Halloween Camera

Richmond North Yorkshire:

Click click.

Click click.

“Where did that come from?”

A gnarled old hand reached out to the rock where a camera sat.

“Someone will be missing you. You look like an expensive little item.”

The camera case fell open. The old man looked into the lens, which reflected his face. Then he turned it around. The slideshow from the camera’s memory started to roll.

It showed a young man thrashing in the water. A leather strap coiled around his neck, writhing like a tentacle, pulling him down. His face was contorted in fear as he struggled to free himself. A beautiful young woman with big, sad eyes reached out to him from the riverbank. She tried to free him, but the strap moved like a snake across the water and wrapped itself around her arm, pulling her to her murky death. She disappeared leaving nothing but a ripple on the glassy surface. The couple was tied together for eternity.

The camera case snapped shut. The old man dropped it to the ground, his face contorted, as he began gasping for air. Clutching his chest, he doubled over in pain.

The heart attack killed him, and his death was captured in an evil memory for the next victim.

***

A camera hung over the back of a chair in a bar in Chatham, Kent. The barmaid saw it and looked around the bar to see if it had caught anyone else’s attention. No once was looking, so she reached over and grabbed it.

“This’ll bring a pretty penny,” she said to herself.

It was still in her car, next to her body at the railway crossing where she died. No one knew why the barriers didn’t go down.

Well, perhaps someone did. Click click, click…

***

To read the full story click on one of the the links below to purchase my book Ghosts on the Sand and other Chilling Tales. Great Halloween reading for $0.99

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07J3MLVNC (Amazon US)

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07J3MLVNC (Amazon UK)

Writing for Sanity!

I started writing when I was in my early teens. It helped me get through some very tough times. My early childhood was terrifying, but thats a story for another day.

I was born with at turn in my eye, I didn’t even realize I had it when I was a young child, but as I got older, it began to ruin my life. Back in the sixties there was a TV series called Daktari, which was about a vet in Africa. One of the animals in the series was a lion called Clarence It was crosseyed.
As an eleven year old girl I remember the boys in my village chanting “Daktari” every time I walked by. They never used my real name when they talked to me, but called me Clarence like the lion. It broke my heart. Luckily for me, during a routine visit to the doctor, he noticed the turn in my eye.
“Wouldn’t you like to get that fixed?” he asked.
“Yes please!”
I had the operation just before I started High School. Of course some of those kids still called me Clarence, but it didn’t really matter anymore because the offending eye had been straightened. My eye was red and scarred for a couple of months. The scars on the inside were there for a lot longer.
Life never lived up to my expectations back then and I rebelled against everything. I was obviously a troubled teenager, but back in the sixties in rural northern England, you just had to grin and bear it. Thats when I started to write. I wrote a different life for myself. I don’t have any of those stories now, but remember them well. They weren’t all about love and happiness, but they were about me, and I was strong.
Writing is my therapy. I’ve written a couple of books I’m fairly proud of, with three more in the works. I’m an old girl now so I hope I live long enough to finish them all.

Stay safe everyone, and always be kind!

Viktor – An insight!

Dead of July (Small)

Viktor never knew love. He was used by Marianna, his mother in ways you can’t even imagine, ways I can’t bring myself to write about. She was a monster! In the late seventies, when Vlad, Viktor’s  father was killed by a competing crime family, Marianna took revenge and then fled to Germany with her two sons, Viktor and Yuri. She became the Queen of a lucrative criminal world. A smart organized woman, she changed her business to suit the needs of the underworld. She traded guns, secrets and worst of all, women. No women is not the right word, she bought and sold young girls.

In her youth she was beautiful to look at, and took lovers as and when she pleased, male or female, it didn’t matter. If they pleased her she kept them for a while. If they didn’t satisfy her needs, they simply disappeared.

