The Secret of Fellmouth Bay Pt. 02

The papers were a mixture of legal, journalistic and personal and they all centred around Hob's Hill and the Blackfell House. It was clear that someone in the Thorn family, possibly her husband, had ransacked the official documents of anything related to the old house whose ruins still overlooked the town. She read about how the building had become the seat of the Millers, a family made rich from the rise of the railroads who had bought the old house sometime in the early eighteen hundreds. They had quickly ingratiated themselves into Fellmouth society and, for a time, the Thorn's appeared to have rivals in the town. Then, just before the turn of the century, any talk of the Millers ceased, and once again the Thorn's held sole sway.

Amanda could find no explanation of this change in the town's power dynamic and could find no explanation as to what, if anything, had happened to the Millers.

And then she had found the diary.

It was a beautiful book covered in what seemed to be red velvet. Inside, the pages were covered in tightly written script which paid little or no deference to the lines on the page, as if the writer had wanted to squeeze in as many words as she could. The writer was an unnamed woman who had just turned twenty. Other than this Amanda was unable to gauge.

It read like a horror novel, at least at first. The writer described being visited by someone from 'The High House', visitations that seemed to occur at night and that the unnamed writer kept secret from her increasingly concerned family. Amanda took the book to Alexander with an idea that it could be published. Her husband refused and, sitting her down with a large glass of wine, told her the book was not some example of a tawdry fantasy. He told her it was true, every word of it.

Not for the first time since the wedding Amanda began to secretly doubt the sanity of her husband but, ever since that conversation, she had returned to the diary, had read the unnamed writer's descriptions of her night encounters with her visitor; encounters which, over the course of the diary, squeeze out the drab existence of the daylight hours and become the writer's main focus. The visitor is never described, never named, but it is clear that the two are lovers. The portrayal of these nocturnal visitations bordered on the pornographic. The writer does not describe her visitor, only how she feels, and it is these passages that began to haunt Amanda. Erotic passages occurring to her even when she was in the most mundane of settings. Especially when she was in the most mundane of settings. During the last council meeting, Reverend Winters had expressed concern when she saw Amanda's face flush scarlet during a discussion on the reservoir drainage system. Amanda, of course, could not admit that she had been so bored by the discussion that her thoughts had wandered; her mind flashing with an almost painful clarity as she imagined the feel of sharp teeth scraping along the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh. Making her apologies she had withdrawn to the church hall's only bathroom. She could barely wait for the door to close before she reached between her legs where she was surprised to discovered just how wet she was.

Later, when she returned to the meeting to retake her seat, rather than feeling ashamed she had felt almost proud at her behaviour and that no one around the room would ever have guessed what she had just done and to what thoughts.

Since that day she had returned to the diary whenever she had a spare moment. At times putting off chores so that she could spend more time in the dark, intimate world of the diary. Eager to discover more she had again combed through the accompanying papers hoping to find some clue to the writer's existence. Her husband did not object and, in fact, seemed to approve of research to aid his own quest to protect the family honour. The day after the earth tremor he had quizzed her on what she had found but had become irritated by her ignorance. He too seems unaware as to why she was so interested.

On the day of her husband's group expedition to Hob's Hill she again read the diary. She was repeatedly drawn back to a passage where the writer recalls being kissed by her visitor on the throat. There is a 'delicious, bitter agony' and she describes the sensation of sinking into dark water "and there was a singing in my ears, as I have heard there is to drowning men." In recent days it had been hard for Amanda to hear the distant whisper of the sea without thinking of these words.

After her husband had left, leading his intrepid monster hunters on a pointless quest in search of pneumonia, she stayed in her room idly leafing through the diary. When the front doorbell sounded she waited to hear if someone else would answer it. Reluctantly she rose from her bed to investigate. She heard the unmistakable sound of the heavy front door opening with an elongated screech. Giles had gotten to the door first and she could hear him talking to the visitor in faint, muffled tones, words she could not make out.

Then there was silence. Amanda hesitated before leaving the room, her ears straining to make out any more sounds from downstairs. The hair on the back of her neck prickled as though stirring awake. Her hand was still resting on the door handle and she had the strange urge to turn the latch rather than open the door. Silently cursing her timidity she finally turned the handle and walked out onto the landing. Below her the staircase curved gently downwards towards the entrance hall.

