Louise Eldritch didn’t have an umbrella. By the time she walked the six blocks from the bus station to the hotel, she was soaked through to the skin. She stood there, shivering a little and dripping water on the floor, while she signed her name to the register, a false name that came to her in the moment before she wrote it down. The night desk clerk smiled at her familiarly, as though he knew her. (He had the same smile for everybody, no matter who they were.)

“I have a nice room for you on the eighth floor, Miss Whitehead,” he said, reading the name off the register.

“It’s Mrs. Whitehead,” she said. “Don’t you have anything on a lower floor?”

“Not cleaned and made up. With all this rain, you see, we’re short-staffed.”

“I guess the eighth floor will have to do, then.”

“It’s nice and quiet up there and you’ll have a fine view. The elevator is in working order, so you won’t have to walk up the stairs.” He handed her the key.

She took the creaking elevator up to the eighth floor. As she walked down the hallway to her room, she heard the yammer of muffled voices coming from behind one of the doors. She couldn’t make out what the voices were saying, but it sounded like a heated argument involving at least three people. There was a man’s angry voice and then a different man’s voice, and, in the background, a woman’s voice crying and pleading.

The room was as dreary as she expected. The walls were covered with a faded green-and-brown wallpaper and the ceiling spotted with water stains. She turned on the lights and stepped out of her wet shoes and draped her jacket over the back of the desk chair. She took a towel from the bathroom and dried herself off the best she could. She longed to get into a tubful of hot water to try to soak the aches out of her body but she was just too tired. The day and a half spent travelling on the bus had taken its toll. She wanted only to sleep.

There was one window in the room and beside it a small door that opened onto a tiny fire escape landing. The window and door were both covered with a heavy green curtain, the kind that completely shut out the light. She pulled back the curtain and looked out at the rain, which hadn’t diminished and was, if anything, coming down heavier than before. She looked down the eighty feet or so to the street but couldn’t see much of anything, other than a streetlamp at the next corner and the lights of an all-night drugstore in the next block.

It could be any one of a thousand different towns in America. In the two days she had been traveling, she crossed several states lines and had lost track of where she was. If she had known the name of the town when she arrived there, she had forgotten it, but she derived a sort of perverse pleasure in not knowing where she was. If she didn’t know where she was, didn’t it follow that nobody else would know?

The room, for all its shortcomings, was warm and dry, and for that she was thankful. After she smoked a cigarette, she took off her clothes and got into the too-soft bed underneath the pile of peculiar-smelling covers and switched off the light. She could still hear the voices coming from down the hallway but underneath the soothing sound of the rain they seemed detached and far away.

She lay on her back in the dark for perhaps half an hour, smoking one cigarette after the other. As tired as her body was and as much as she needed to sleep, she knew she wasn’t going to go to sleep without a struggle. She had the sensation of still being in motion; her head reeled and she had a knot in her stomach. She got out of the bed and switched on the light and opened her suitcase and took out some pills, one to calm her down and another to make her sleep. She washed both pills down with a swallow from a bottle of Kentucky bourbon that she had bundled among her clothes to protect it from breakage.

While she had the suitcase opened, she took the diary out of a zippered compartment and opened it and sat down on the bed and held it open on her lap. The diary was for her more than just a book; it represented the end of her old life and the beginning of a new life, the kind of life she had always wanted.

In the diary, in Byron’s own handwriting, was his own confession. She didn’t know why he would confess in writing to having two business associates killed in five years, but that was just his way. He was thumbing his nose at the world. He believed he could get away with anything and outsmart anybody; he believed he was infallible. He kept the diary locked in a safe to which only he had access and he believed nobody would ever even know of its existence.

He slipped up, though, and she found the diary and read it, as wives sometimes will. She recognized it at once as a gold mine. Byron would pay a lot to get it back. She had wanted to get out of the marriage for years and now here was her chance, as if dropped into her lap from heaven.

When she got a safe distance away—and she didn’t know yet exactly where she was going—she would contact Byron and make him an offer. She would start at five-hundred thousand; she didn’t want to be overly greedy. That amount would be enough to keep her comfortably well-off for the rest of her life. She could travel and keep a nice apartment and have friends and give parties and never have to worry about anything; live the kind of independent life she had always wanted.

Byron would kill her too, though, of that she was certain. He would use any means at his disposal to get the diary back. She wasn’t certain that he hadn’t been following her or having someone else follow her—a hired killer, perhaps. For that reason she had taken a meandering course across four states, had changed buses five times, and had stopped at a dreary old hotel on the edge of nowhere—a place that wasn’t even on the map. She didn’t think she was being followed, but still one could never be certain of anything, especially when dealing with a man like Byron Eldritch.

