By John Jones All Rights Reserved ©

Horror / Thriller

Chapter 7

He was drunk, but he didn’t care. Redundancy was hanging over his head like a grey cloud, and he found himself more and more at his local pub than at home with his wife. He was 43, and worked at a vehicle manufacturer whom he knew was having financial difficulties. He also knew that should it get any worse, he would be one of the first out of the door and into the dole queue. Today wasn’t much better. He’d been told what he already knew, that there was a possibility he might lose his job. It was basically affirming his beliefs, but he wasn’t alone. The trade union wouldn’t take this lying down. He guessed that at some point there would be a strike, and he would join the picket line, but until then, he drowned his sorrows with some of his other workmates who were in the same boat. David Morley was the type of person who couldn’t work out their levels of intoxication, and always ended up drunk, but thought they were ‘fine’, when his colleagues knew exactly that he wasn’t. He had spent more time looking at the bottom of a pint glass, now that the cloud above him didn’t show any signs of leaving. He had started to occupy the same place in the pub, and was certainly a regular face. He knew it wouldn’t be long before all the bar staff would simply say: ‘Usual Dave?’
He downed the last of his lager, and put it down on a cardboard coaster. He nodded, more to himself than his colleagues.
“OK, time for me to go,” he said. He mimed a talking puppet with his right hand against his ear.
“Yak yak yak, that’s all I’ll get now off the missus. Where’ve you been? How much ‘av yer spent?”. He sighed a sigh of despair and he looked longingly at the empty glass, wishing it would refill so he could put off going home, but he knew he had to get it over with, so stood up, put on his coat, and bid farewell to his friends whom he knew would stay for that extra pint.
A biting wind met him when he stepped out onto the pavement. There were not many street lamps, and he was bathed in the light from the pub windows behind him. Besides these lights, the village was gloomy and quiet, and David set off towards his house, feeling the effects of inebriation which desensitised him to the cold, but meant he had to take it slow. He’d done it before, but it didn’t get any easier. His jagged sauntering eventually led him along his garden path. He fumbled with his key for a few moments, and was soon stepping into the hallway. He closed the door and stood there, trying to focus, trying to keep his composure. He took off his coat and hung it up beneath the stairs. He walked into the living room and saw his wife standing in front of the unlit coal fire.
“I know what yer gonna say,” he said to her, “but I didn’t spend too much”. Sheila Morley turned and looked at him. She grabbed a bread knife which had been on the mantle-piece. She said nothing, instead walked across to him and stabbed him in the neck. David tried to yell but it came out as a gurgle. She sent the knife again and again into his neck, and then turned the blade around and started stabbing his chest. She made no sound as she repeatedly plunged the blade into him. He collapsed back, crashing the door shut. Still she would not stop. She kept stabbing until his chest and neck became a bloody pulp. After a few minutes, she stepped back, blood soaking the carpet, door and wall, and looked at him to see if there was any signs of life. There wasn’t. He was dead. Her face and front dripped crimson, but she didn’t seem to notice, or care. Dropping the blade, she grabbed his hair and pulled him around so she could drag him. It was too difficult. Instead, she pulled him by his mouth, her hand over the upper teeth. It was tough, but she was physically capable, and had prepared the pathway to the garden earlier. Just as the knife had been specially placed, so had the spade. She dragged him onto the grass, then began digging.

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