Creeper, p.1
Creeper, page 1
Creeper
Stuart James
Copyright © 2021 Stuart James All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ASIN : B09NGNJTW5
Cover by The Cover Collection.
Edited by Emily Yau.
For my beautiful family, Tara, Oli and Ava, who will forever be the light that shines the way.
Also, my parents, Jimmy and Kathleen.
I love you both so very much.
Books By Stuart James.
The House On Rectory Lane.
Turn The Other Way.
Apartment Six.
Stranded.
Selfie.
Creeper.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Sometimes I leave a gap, a little time between striking. Too many bodies and it becomes conspicuous. And also, it gets a tad monotonous. I relish the feel of the hunt; my prey are like mice, scavenging across the kitchen floor and making their escape, finding a small hole in the wall, or under the floorboards, or down the back of the sofa. The thing is, they always surface again and make their way out, appearing when you least expect it. So I, the hunter, will wait, biding my time. Patient, diligent. That's what I've learned over the years: too many strikes and boom, you're out.
I wait at the front of the farmhouse and watch. I'm like a cat, purring, my tail gracefully sweeping, cutting through the air, blissfully awaiting the approach.
I wait and watch.
How I love to watch.
1
Present Day.
‘I think it’s on. The red light was flashing before; now it’s still. That means it’s recording, right? OK, I’m sure it’s recording – oh God, where to start. You know, it’s weird, looking into the lens of a camcorder, talking to myself, alone in the house. At least I think I am. I have a few minutes – that’s it, no more. That’s all I have. So, bear with me. Watch this recording and make up your own mind, but promise me you’ll do something.
‘I look dirty. Bloody hell, I’ve aged ten years overnight. My long brown hair is dishevelled and has grey wisps starting to show – large swathes of them are pushing their way through. I can see laughter lines cut deep into the skin of my face, only there’s nothing to smile about. Not now, not anymore.
‘You may wonder why I’m whispering, why I’m keeping my voice low, faint. The truth is, I’m fucking terrified. I’m guessing if you’re watching this, you’ve found the recording. Perhaps you’ve just moved in and you’re settling down, making a new life for yourself, a better life that’s peaceful, quiet. You have a family, a partner, children. Well, get out. Get the fuck out before it’s too late.
‘Listen to me. Please.
‘You’ll hear the stories, the rumours, that’s for sure. If you’ve found this, whoever you are, I beg you, don’t just watch this. Promise me you’ll do something. Take this recording to the police, put it on YouTube, Facebook, Instagram… All of your social media platforms. Make people aware. Tell them our story. You will, won’t you?
‘It can’t all have been for nothing. I won’t let that happen.
‘Fucking Creeper. God, what were we thinking? Why didn’t we listen? We were so keen to make the documentary. Now look where it’s ended up.
‘I don’t have long, but you need to understand my story, how I came to be here, hiding in the upstairs bedroom, sitting in front of a camcorder, waiting.
‘Wait…
‘Hello? Who’s there? Hello?
‘Sorry, I know my voice is low. It may be hard to hear me. I get it. But I thought I heard the front door open.
‘Hello?
‘Shit. I think someone’s in the house. I knew this would happen. I knew it.
‘But what was I saying? All I ask is that you tell people about us. About Creeper.
‘This is weird, right? You’re watching this, maybe months after I made the recording, perhaps even years. I might look strange. My clothes may look peculiar, out of fashion, like an odd picture from a century ago. You may snigger, mock my appearance, laugh. Go on then. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care.
‘I need to stand. I have cramp; my legs have gone to sleep. My body is aching and sore.
‘Wait, stay with me. There’s the bedroom door. I’m going to be quiet so I can listen. If you can’t hear me, it doesn’t mean I’ve gone or the battery has run out. I’m going to keep quiet because I want to draw it out, being found. I want to last as long as possible. That’s all.
‘Is the camera steady? Can you still see me? I can see my reflection, my worried expression, in the glass of the lens, but only just. I have visions of the video coming out blurry, the lens filthy, so you won’t be able to make anything out.
‘Wow, that would be a waste of time. Can you imagine? How stupid would that make me look? I guess I’ll never know. I’ll never find out.
‘If that was the case, I could be saying anything, couldn’t I? I’ll exaggerate my lip movements. I’ll speak louder. You need to hear what I’m saying.
‘Here goes.
‘CALL. THE. POLICE. PUT. THIS. ON. YOUTUBE.
‘There. I’ve made it clear. If the sound’s gone, you’ll still have no excuse.
‘You may think I’m delusional, drugged, pissed up. Well, I’m none of those. I wish I was.