Almost immediately the pills began to take effect and her eyelids began to feel heavy. She put the diary away carefully for safekeeping and got back into bed again. Soon she was asleep.

She dreamed she was walking along a flat country road. She didn’t know where the road was but it seemed somehow familiar, as if she remembered it from her far distant past. Looking down at her legs and feet, she saw they were covered with the dirt of the road.

As she walked along this road to an unknown or uncertain destination, she heard a car coming up behind her. She stopped walking and turned around and faced the car. She was interested in knowing who was driving, but apparently no one was, or, if there was a driver, he was invisible. An invisible driver didn’t make any sense, so it was easier to believe the car was moving on its own.

The car was bearing down on her and she had the sudden sickening realization that it meant to run her down in the road and kill her. When it was no more than thirty or forty feet away, coming toward her very fast, she jumped out of the way just in time and it went on past her in a cloud of dust.

She was awakened from the dream at that moment by a crash down the hallway, as of something being thrown against the wall, and then a scream. After that she could hear the voices, louder than before, as though the argument was still going on and had intensified. She tried covering up her head with a pillow but it was no use; she could still hear it. She got out of bed and turned on the light and picked up the receiver.

“Night clerk,” the voice said.

“There’s an argument going on down the hall from my room, loud voices and shouting, and it’s keeping me awake.”

“What room are you in?”

“846.”

“Oh, yes. The eighth floor. I believe they’ve been celebrating. I’ll call them and tell them to keep it quiet.”

She heard the phone ringing faintly down the hall and the murmur of voices, followed by laughter and the slamming of a door, and then stillness. Whoever they were, they seemed to have finally stopped the arguing and settled down for the night. She switched off the light and covered up her head and went to sleep again.

It might have been ten minutes or an hour or two hours before a knocking on the door jerked her violently awake. She sat up in the bed, her heart pounding, uncertain for the moment where she was. When the knocking came again, she got out of bed and went to the door.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“Mr. Mendel calling for Mr. Sloan,” a raspy voice said.

“What?”

“I said, ‘Mr. Mendel calling for Mr. Sloan’.”

“I don’t know who you are,” she said. “You’ve got the wrong room.”

“I need to see Mr. Sloan right away.”

“There’s nobody here by that name.”

“He said room 846.”

“You’ve got the wrong room.”

“There came one day a lovely box of flowers.”

“What?”

“Will you let me in?”

“You’ve got the wrong room.”

“So you say, but can you give me a good reason why I ought to believe you?”

She heard a huff of breath and faint footsteps as the man turned from the door and walked away. A few seconds later she heard the elevator door open and close and then the faraway creaking as the elevator descended.

The next time she awoke she could still hear the rain, but underneath that was some other sound. She pushed back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed and stared into the darkness. It took a few seconds before she was awake enough to know that she had been hearing someone calling her name outside the door to her room, softly yet insistently. She went to the door and put her ear against it.

“Who’s there?” she asked softly. “Is anyone there?”

There was no reply but the unmistakable sound of someone breathing in air and letting it out again.

“Who is it?” she asked, louder this time. “What do you want?”

There was a long pause, after which a man’s voice said, “Aren’t you going to tell me I’ve got the wrong room?”

“Who is it?” she asked.

“What’s the point of asking such obvious questions?”

“I’ve got a gun and I know how to use it.”

The man laughed. “All right, all right,” he said. “No reason to get excited. So I’ve got the wrong room. No need to shoot me!”

She heard him walking away, followed by silence. She longed to open the door and look down the hall toward the elevator, but she was afraid he was playing a trick on her and when she opened the door he would force his way in.

She went to her suitcase and took from underneath the jumbled clothing the little .22 caliber handgun that Byron had given her in happier days when he traveled a lot and she was left at home to fend for herself. Having a gun nearby had always made her feel safer, even though she had never had any reason to fire it.

Clutching the gun to her breast, she got back into bed and sat against the headboard and pulled the covers up and stared into the darkness. The rain blew in gusts against the window. She went to sleep again.

She awoke to the phone ringing. She dropped the gun to the floor, forgetting she was holding it, and grabbed the receiver to silence the ringing.

“Yes?” she said, her voice breathless.

“This is the night desk clerk.”

“Yes?”

“I wanted to ask you if you’ve been bothered any more by the guests on your floor. We always follow up on these things.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s exactly one-forty-seven, Central Standard Time.”