Marianna’s lifestyle caused her to age badly. Too much vodka, cocaine and sleepless nights turned her beautiful face into a grotesque mask. Willing lovers became few and far between, so she took her pick from the men who worked for her, and the young girls she traded. They were unwilling partners, and many were never seen again.

Yes Viktor was evil, but his mother was much worse, she was the Devil.

Shattered

Shattering window glass. Against a White background.

Shirley never finished her sentence.
The window just to the right of us exploded inwards. Splinters of glass flew towards us like tiny missiles. No time to move, we instinctively covered our heads with our hands and ducked. I felt tiny shards of glass hitting the back of my right hand, which was closest to the window. It only lasted a few seconds, but it seemed much longer. When I felt safe again I sat up Shirley’s head was on the table, she wasn’t moving.
The kitchen door burst open and Gay appeared. “Don’t move, I’ll call the medic’s.” Monica was right behind her, she looked at me “You okay?” she asked. “Yes, Shirley, are you alright?” Shirley lifted her head slowly, no blood on her face, her hands and hair had protected her head, but there was red mark on her forehead. She must have hit her head on the table.
She looked groggy. Her eyes wouldn’t focus!

Beware the Quiet Writer

I’ve been reading Stephen King as long as I can remember. From his very first story to his very last, and enjoyed ever single one. His last book, The Outsider, may have been my favorite. I say that and then I remember the Mr. Mercedes trilogy, and Dr. Sleep. Oh and then there are his novellas. His writing changed to suit the era, but I was drawn into every single book. When I read Stephen King I don’t open a book, I reconnect with old friends.

Why am I telling you this? Because I’ve been quiet for a while! My brain has been active though, and now, its ready to go. I’m writing for 1984, the era, the style, the times. My Dead of July sequel is progressing. You can’t rush, or force a good story. It needs to flow naturally. I want my readers to put it down, take a deep breath and think about me. I’m not Stephen King, I’m Sandra Thompson, but I want folks to remember what I’ve written, from Dead of July to….wherever it ends.

Stephen King, you had me at Carrie!

Dead of July (Small)

Alone?

Dead of July (Small)

I sat on the bed in our empty flat and cried. I was five months pregnant and my emotions now affected the precious bundle I carried. When I cried it moved around inside me, letting me know it didn’t like that state of affairs. I hugged my stomach.

“Sorry, I’ll be brave, I just don’t want your daddy to be away for a month. I don’t want to be alone.”

But I’m not alone am I baby Thompson? I have you!

Then I heard a voice as plain as can be, “And you have me.” The voice had a strong Russian accent, it was cold and menacing.

“Stop, you can’t hurt me, you’re dead! Go away and leave me and my baby alone.”

This is an extract from a book I’m currently working on. It’s the sequel to Dead of July, my first novel. Ghosts on the Sand is a collection of  short stories. I love to write, and I’d love you to read, and enjoy my stories.

Dead of July

Ghosts on the Sand

Nazi Zombies!

Overlord

So it started out like any other WWII movie. Showed promise with good actors! I’m not saying its a bad movie, but what could be worse than fighting Zombies?

FIGHTING NAZI ZOMBIES!

Yes my friends, if you want to watch a horror movie, Overlord is definitely heart stopping and intense.

Strangled!

Murder_27

Sofia and Jean rested on the bed with Bill between them. He drifted into a guilt free sleep and dreamed of women, money and sex. It was his life, all he thought about. Sofia caressed his upper thigh and watched him grow. Jean breathed into his ear. He smiled in his sleep. In his dream his was back in the hotel, straddled by his now dead mistress, enjoying her attention, her body, her money. His dream felt real.

“Room Service!”
The door opened and his dead wife stood there, naked, pale, beautiful. Jean had been a good-looking woman. He beckoned her. She joined Sophia on the bed. Bill watched them kiss and caress each over. Two naked beautiful naked women. Overcome by lust, he pulled them down beside him.
“Shhh, wait, don’t rush it.”
Sophia opened the drawer where the pendant lay, the gift he’d chosen to lure his next mistress. She slipped it over her head it sat between her perfect breasts as she mounted him again. Bill closed his eyes and drifted into ecstasy, the like of which he’d never experienced before…nor would again.

