Footsteps in the Dark

Chapter 4

Helen awoke with a start. She was in total darkness. She quickly lit a match, and listened.

  A loud slam repeating itself over and over again echoed through the house. Helen caught her breath. It sounded like a door slamming.

  Without wasting any more time, Helen lit the nearby candle and went over to the bed. Good. Nell was fast asleep.

  Suddenly, the wind shrieked and the door slammed again loudly. Sighing, Helen strode over to the door and onto the landing.

  The noise was coming from downstairs. Helen found herself shivering, out of sheer fear. Pressing close to the banisters which creaked dangerously, she made her way down the wide staircase. When she reached the hall, gaining speed, she ran into the sitting room.

  The french windows were wide open, their thin, delicate, white curtains billowing in the wind. Helen's candle flickered dangerously.

  Putting it down on the side table, Helen then went and battled her way through to the french window, her face being sprayed with rain. After slamming the window shut, Helen was overwhelmed with the eerie silence.

  But I locked those windows…

  Looking down, to her horror, Helen saw soggy footsteps leading from outside imprinted on the carpet.

  Holding her breath, she slowly started to follow the footprints. She was lead out into the hall, where she stopped dead.

  There was someone in the kitchen!

  Suddenly, Helen wasn't frightened anymore. A weird sense of excitement ran through her veins as she shielded her candle with her hand, and flung open the kitchen door.

  The man span round, and Helen came face to face with Jonathan Bence, Nell's father. He was dripping wet; his usually immaculate hair was tousled, and his general appearance was disheveled.

  "Helen!" he exclaimed.

  "Mr Bence, I didn't expect you back until tomorrow evening!" she replied, equally startled.

  "I– I had some urgent business to see to. I decided to return tonight. Is Nell asleep?"

  "Yes."

  Helen thought it was a bit odd he didn't comment on the lack of lighting, but shook it away.

  "Shall I make you a cup of tea?" she asked.

  Mr Bence nodded vaguely, and Helen went over to the stove.

  "Did you get the train back?" she asked, only half interested.

  "Yes. I had to walk from the station. It's a filthy night."

  Helen frowned. There was something wrong with his statement, but she couldn't quite pin it down.

  Her candle flickered as Mr Bence walked over to her, holding an oil lamp.

  "Looks like you need more coal," he said, glancing down at the scuttle. "Can you go down into the cellar and fetch some more?"

  Helen groaned inwardly.

  "I suppose so," she said, failing to hide the annoyance in her tone.

  Taking her candle, Helen strode out of the kitchen to the cellar door, which swung open creakily. Helen shivered as she started down the narrow stone, freezing steps, cautiously looking around her, scouring the darkness.

  Her heart froze when the faint candlelight revealed out of the shadows, a pale hand lying on the dusty slate floor. Helen was almost running now, and flew down the steps and knelt beside the forlorn heap of yellow oilskins that had been Mrs Staton.

  The housekeeper's eyes were wide open, staring, fixed at the ceiling. Her lips were slightly parted, as if she were about to scream. She was dead.

  Helen opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out. Shaking her head hysterically, she hurtled back up the stairs and gasping for breath, stumbled into the kitchen.

  "The cellar! Mrs Staton! She's dead, DEAD!" she sobbed.

  Mr Bence turned, his face totally calm.

  "Well do something! Fetch the police! The telephone's dead!" Helen exclaimed, surprised by his coolness.

  "No, I'm not fetching the police," he said, smiling a little.

  "What? But the killer might still be around! You've got to get the police!"

  His smile became a smirk.

  "I know the killer is still here."

  Helen's eyes widened.

  "You mean…"

  "Yes. I killed Mrs Staton. Detestable woman. And all the others. Molly Ward from the lodge. Chrystabel Cupit, that silly little tart. Remember? And the other four. Or was it five? You would never have guessed it was me, would you?"

  Helen shook inwardly.

  "Oh, no? You made one mistake. The last London train was three this afternoon. That left you plenty of time to kill Mrs Staton. But you claimed that you arrived a few hours ago," Helen stopped, realizing she had overstepped the mark.

  Mr Bence stepped closer.

  "Tomorrow morning Nell will wake up and discover two dead bodies. If you hadn't already guessed: you and Mrs Staton. I will be long gone by then. Yes, by the time they find you, I will have vanished off the face of the earth!"

  He laughed and suddenly lunged towards Helen, who dodged and bolted out of the kitchen. She looked around desperately for somewhere to hide, but could see nowhere.

  A sudden idea stuck Helen. In this dark, her candle was like a lighthouse! Quickly, she threw across the hall, plunging herself into darkness. Almost instantly, the glow from Mr Bence's lamp flooded around her.

  She could barely take it all in. He was mad. He must be. But Nell's father? The serial killer?

  Her thoughts were shattered by a childish voice.

  "Come out, come out, wherever you are!" He turned to face her. "Are, there you are!"

  Helen waited for him to get a little bit closer before she struck.

  In a sudden burst of speed, she pushed past him and bolted up the stairs, as quick as a nimble rabbit.

  Just as she reached the top step, in her panic, Helen stumbled and fell down, only managing to catch herself with the banister. Although she was down for less than a few seconds, it was enough.

  Before she knew it, Mr Bence had grabbed her by the neck and hauled her up. Helen found herself gasping for breath as his grip round her throat tightened, and began to claw feverishly at him.

  "Let me go!" she rasped.

  He just laughed, evilly, but loosened his grip for a second as he put his oil lamp down on the top step, freeing his second hand.

  Helen, with all her last strength, pushed as hard as she could. Bence, taken by surprise, fell heavily against the old, wooden banister.

  Helen screamed and covered her ears as the decaying wood gave way, and Mr Bence cried out, and fell backwards.

  There was silence. Helen cautiously looked over the remaining banister.

  The man who had just tried to kill her was sprawled out in the hallway, spread-eagle. The look in his eyes told her he was dead.

  Helen's head was swimming, and for the first time in years, began to cry.   

            THE END