“There was a man knocking on the door a while ago. He was looking for somebody he thought was in this room.”

“Did you open the door?”

“No.”

“If he comes back, don’t open the door. You never know who might be lurking about. We try to keep people out late at night who aren’t actually paying guests of the hotel, but sometimes they come in unnoticed for one reason or another.”

“Do you have the number of the local police force?” she asked.

“The police? What do you need to call the police for?”

“Well, I can’t say for sure. I have an uneasy feeling.”

“You don’t need to be calling the police, ma’am. I’ll be here all night, until seven or so, and if you’re bothered again pick up the phone and call me. Just don’t call the police.”

“I’m going to leave this place. I don’t feel safe here.”

“Where would you go in the middle of the night in the pouring rain? The dam might be breached and if it is this whole area could be under water. You wouldn’t even get a cab.”

“I’ll sit in the lobby or I’ll go to the all-night drugstore down the street and wait there until morning.”

“No need to do that, ma’am. Just go back to sleep. Everything will be all right.”

When she hung up the phone, her hands were shaking and she felt dizzy and short of breath. She took two more pills and drank the rest of the bourbon in the bottle.

Suddenly a pounding at the door brought her to her feet. She stared at the door in the darkness, as if expecting to see through it to the other side.

“Who’s there?” she asked.

This time a different male voice (with a hint of a foreign accent) said, “Open the door and stop fooling around!”

“I said ‘who’s there’?”

“If you don’t open this door, you’ll have to answer for it later.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s the middle of the night. I’m trying to sleep!”

“Do you know how silly that sounds?”

“You’ve got the wrong room.”

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll open the door.”

“Go away!”

For good measure, he pounded on the door again and kicked it with both feet.

She returned to the bed and pulled the covers up over her head, hoping to shut out any further disturbances. She longed to be at home where everything was certain and where nobody would dare bother her in the middle of the night. She was thinking about getting out of bed again and checking to make sure the door was double-locked, when the phone rang again. Unlike before, she let it ring ten or twelve rings before she picked it up.

“Yes,” she said groggily into the receiver, holding it several inches from her ear.

“You’re not fooling anybody,” a voice said quietly, followed by a click and the dial tone.

“Who is this?” she said, even though she knew no one was there. “Why are you doing this to me? What is it you want?”

When she hung up the phone, she felt ill and took two more pills to calm herself down. Unable to remember how many pills she had taken, she took two more. She then pulled all the covers off the bed and piled them on the floor and lay down on them and tried to cover herself up. She would make herself small on the floor underneath the bedclothes and no one would even know she was there. She would roll herself up in the corner and make herself invisible if that’s what she needed to do. She was more resourceful than people were willing to give her credit for.

There came then a rhythmic pounding on the ceiling and then on the wall behind the bed and then on the opposite wall. It was coming from every place at once and no place at all. She let out a scream and wrapped herself in the blankets on the floor like in a cocoon and covered her ears with her hands but she could still hear the pounding, loud and then soft like tapping and then stopping altogether and starting up again in a different place. When she could stand the pounding no longer, she stood up and made her way to the phone and picked up the receiver.

“Night clerk,” the voice said.

“What is that terrible noise?” she asked.

“This is the lady on the eighth floor, isn’t it?”

“Someone is bothering me, harassing me!”

“How so, ma’am?”

“It sounds as if someone is hitting on the walls and the ceiling with a lead pipe.”

“That’s just the plumbing, ma’am. Air gets trapped in the pipes. This is an old building. You hear all kinds of strange noises.

“It has to be something more than that.”

“Just try to ignore the sound and get some sleep, ma’am. Nobody is deliberately trying to bother you.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Good night, ma’am.”

The pounding continued for some time, growing louder and fainter and then stopping altogether. When all was quiet again, she went to the door and put her ear against it. She imagined she could hear blood coursing through the veins of whoever was standing there, just on the other side of the door. She wanted to call out to the person and ask who they were and what they wanted with her, but her own heart was pounding in her chest as if to strangle her and she seemed to lack the breath to get the words out. She backed slowly away from the door and, as she did so, the doorknob turned quietly one way and then the other. Someone was trying to come into the room.

She picked up her gun and, holding it in both hands, lay down again on the blankets on the floor and covered up, leaving only her eyes exposed.

From her vantage point on the floor she could see the crack underneath the door that admitted a sliver of light from the hallway; in that sliver she could see shadows as people moved silently back and forth, in and out. She had stopped trying to figure out who they were and what they were doing. She trained her gun on the door, holding it in both hands, ready to fire when needed.