When Bill didn’t show up for work his colleges assumed he was grieving. Jean’s parents were lost in their own grief and days slipped by. Days turned into weeks.

Three weeks after the hotel fire a young police detective called Maria, knocked on the front door of Bill’s home. When there was no answer, she assumed he was at work. As she turned to leave a neighbor approached.
“I think he’s home, I saw him come back on the day of the funeral. I haven’t seen him leave.”
“The funeral was two weeks ago wasn’t it?”
Maria knocked again. The house was silent.
“He was driving a different car, fancy Italian, my husband said it was an Alfa Romeo.”
“Was he alone?” Maria asked
“I think so, but there was a lot of noise in his house that night,” she lowered her eyes, “It came from his bedroom.”
“What sort of noise.”
The neighbor’s face turned bright red, “You know, bedroom noise. Not the sort of noise you wouldn’t expect to hear after a funeral. I never liked him. I saw him once, in a restaurant, a woman draped all over him. It wasn’t Jean! I have a key if you want to go inside. Jean gave it to me so I could water the plants when they were away. Sweet heart she was. Can’t understand why she’d take her own life.”

Maria waited while the nosy, but helpful neighbor to fetch the key. Something wasn’t right. It wouldn’t hurt to take a peek inside.
The smell hit them as soon as Maria opened the front door. Lou, the neighbor took a couple of steps back. “Oh my!”
“Stay here,” Maria hissed. She walked quickly through the clean, tidy house and then returned to the front door to get a mouthful of fresh air. Slowly she walked up the stairs. The first door on the landing stood ajar. Maria didn’t make it past the doorway.

The bedroom was warm and steamy, as though someone had just stepped out of the shower. The stench of decay was overwhelming. The naked corpse lay tied to the bed, eyes bulging in terror. Expensive jewelry adorned the dead man’s purple bruised neck. He’d been strangled.

Something moved in the bathroom. Did Maria hear a voice? Did someone moan in pleasure? Was that the sound of gentle laughter?

She fled downstairs, and called for backup.

Two spirits hovered in the bedroom for a little while, and faded into the atmosphere. Their work was done.

You’ll be Sorry!

canstockphoto10709827-Tw

A small group of mourners left the graveyard. Jean’s parents, her sister and her husband. The look on her parents face was that of grief and raw disbelief. They clung to each other, tears streaming down their tired faces. Lori, her sister was sad and confused. Bill, her husband, wore a mask of guilt.
“I’m so sorry!” he said as they walked away.
No you’re not sorry now, but you will be!
Jean was raised a catholic, suicide was not tolerated, yet her lifeless body lay in a wooden box in the ground. Overdose! Shame to the family! She wasn’t at rest though, she crouched in the shadows watching. Bill looked sorry, but it was for show, for the funeral, for the family. His girlfriend waited for him in a hotel close by. Jean knew the place well, she’d followed him there a week ago.
Watched them through the window, saw them leave the restaurant and get into the elevator. Jean approached the front desk and asked for a spare key, said she couldn’t remember the room, but her husband was waiting for her. Gave her name.
“Ah yes, Mr. Richardson, room 102”
She mounted the stairs and stood listening outside the bedroom door. She heard their sighs, whispers, moans.
Opening the door she stood and watched.
Naked bodies so absorbed in love-making they didn’t notice her.
She fled, Bill was her whole life, she was pregnant with his child. Barely able to see though her tears, she drove home.

A bottle of Riesling and a thirty sleeping pills did the trick. Death came quickly and she was thankful, but it wasn’t over.

Hiding in the bushes by the graveyard Jean’s was no longer asleep. Her troubled spirit angry, and it wanted revenge!