She took in the sight below her in piecemeal fashion, as though the full image was beyond her ability to absorb. Near the open doorway of the entrance she could see a dark shape hunched over a figure sprawled on the floor. The legs of the fallen man convulsed and kicked and, with a sickening sense of dread, she registered that the kicking feet were clothed in expensive Italian shoes. She recognised them as Giles'. The shape hunched over the struggling form, obscuring Giles' face, wore a policeman's uniform; a fact so outlandish it failed to register completely.

Amanda then saw the three figures standing in the hallway looking up at her and she reached out a trembling hand to the banister to steady herself. The Williams girl was there, staring up with a look of poisonous hatred. She looked different from the last time Amanda had seen her. Whereas before she had been cowed by her insecurities now she was coldly beautiful in her new found confidence. Amanda felt fear for the first time, knowing the woman below her wished her harm and now had the means to bring it about.

She didn't know the second woman although she shared the same eerie beauty. But once her gaze fell upon the man standing with them she found that she could not look away. Instead, ignoring every instinct for self preservation clamouring for attention inside her mind, she took a step forwards towards the top of the stairs. He was a young man, older than the William's girl but younger than the second woman and it was clear that he was the same as them. She felt the power of his gaze even at this distance and she felt his hunger. There was no anger, as with the William's girl, if anything she detected signs of amusement in the slight curve of his cruel mouth, even of victory. As If the battle had been fought and lost without her knowledge and he was merely here to collect his reward. She knew he wanted her to come down to him but she was able to resist the draw. Her grip tightening on the wooden banister as if drawing strength from it.

So he came to her.

He was in no hurry, taking his time climbing the stairs which creaked ominously under his tread. She could not look away but she found that now, as he came nearer, she had no desire to. His handsome, pale face was implacable in it's authority but it was his eyes that gave away his need. He could not completely conceal his hunger and the bright eagerness that shone in those eyes sparked a similar desire in her as he drew nearer.

He took each step carefully, as if enjoying the anticipation, dragging it out, denying himself and her until the final moment. She was smiling now as he reached the top of the stairs, eager. As he mounted the final step she realised he was taller than she was, he loomed over her,making her feel small. She began to slowly back away from him, not from fear, that was long gone, replaced now by a hunger of her own. As she retreated, he followed, never breaking her gaze.

She moved out from the landing, back into her bedroom. Her heart was pounding hard in her chest and she took short, shallow breaths. She knew what he was, what he wanted. But this was no longer happening to some unnamed narrator a century ago, this was happening now, to her. She felt the soft mattress bump against the back of her legs and she sat down on the bed. He entered the room, the glow from the landing causing his shadow to stretch out across the ceiling, devouring the light.

Unaided the door swung slowly closed behind him, leaving them alone. He moved towards her carefully. Reaching up she undid the top button of her blouse, then the next, parting the silk material, revealing herself. For the first time he moved quickly, lunging forward with snakelike speed. She gasped as his pale face suddenly filled her vision. He was so close that she could feel his chill breath on her face and feel the animal yearning of his hunger between her legs. She could not remember the last time someone had looked at her with so much naked desire, so much need. She gazed at him, her eyes huge and pleading, her lips parted.

He reached out one hand and touched his fingers to her throat. They felt hard and cold against the soft warmth of her skin. She jumped at his touch, but then held herself still as his hand described a caress over the ridge of her collarbone, the soft curve of her jaw. He brushed her long auburn hair away from her eyes, revealing her face. His thumb traced the outline of her lips. Despite the fact that he was clearly studying her intently his touch felt like that of a blind man, sensing every line, every blemish. She imagined how it would feel to have those hands caress the entirety of her naked body.

She felt her hair pulled back over her ear exposing her neck. He bent as though to kiss her and she parted her lips further in readiness, but he moved past her willing mouth, settling instead on her neck. His lips were cold against her throat and a tremor passed through her. She felt herself being pushed backwards onto the soft bed, her head turned to one side. On the bedside table she could make out a strange black necklace hanging down. There was something important about that, she had made a promise, but before her mind could seize on it she felt his lips draw back and the sharp press of teeth into her skin. A moment of pain, intense and blinding and then a wave of sweetness flooded her body, taking her breath away. As the dark, delicious water closed over her head, she heard singing far below her, seemingly growing louder, and louder still, as she sank into darkness.

Five: Hot and Cold.

He had the heat gauge on the shower twisted hard to hot, his muscled body turned red with the onslaught. Thrusting his head under the torrent he luxuriated in the intense blast of heat. For a few seconds the frustrations of the day, the sheer insanity of his life, and any concerns about his father were blasted from his mind by the force of the water. When he could take it no more he grasped at the heat control, bringing the temperature down to a more reasonable level. No sooner had he done so but the thoughts crept back into his brain.