She focused all her attention on the door for the remainder of the night, determined to stay awake to protect herself. She lay on the floor in the dark, listening to the rain, waiting for the next thing that was going to happen.

The pounding on the wall had stopped. People were no longer moving about in front of the door. There were no more phone calls, no more voices. She began to feel toward morning that everything was going to be all right. The awful night was almost over. She could get up in a while and get dressed and order some breakfast and catch the next bus out of town. With these thoughts in her head—and in this more relaxed state of mind—she fell into an exhausted sleep.

She had been asleep for only a few minutes when the door to the room opened slowly, without making a sound. A small sound—a footstep or a sigh or the clearing of a throat—woke her up. When she opened her eyes, she wasn’t terribly surprised to see two men in the room with her. They were wearing dark clothes and had no faces; they were only outlines in the dark. She reached for the gun but was unable to find it. She stood up and made her way around the bed to the far side of the room.

Standing in front of the door to the fire escape, she turned and looked at the men. They seemed for the moment to not know she was there. They weren’t looking at her but were instead intent on rifling through the clothes in her suitcase. She believed that when they turned their attention on her they would kill her, so she must somehow get out of the room. Since they were blocking the way between her and door, there was only one way out.

She opened the door and stepped out onto the tiny rain-slicked fire escape landing. She felt the cold sting of the rain on her face as she gripped the railing and looked down into the darkness for the steps that would lead her down to the ground and to safety. Hanging onto the railing with both hands she eased one foot down on the top step and then the other foot. When she stepped down to the next step, she misjudged the distance and her feet slipped out from under her. Try as she might, she wasn’t able to regain her footing. She held on for as long as she could but it was no use. The railing slipped from her hands and she was gone.

The awning over to the entrance to the hotel broke her fall. She was only knocked unconscious and would have survived if she had not fallen face-down into the water that had accumulated in the awning and drowned. Her body was discovered in the daylight and retrieved by firemen with hooks.

When interviewed by the police, the night desk clerk was voluble. Enjoying the unaccustomed attention, he disclosed everything he noticed about the woman. Something about her seemed terribly amiss. She seemed unusually nervous and appeared to have been drinking. He spoke to her several times in the night and she seemed distraught; believed somebody was bothering her for no reason. She complained about noise that only she seemed to hear.

After completing their investigation and establishing the identity of the woman, the police ruled her death a suicide with no indication of foul play. Since she had left no suicide note, maybe she hadn’t intended to commit suicide, but if that was the case what was she doing out on the fire escape before dawn in the rain? It was just one of those silly things that people do for which there is no logical explanation.

            Oliver Bowman was a solicitor. He had never particularly wanted to be one. But never the less thats what he was. He had a wife who was pretty despite giving him a child and a dog. They lived near to place of work in Ironbridge. Their life was good.
            Even now in times of credit crunches and low house prices they lived in reasonable comfort. They had a charming house in the semi-countryside, good friends and best of all they still felt a lot for each other. Ok so the honeymoon period was over but none of them had ever strayed and they still had a good sex life.  Their son James was doing well at school and his wife Tabitha was working part time for a school as well. Everything was well good.

            Their house was a truly lovely quaint place where no one else seemed to go. There never seemed to ever be any gangs, chavs, grebs or any other social misfits. It might possibly be the best place on the Earth. Everyone was reasonably well off and most neighbours were post retirement. There was never any crime either. Or at least that was until.... well you see nothing good ever lasts. And a charming perfect idyllic piece of happiness was doomed to come crashing down in flames. And it did...I know you're confused you want to know how and why? Why Mr Author do you have to ruin these peoples life’s? You bastard Mr Author who the fuck do you think you are God?
            Ok OTT yeah? But it did go wrong. Horribly. The most grotesque horrors took place as one man was pushed over the edge by...a violin.
            Yeah now your confused right. Anti-climax you be thinking. Well I assure you the Bowman family didn't think so when their lives were destroyed in the most...gory of fashions. Now you're thinking "Ok Mr Author point made. You've sold us the story we're reading but our patience is wearing thin so get on with it".

            Well fair point Mr/Mrs reader. So please do read on. But I feel I must warn you that this story is not for the weak of heart. I have written many a horror tale but none as...just read and see then.

