He's Watching Me by Wesley Thomas Page B

contorted in terror, that image itself was enough to make Laura squeal. A pale sheen masking the features among specks of blood. Scratches and bruises marked the flesh. This man hadn't died peacefully, that was for sure. It appeared as though he had lost a battle with a lawnmower. But Laura knew no gardening tool had done this, the massacre before her was the result of a lunatic clown. The metallic tang of his bloody lingered in the air, testing Laura's gut. Then came an idea. Police officers carry weapons, and radios to contact other officers. Laura could look for a radio or weapon that was no doubt hiding in the gloom somewhere. Or even her own phone, which had most likely clattered down the stairwell, accompanying Laura on her rocky descent. A noise suddenly came from upstairs, pushing all these brave ideas aside. Total despair was beginning to consume her. But before Laura could scream, a cold, fleshy palm trapped the noise. This hand wasn't Laura's. She didn't know whether to yell through the tightly sealed fingers, try and bite them, or stay quiet. As this person was clearly not the clown if the lack of gloves was any indicator. But also the forearm was not wearing a coloured sleeve. But this unnamed individual could still be dangerous. The hand stunk of dirt and nature, as if they had been rolling around in a forest. What was even more disorientating was that the arm looked slender, hairless and feminine. Tiny, delicate wrists and soft skin and a silver band on the wedding finger.
    “Shhh stay quiet, he'll find us, follow me,” the female-sounding voice advised Laura.
    Was this female someone to be trusted? But then logic broke through the cave of her skull and landed on her jelly-like brain. This was a girl, or woman, who would be much easier to defeat than a large crazed man armed with a spiked implement. If it came down to it. But there was a quality about this woman that was friendly and trustworthy, and dare Laura think it, familiar.
     
    However she was still discombobulated and weary so Laura remained vigilant; trust was a luxury she couldn't afford. This person stepped in front in a Gothic ensemble. A black jacket, jeans, and shoes. The drably dressed person tugged Laura towards an open door: the computer room.
     
    Officer Thompson had mentioned the heated object downstairs, in the computer room, maybe it was her? The phone! Where was her phone? It could be anywhere after the recent plummet. It could be on the stairs, thrown onto the second floor landing, or even tumbled down the stairwell to the ground floor. Or even further into the hellish basement. The woman continued to yank, taking Laura from racing thoughts. Soon enough they were safely locked in the room, technology and fear everywhere. The rescuer paced to the corner as a flash of light struck upwards and broke through the darkness. This ray shone and exposed the woman's face. Blonde hair, similar to Laura's. Blue eyes, strong jawline, but slightly older than Laura with the addition of a few lines around the eyes. It was an older version of Laura. It was her mother.
     
    “Mum?” Laura asked, astounded.
    Her mother, Sandra, stormed forwards with a finger pressed tightly against her lips, indicating silence.
    “Yes honey it's me,” the soothing, known voice enveloped Laura in comfort.
    “What are you doing here?” Laura was utterly stunned, eyelids hid behind wide eyes.
    “I came to save you,” she smiled, stroking Laura's cheek.
    “What? How did you know about this? Did the police call you?” Laura was puzzled.
    “No, I know who the man is,” she announced.
    “Who?” Laura was becoming tense, bursting at the seams to know who it was.
    “Bruce.” Laura was momentarily stumped. Confusion fogged her mind as those letters sparked recognition. That word meant something. Until clarity came, followed by understanding. Breath was stolen from Laura as realisation struck.
    “Yes, your father,” Sandra confessed, guilt tainting her