‘What I’d do for a drink though – an ice-cold beer. Just the one, mind, to take the pain away, place it far enough away for a short while.
‘If you can’t see where I am, I’m stood by the bedroom door, listening. I’m sure I heard the front door open a few minutes ago.
‘Yes, there’s someone at the top of the stairs, getting closer. I’m backing away to the middle of the bedroom. I’m going to place the camcorder in a bolt hole; there’s a cupboard behind me with a section cut out. Can you see it? I’ll place it in there. One of you will find it, I’m certain.
‘The handle of the bedroom door is moving downwards slowly. This is it. I think my time is up. Please do something. When you find this, do som—’
2
Six Months Earlier.
Monday.
'Action.'
'Hello. I'm Jenny Freeman. We're here at Greyshott Hall Psychiatric Hospital in Oxford, an abandoned asylum for the mentally insane. This is Sean, my husband and partner in crime.'
'Hello.'
'Sean, point the camera on yourself when you talk. What are you like?'
'Sorry. Blame the nerves. OK, go again.'
'Hello. I'm Jenny—'
'Shit.'
'What's up now?'
'The red light didn't come on. Hang on a second. Bloody camera.'
'Don't shake it, you lemon.'
'Right. It's on. Maybe start with a little background info, Jenny. A little about the place, you know. Set the mood before we go inside.'
'You mean light some candles? Look scared? Sound breathless?'
'Love it. You got it. Right, go again.'
'I was being sarcastic. OK, where was I? We're here at an abandoned asylum for the mentally insane, where the story goes: thirty years ago, Mark Wheelan was held in a room after having electric shock treatment that caused permanent brain damage. His family filed a lawsuit against the authorities, claiming that after he was sectioned for depression, the treatment he underwent caused him to lose his mind, so to speak.'
'Brilliant, Jenny. I've paused it for a second. I'm going to move to the side for a better angle. OK, ready. Keep going.'
'On January twenty-fifth, Sheila Eastwood, a young nurse who worked the nightshift, found Mark slumped on his bed. Thinking he was unconscious, she panicked. When she attempted to resuscitate him, he sprung up from the bed and bit her face, punching her repeatedly until she was practically unrecognisable. He removed the keys from the pocket of her uniform, and proceeded to go on a murderous rampage. Seven inmates were found that night, in a horrific state, disfigured and mutilated. Nurse Eastwood's dead body was found lying in Mark's cell. Mark Wheelan was never found. It is said he returns to the grounds late at night.'
< br /> 'Fantastic, Jenny. That was bloody awesome. You nailed it.'
'You think?'
'Totally. Oh shit, it wasn't recording.'
'You're joking.'
'Got ya. You should see your face.'
'You're such a shit.'
'OK. Let's go inside. I'm recording now, so don't swear. Move forward and push the door. That will be a great shot.'
'I'm trying. It's jammed. Come on, move. Yes. OK, we're inside. Where's the torch?'
'Here. Stay beside me. This is a little nerve-wracking. We should have come earlier. I can't see a bloody thing. I'm shitting it.'
'Are you?'
'Yeah. Aren't you?'
'Sean, you’re such a wuss. Just keep the camera rolling. This is going to be great. Give me the torch.'
'OK. Slowly move forward, and I'll follow behind. Try and shine the torch directly in front so the camera can pick up everything you're seeing.'
'Click the light on the top of the lens. That will give us a bit more sight. Yeah, this is great. OK. As you can all see, this place has been abandoned for some time. The walls are crumbling, the paint is flaked and patchy, there are holes in the ceilings and there’s a musty, putrid smell, which you obviously won't get, but believe me, it's vile. It smells of rotten cabbage; that's the best way to describe it. I'd hate to think what it could be. It's hard to comprehend what happened here all those years ago, the mess that Mark left behind. The trail of destruction. Above us, you should be able to hear birds nesting in the beams, which have taken roost over the years. The place is covered in bird and rat droppings. As most of you will know, although we frequently explore dark and creepy places, I still have a major phobia of rats. Over here, we have the cells. Now, as you can see, the furniture and beds have been removed; they’re pretty much empty shells. All that remains are the old plumbing pipes for what I'd say were a simple toilet and wash unit. I imagine it was very basic back then. My guess is these inmates were kept locked up, holed in practically twenty-four seven. Whoa. Shit.'
'Jenny, are you OK?'
'No, I'm not. Turn the camera off.'
'What happened?'
'The floor. It's rotten. I've hurt my ankle. Jesus Christ.'
'Here, let me help. Can you walk?'
'I think so. Bloody hell. The things we do.'