Mr Author

 

            Oliver Bowman sat behind his desk. He looked over at his shiney new silver clock which read the time as 16:37. Eve his receptionist come assistant was sorting out the DX post to go the next day. Today Oliver was pleased by the work he had got done. He had finally made progress on the Evans case which had been a thorn in his side for many months now.
            Oliver watched as Eve ferried around the office getting all the post done on time. She was fit twenty something dirty blonde who generally used too much make up and ended up looking like a Barbie doll. Oliver had been carrying a torch for her ever since he first emplyed her. Of course Oliver would never do anything about it. No he was in love with Tabitha far too much. Their live was too good to indanger over a fling. Besides Oliver had often masturbated and thought of Eve in reality she could never ever be as good or as dirty as she was in his imagination.

            Come the end of the day Oliver locked up and waved goodbye to Eve as she walked off down the road. He stopped to admire her behind. Then he walked to his car and climbed inside. He started the car up and made sure that he drove past her.

 

            It was the next day that...that it begun. It was a Saturday and the Bowmans had decided to visit an auction being held in the country at a recently converted Farmhouse. As Oliver drove through the country roads with his young son in the back of  the car and his wife smiling he felt...peaceful. Not especially happy, no rush of seretonin but..peaceful.

            As Oliver parked the car up he felt a sensation which he had not felt for such a long time. A shiver ran down his spine. It was so strange it was a hot day and he felt restful. Yet never the less. He decided to push it from his mind and carry on.
            Inside the auction it was a fairly mediocre day but the sunshine and the smile on the face of his wife and child raised the day for Oliver. Then, then there was that strange sensation and for no logical reason Oliver found himself being drawn to an item. It was old but not in particularly great condition. It was a violin. Oliver saw the item and for unknown reason he had to have it. It...it called to him. It whispered its seductive voice of a thousand sirens. Oliver heard the call and obeyed without question. He won the bid and paid a mere £15 for the item in question. His wife thought the bid was out of character commenting-
            "But you can't play can you darling?"
            "No dear. No I can't". Came the honest answer from Oliver.

            The rest of the day passed reasonably calmly and peacefully. Although that night Oliver had the worst nightmare he ever had. The dream had begun with a young Oliver playing with a butterfly knife. Then...then he was older something else happened something...then, then he was older as he is now staring down at his dead wife. The knife sticking out of his wifes eyeball. The blade buried deep into her brain.

            The image made Oliver wake up in a cold sweat. To forget this nightmare he went down stairs and grabbed the whisky bottle. He needed to drink. He needed to forget the image.

            That next day was a quite family day. Deep down Oliver loved these days. He was a privilaged child but never felt 100% comfortable under his parents rule. Here he was happy. His child loved the same sci-fi fodder he so loved. Today was quite. He decided as the sun ws bright to do some gardening.

            As Oliver went into the garden to begin his work he decided to light up a cigarette. Ever since uni he had always smoked the same Marlboro lights. He looked around the garden and he began to realise just how lucky he really was. He had it all really. A nice house, well paid job and a loving wife. He felt...at one with the world.
            Then as Oliver began to sweep up under the heavy sun he thought that what he really wanted to do that day was to play his violin. He couldn't play, never had a lesson but, but he felt that was what he really wanted to do.

            Oliver woke up on the Monday with a dry sore throat. His head was throbbing. Am I ill? Oliver wondered as he plodded into the bathroom. All around him were images of his family. His wife's elaborate cleaning products. His son's elaborate toothbrushes. Oliver realised it as bizarre as it was it was his families presence that were making him feel this way. He had work to go to. It was alright for some. Oliver's mind grumbled.
            Instead of climbing back into his lavish bed he decided to go downstairs and stand in front of his giant bookcase where his impressive DVD collection was housed.
            Oliver stood there half naked just staring at them in the blackness of the morning. All those stories were calling out to him. Screaming their tales at him. And yet his mind was not acting as a receiver. Instead he was shouting. But not out loud. He was shouting in his mind. He was warring with himself.
                                    "You fucking bitch! Why does my dog shake when I enter the room! If I find out you've been hitting him then I'll takew a fucking knife to you!"

            So the argument went on. But as for Oliver's physical body it just stood there. Silent motionless switched off. He was being de-tuned. From the "normal" human wavelength to...to something else. And then again he thought of his violin.

