onto the blood-soaked floor.

My eyes streaming and my knees trembling, I tried to control myself. I forced myself to think back to the first autopsy I'd witnessed – the coroner had said he'd never seen anyone puke so much. I recalled the first dead body I'd seen. I hadn't been sick that time – but, then, the old lady had just been asphyxiated. Okay, the first victim of bloody, violent murder I'd seen? Decapitation. Yes, I'd heaved up, of course. I can still vividly remember the startled expression on the woman's face. Now, was I, a big, roughie-toughie police woman going to be bothered by what I saw – and smelt here?

I don't know where the second burst of vomit came from. I hadn't even had dinner – and wasn't likely to now. What a mess to come home to!

Sweating, my throat feeling red-raw, a foul taste in my mouth, realisation suddenly dawned on me. It was the first of April! How had I fallen for it? (Chris would never stop the patronising 'blonde' jokes after this - I'd dye my hair dark). It had been a long day...

I shouted, 'Very funny, Chris. Ha - bloody – ha.'

My ex had obviously taken some stage props from his theatre and had arranged the trick.  It was all a sick joke. I glanced at the first 'butchered victim'.

'It does look realistic, I'll give you that – that fleapit theatre of yours must be improving.' I inhaled deeply. 'Yep, and the stench is pretty convincing too. And, by the way, you can clean up my house now - this fake blood is going to take some scrubbing. My lounge looks like a bloody abattoir.'

He still didn't answer.

I snapped, 'I know you're there, Chris. You're the April bloody fool! If you think this is going to make me come back to you, you're wrong. I might have considered it once, but after this, no way.'

The abdomen was slit open, its intestines spilling out like foul sausages. I felt his eyes on me and knew he had enjoyed my initial reaction.

'Think this is funny? I remember you crawling around your mother's floor, your baggy boxer shorts revealing most of your spotty ass as you puked for England!'

I irritably slapped the dummy, and leapt back. It was real! No one could fake the feel of dead flesh. I sniffed lightly. I'm sure I'll never get used to foetid stenches like that. I gagged, but no more vomit emerged.

So, who were these women? Why the Hell had some maniac chosen my home as the crime scene? Did I know the killer? And, more importantly, was he still in my house?

In policewoman mode once more, I carefully checked each room. The house was empty. It was just me and five dead women.

I decided to take a quick look before calling my colleagues. Maybe this was a blessing in disguise – the gateway to my long overdue promotion. I concentrated on the job in hand, a perfume soaked handkerchief at my nose. Willing myself not to vomit, I looked in turn at each of the five women.

Several of the first murdered woman's teeth were missing, her face badly bruised. The main blood vessels of her neck had been severed on both sides. Her abdomen had been stabbed and slashed repeatedly.

The second victim's swollen tongue protruded obscenely, her face battered and swollen. Her throat slashed, her abdomen viciously hacked.

The third wasn't so gruesome. The only apparent injury was the obvious cause of death. The woman's throat had been slit.

The fourth made up for the third's lack of goriness! Of course, he'd used his trademark, the slashed throat. She'd been opened from her rectum to her breastbone, her intestines ceremoniously draped over her shoulder. A cursory glance revealed that one of her kidneys and her womb had been taken. The nose and an earlobe had been removed. The woman's features had also been disfigured – there were peculiar cuts on her eyelids and cheeks.