'Hold on. I'll lift you up. Easy. Go easy.'
'I'm fine.'
'Can you put weight on it?'
'Yeah. It'll be OK. Roll again.'
'You sure?'
'Yeah, I'll shake it off. I'm good. There’s just one more thing I need to add before we get in closer. OK? Roll… We believe the last cell on the left was Mark Wheelan's.'
'OK, I've paused it. Now, let's make our way over to the cell. Slow and atmospheric.'
'Got it… It's here where Mark Wheelan was held all those years ago. The nurse was probably standing right about where Sean is now, watching him, unaware of his plan, how he purposely was lying still, playing dead. She would have removed her key, opened the cell door and moved towards his limp body. He probably waited for the right time, listening to the sound of her light footsteps on the wooden floor as she edged closer, until she was standing over him. Then bang. It makes me shiver just thinking about it, the horror that she and the other inmates suffered. There’s an overwhelming feeling of sadness and despair in this place. I can't explain the feeling. The sense of doom, if you like. The cell is smaller than I'd imagined, that's for sure. Six feet in length, I'd guess, and the same width. How anyone could hold on to their sanity here is beyond me. See the window at the back of the cell, no bigger than eight inches in length and width? It's roughly head height, with solid-looking iron bars – I guess to stop you from reaching the glass, which is now cracked and stained. A small hole to the outside world. I wonder what went through Mark's head as he stood here, day after day, looking out at the world, knowing he'd only ever see the outside from this cage-like container that confined him. As I look out, I imagine what Mark saw all those years ago. There's a forest, lined with trees, rows of them stretching high into the air. It's dark right now, and aided by the glint of the moon, shadows appear to cast a menacing, imminent spell over this old building. There's a light wind coming from the woodland, and branches flicker in the distance, seemingly waving, stretching, beckoning for us to join them.'
'That was spectacular, Jenny. It captured the atmosphere brilliantly.'
'Thanks, I guess?'
'I think we have all we need. Shall we call it a wrap?'
'Sounds good to me. It should look great, Sean. Shit. Look down there. Blood marks. There's blood marks, Sean.'
'Let me see. Keep the torch still. Let's have a look. Oh yeah, that's disgusting. Maybe they closed this place down immediately after the slaying.'
‘It makes it so much creepier, thinking what happened here,’ Jenny stated.
‘Eugh, I've had enough of this place. Let’s go. Are you ready?'
'Yeah, next time we'll stay overnight. We'd get great footage. Can you imagine doing a live through the night? Make it a big event.'
Sean was apprehensive about her comment. Jenny watched as he placed the small camcorder into a satchel and struggled with the zip.
'Yeah, I'll come back to you on that one.'
'So that's a no then?'
'Let me think about it. But don't hold your breath.'
They moved slowly from the cell.
Jenny peered towards the cracked windows, feeling the cold work its way into the old building. 'Do you believe it happened as they say it did? That he escaped? That he's still alive?'
Sean lifted the satchel and carefully placed the strap over his shoulder. 'You mean Mark? That he could still be out there? I don't know, Jenny. I'd hate to think he's still alive. It doesn't bear thinking about. What would he be now? Mid-forties?'
Jenny calculated the years in her mind and came to the same answer. 'Yeah, something around that. They don't get any more innocuous as they age. There are plenty of stories of documented serial killers still active later in life. Look at Michael Myers.'
Sean turned, realising her sarcasm. 'Yeah. Look at Michael Myers, indeed.'
He moved towards the front door, peering at the large holes in the walls, the rotten beams hanging from above. He held the torch, pointing the light across the floor as he tried to dodge the cracked boards. He turned, shining the torch in the direction of his wife. He eyed her long blonde hair, her blue eyes. Her pale skin was flushed and she looked agitated.
'How's your leg?'
'I'm fine. I'll manage. I'll have a bruise in the morn—'
Suddenly, they both stopped.
'What was that?'
Sean held the torch, pointing it in front of them. 'I'm not sure. It came from outside. Was it someone banging on the door?'
‘Hello? Is someone there?' Jenny placed her finger over her lip to sign for him to keep quiet. 'Sean, someone's out there.'
'How could there be? I didn't hear a car come into the grounds, and we're in the middle of nowhere. There are no other houses for miles.'
They stood for a moment, peering towards the large wooden door in front of them, Sean waving the torch erratically.
'What now?' Jenny watched as the light shone in front of her.
Sean paused for a moment. 'I say we get to the car, get out of here. We’re technically trespassing; maybe someone got wind of us being here, saw the car as we drove in. We left the lights on, remember.'