            Hours later it was 07:00am. The clocks had only recently gone forward an hour. In the kitchen the radio was playing some irritating local station. Tabitha was in her dressing gown buttering some toast as James was playing with the dog. It was then that Oliver entered the kitchen yawning and smoking.
                                    "Oliver I thought we weren't going to smoke downstairs you know James doesn't like it". Tabitha cried.
            Oliver stared at her and for a second his eyes were dead. Then he shrugged and put the cigarette out. Oliver for some reason felt compelled to apologise. He hated it when he did that.
                                    "Sorry James". Oliver said as he stared at the toast. James didn't answer just shrugged in someway which indicated something else.
            The dog was jumping up and down James. Oliver felt compelled to speak.
                                    "Is that a clean uniform? In fact is that even hygenic?" Oliver asked as he pointed to the dog. Unknown to him his words were slurred.
                                    "Are you ok dear?" Tabitha asked. Oliver didn't reply instead he left the room and slowly climbed back upstairs. When he had left the room James turned to his mummy.
                                    "What's up with dad?" James asked.
                                    "Nothing. Nothing at all" came the reply. But somewhere within Tabitha she felt it. Just for a second. Some kind of atmosphere it was...wrong and inhuman.

Oliver stripped naked and stood in front of the mirror. He began to twitch again the violent arguments begun in his head.
                                    "What the fuck! No one thinks about me! No one! Every girl I've been with has turned into a slag! No one No one thinks!"

            Tabitha entered the room. Oliver didn't notice her for a second and then he shook his head as though he was coming out of some sort of trance.
                                    "Oliver are you ok?"
            Oliver just stared at her with the dead eyes.
                                    "Yes. Yes what is it!" Oliver dropped onto the bed. Tabitha stood there for a moment shocked. This behaviour isn't like Oliver she noted. He hardly ever got agitated and when he did he would try not to show it. Even dropping onto the bed was out of character.
                                    "I'm going to take James to school".
                                    "Yeah fine". Came Oliver's quick reply even without thinking.
            Tabitha stood there trying to just think. What was up with Oliver? Immediately she felt guilty. He had been so perfect and understanding during her post natal depression. Whatever was up with him she knew she had to be understanding. She decided that the conversation was going nowhere and so she gently closed the door and collected James and then scooped him out of the door and into the car. Slowly Oliver stood walking with somebody elses body language he watched his wife and child drive away. Then came the pain.

            It was intense, like no other. It was like the worst migraine he ever felt multiplyed. Oliver dropped to the floor screaming. And then...it was gone as quickly as it struck? Was the pain even real? Or a daydream that got out of hand?
            All Oliver wanted was too play the violin. That dusty relic that had for so long had no purpose now had one. Oliver didn't understand why but never the less knew it was vital. Somehow he had to see it, smell it and play it. To say it was calling to him seemed...inaccurate. No and yet he heard it's melody, it's sirens call gently calling to his mind.
            Oliver walked downstairs and stared at the relic in it's dark scratched case. He rubbed his hand along it and then raised them and sniffed. It...it was like no other sense of recollection he had felt before. It was...it was like an old flame someone he had been intimate with and then seeing them again in passing years later his stomach jumped. Jumped with confusion and recollection. Again he reached out and touched the case and again he felt it. Oliver fell back and unable to control himself started to giggle. Then as suddenly as he started he stopped.

            Oliver slowly slid into a memory. A memory that was not his. He was sitting on a train with a pale girl next to him. Slowly he stood and saw the ticket man bearing down on him and without thinking he pulled out a flick knife and buryed into the mans neck. The man a burly man with no hair in his thirties suddenly became a whimpering child. He fell to the floor. The girls eyes snapped open at the sight of the blood. Oliver just smiled then dropped the knife looking again he saw the dead man was in fact his....

            ....son. Oliver sat bolt upright in his bed. Sweat beads desperately trying to flee his body and sought refuge upon the duvet. He looked down at his sleeping wife. Slowly he turned his head and saw the time on the clock. It read 13:37. Slowly Oliver climbed out of his bed. He was wearing a tight red T-shirt and boxers. He then slowly began to strip naked. He had to cool down. Then he was overcome by another sensation. He had to check his son was ok.
            Oliver creeped out of his bedroom and stood on he landing outside Jame's room. Slowly he opened the door and saw his son snorring happily in a world of his own creation. Then Oliver became distracted as he looked down and became aware that he had an erect penis.

 

            The next few days seemed to come and go with equal ease and quickness. Work was relatively simple. Homelife was as good as ever and Oliver hadn't had anymore strange dreams. That was until he came home on the Thursday with the urge once again. He found the violin and the same pang of excitment ran through his body. It was electric. He smiled.
            Then Oliver opened up the case and held it correctly as he slid the bow up and down. The sound he made was unpleasant, but the feeling he got felt so right. After only playing for a short while Oliver's mind did not hear the horrid untuneful noises. No in his mind he heard a most delightful sound. It was as if the Violin was an extention of his own being.

            The next few days brought to Oliver similar periods of distraction and nightmares. So much so that he decided to take some time off. The usual reaction when a colleague went off on sick leave was instead of choosing a replacement on the partner merit they would opt instead for a bimbo with good tits.
            But Oliver didn't care he had other concerns. At home he would play his violin and nothing else. He would go to where it sat after Tabitha left in the morning and when she returned he would be sitting in the same place. The dead look in his eyes.
            After three days she had enough. She marched to where he stood with his violin and got right in his face.
                        "What the fuck is the matter with you! I'm sorry but we've had enough!"
            Oliver cocked his head as he looked at her.
                        "The kid gets free digs. Who the fuck is he to complain".
                        "You don't even sound like you anymore!"
                        "Careful that's an oxymoron". Replied Oliver mockingly.
It was then that Tabitha's attention turned to his violin.
                        "That! You became this...this thing around the same time as you had that". Tabitha pointed to the instrument as she spoke.
                        "Sounds familier doesn't it?"
           
            That was it. Tabitha had enough. She picked up the violin. Olivers eyes suddenly became fearful.

                        "Put it down...please. Please put it down...".
            Tabitha couldn't believe what was happening to Oliver.
                        "No. No Oliver this thing is not good for you. I'm getting rid of it". With that Tabitha began to walk away. Oliver stood there is silence heartbroken for a moment and then he saw red. He ran after Tabitha and pushed her to the ground. Tbaitha dropped the violin and lay there for a second shocked. Then the fear seeped through her.
            Oliver grabbed her by the throat and threw her against the wall.
                        "I have to put up with you and that little bastard! No! You want me to suffer! Well you wont take my friend away! Never! I'll fucking kill you first!"

Oliver punched Tabitha twich in the head hard. Then as he let go she fell to the ground. Oliver looked down at her body. The woman he loved. And loved him.
            Then he saw something else. He was somebody else looking down at the body of a prostitute in an alleyway. She was pouring with blood from a knife wound to her womb. Oliver smiled.

            When Tabitha came to she looked around and realised she was in the garage. She was tied to one of the roof beans and hanging down. She tried to scream but she was gagged. Then perched on a chair like a macabre observer sat the violin. A shiver ran up her spine as she realised Oliver was standing behind her.
                        "You forced this you bitch. Oh and don't worry about that little bastard. I                 spoke to the Tannir's. I asked of they wouldn't mind picking James up and letting him stay the night. Told them it was an emergency. Still teaching your wife respect. Never thought I'd have to".
            Tabitha's eyes were wide with fear. She saw the look on Oliver's face. It was not a natural glare for him. It was then that she truly realised what a stranger this new Oliver really was.

                        "Now I'm going to show you some fucking respect missy!" Screamed Oliver into Tabitha's ear. She watched in horror as he walked out of view and then returned moments later with a pair of sissors. He then cut her top to pieces and left her hanging there naked. He then bit on her breasts she scremaed and jumped up and down. In discust Oliver slapped her hard in the face.
                        "I'll fucking kill you and your bastard son if you carry on!" Tabitha immediately stopped.
                        "Now...you need some...mark to remind you not to fuck around anymore.               What mark? Let me see".
            Oliver walked around her and then pulled his belt off.
                        "Oh yeah. One like this!" With that Oliver standing behind her began to whip her violently with the belt she screamed in agony.
                        "Come on bitch you can take this!" The whipping continued as blood poured from the wounds. The pain was so intense. Then after a few minutes Oliver stopped.
                        "I think you have learned don't you.Although I have just one last thing to               teach you".
            As Oliver opened the door three old dirty tramps walked in unsure. Tabitha immediatelt recognised them from the town.
                        "She's all your boys". Announced Oliver as he stood back and watched. Tabitha starred at him in shock. Slowly they began to pull at her underwear whilst another began to suck on her breasts. Tabitha screamed Oliver just laughed and walked out.
           
            As Oliver left the garage he fell to the ground and began to cry.

            Forty minutes later Oliver returned to the garage. He had drunk three quaters of a bottle of cognac. As he entered he found his wife hanging their her nose bleeding and her clothes ripped. Semen on her legs. The tramps had seemingly used her as a punch bag after fucking her.
                        "You've had your fun now fuck off". Oliver shouted to the tramps. They looked at him and seemingly contimplated attacking him. But instead they sulked out of the garage and back into the night. Oliver walked over to Tabitha and removed the gag. She looked at him. Oliver felt a pang of guilt but it was quickly buried.
                        "This was your fault. Don't lookt at me like that. I blame you. I blame you for                       everything. I blame you for my life. I blame you for that little bastard you                 wanted. I blame you for your parents hatred of me. I blame you". Oliver stopped and waited for her reply. But she was broken.
                        "Why Oliver..why?" she cried. Oliver looked over at the violin perched on the chair. Please. Please listen you know this isn't me. It isn't....I am...we are...the pain...it's watching. It's watching us right now. Please...I'll let you go. Yes. We have to forget this and move on. Please".
Oliver untied Tabitha and she fell to the floor. He helped her up.
                        "I'll go and get you some water. Stay there".

            Oliver ran from the garage into the kitchen. When he returned the first thing he felt was a sharp pain in the head. Then again. Tabitha attacked him with the claw hammer screaming as she did it. Then after the pain came the blackout.

            Slowly Oliver came too. Light and memory flooded into his mind. As he opened his eyes he saw Tabitha standing there. His mouth was taped up and he was naked. Then she smiled as she produced car battery and two cables. She then attached them to his scrotum. Desperately Oliver tried to plead but she just smiled and switched it on. Volts of agaony tore through Oliver's bbody. He screamed in agony as Tabitha laughed and looked over at the violin siting there.
                        "It doesn't want you anymore. It wants me. Me!"

            After the initial torture Tabitha dragged Oliver over to the workbench and laid him on there.

                        "It's time baby".

With that she took the clawhammer and began to bury it into his stomach. Again and again until his entrails began to slide out.
            Tabitha laughed out loud and looked back at the violin.

 

            When Tabitha awoke she heard a sound. It was terrifying and totally inhuman. It felt like a vicious roar of some demonic creature. A wail so furious in sound and scale that it appeared to transcend all time and space. Her eyes opened immediately.

            She rolled over and saw Oliver fast asleep. She had the nightmare again. What the hell was going on? Tabitha had no idea. No logical idea anyway. All she knew, she felt was that that damn violin was somehow responsible. It had been effecting Oliver and now it was trying to drive her insane. She knew she had to destroy it. She could not allow it to fall into anyone else's hands. It was far too dangerous.

            Oliver was changing. As much as he wanted to deny his psychological map he could not help but see his priorities had changed. For now he knew. He had received a message from God. He knew his family were evil. And he knew they had to suffer. His wife was a witch. Cold hearted and unholy. She was draining his lifeforce. She was just the same as all those other vile hoars he has had to represent over the years. Useless vermin who thought just because they were human that gives them the right to reproduce. Well no it doesn't! Why the fuck should proper people have to pay for them. Women have always fucked things up! Look at Adam and Eve, The Beatles and Red Dwarf. No if he was ever to break free and find real happiness then the slut must die!

            Tabitha stood down stairs staring at the violin sitting in shadows like some monolith. Tabitha wanted to smash it she had felt herself filling up with rage. But now. Now she could not. Instead she stared intently at the instrument. She found herself unable and unwilling to damage it. It was alive. She could feel it's presence like any other human being. It even talked on some other level. She could feel it's beautiful persuasive thoughts gently filter and swim through her mind. Now she understood the attraction that Oliver had made to such, such a delicious thing as this. Tabitha took a step forward. She could hear the beautiful noise of the violin playing through her mind. How could Oliver appreciate your true beauty? Tabitha wondered.
            Then she realised with much chagrin just what a threat Oliver posed. he was not just acting strange he was...cheating. he was seeing another. Another so beautiful that Tabitha could no longer keep him. The violin had warned her and she would save herself and her child whatever the cost even if it meant Oliver must die.

            That night they all sat around the dinner table. Oliver and Tabitha sat opposite. Slowly they munched on their TV dinners. Occasionaly casting a suspicious eye on one another. Then James slowly stood and headed to the bathroom.

This is your chance! Whilst the little bastard is out of the way! KILL THEM KILL THEM!

The thoughts echoed painfully over and over inside Oliver's mind and as if she knew Tabitha tightened her grip on her table knife. Then James slowly crept back into the room behind his father and gripping a large heavy metal rod brought it down upon his father's head. Oliver fell to the floor. Suddenly Tabitha jumped up and grabbed a large kitchen knife and began to stab her husband hard in the neck and face. He shook violently under the shock but it didn't take long for his life to be over. Then Tabitha sat back. A huge smile across her face. She held out her arms for her son James. They embraced and then began to kiss passionately. Slowly James lived his mother's top up and began to suck on her breasts. Tabitha moaned in delight as she began to stroke his penis and then began to suck hard on it.

 

            They made love over and over in tune to the beautiful erotic caressing of the violin.