His father was eccentric, this was hardly news. Anyone who spent any time with him knew that Alexander Thorn saw the world differently; in fact, many people had put that down as the main reason for his success. His dad had always been a man out of his time; he would have been better off waltzing around Victorian London attending seances and planning the building of dams across far-flung colonial rivers. He had no time for any viewpoint that was not his own, no patience for anything that conflicted with his own narrow set of ideals. What he had done to his daughter, for example, deliberately set out to destroy the one good thing in her life simply because it didn't fit with his own eighteenth century values. Fucking hypocrite! What was he on now, his fifth wife? And Christ knows how many affairs. Mark felt the anger rise up so he again twisted the temperature dial hard over to the right.

This time though, the hot water failed to drive out his thoughts, the sheer lunacy of the last few days continued to churn around his head. The earth tremor, followed by Lucy's disappearance had been used by his increasingly paranoid father as proof that every occult theory he had every entertained was proven truth. And what was worse, this particular crackpot delusion connected two of his father's favourite topics: supernatural mumbo jumbo and the honour of the family. How exactly the reputation of the Thorn family (which, as far as Mark could tell was pretty minimal to begin with, at least as far as the locals were concerned.) was threatened, his father would not say. And, of course, he was surrounded by enough sycophants due to his money and position that no-one challenged him. In fact, many of them were even now playing Ghostbusters, hiking up Hob's Hill in the dead of night simply to keep the old man happy. Pathetic!

Of course he had spoken out, but he had learned long ago that his father had very little time for the opinions of either of his children. A fact not lost on Jennifer who, as as far as he knew, had not spoken one word to her father for over a week. Maybe she had finally broken free of him. God, he hoped so.

The water was having no effect so he turned of the shower and, stepping out, wrapping a towel around his waist. It had been a hell of a week, but hopefully after tonight maybe normality, or at least something as close to it as the Thorn family ever managed, would resume.

With that hope he stepped out from the en-suite bathroom into his bedroom where he found the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for him.

He recognised her immediately: her long blonde hair,falling in tousled curls over her bare shoulders, the black intricate tangle of branches that covered her chest and down along her arms; a tattoo design he had been unable to take his eyes from when he had seen her in town. He had found her impossibly exotic and attractive before; she was so much more now. Her pale skin threw the black lines of her tattoo into sharp relief, so that the branches looked as though they had been painted in oil. Her face was now radiant, otherworldly with full lips the colour of deep red wine. She had absolutely no business being in his bedroom!

As he stared at her, utterly dumbfounded, she leant back on her arms, and crossed her long legs. The slit in her dress went up to her thigh, revealed skin the colour of cream. She licked her lips, a gesture that was as predatory as it was exciting. He felt himself stiffen beneath the towel. The second thought after 'she's beautiful' was 'she's old'; not in a ' she could be my mother' kind of way, but rather that she would clearly know more stuff; see through his bullshit easier. What she was actually doing in his bedroom hadn't occurred to him, but he knew he wanted to impress her.

"Well then," she said, her voice low and tinged with amusement, "shall we begin?"

She had been sat there waiting for him to finish the shower for nearly fifteen minutes, growing increasingly nervous and unsure. There was no denying she was still hungry and if she had any sense she would have stormed into the bathroom long before now and ended it. It wasn't as if it would be the first time. She had joined Lucy willingly enough in feasting on the policeman; an ugly, bloody encounter she had refused to dwell on since. But they had both been ravenous; drained of blood throughout the night, they had leapt at the opportunity to replenish.

This was different; this was planned. She knew the boy she had been told to claim, had even spoken to him on occasion. Pained, awkward, brief exchanges, largely due to the fact he couldn't take his eyes away from her chest in order to make eye contact. This would have pissed her off usually, but his awkwardness did seem at odds with his powerful physical presence so that she had found it quite endearing. She had been nineteen herself once; she remembered how confusing it was. In fact, at nineteen, he was probably the sort of boy she may have noticed, although she would never have done anything about it. Her sphere of friends were at separate polar ends to those on the sports field.

When she heard the hiss of the shower abruptly cease a tight knot of tension formed in her stomach. She considered simply leaving, just walking out into the night to make her own way in this new world. The reason she didn't was Sebastian. She had made a promise, admittedly a promise made while she was still reeling from recent events, but a promise none the less. He did not strike her as a man who simply let people wrong him and walk out the door. Their presence at this very house was proof of that. Also, there was just so much she did not know. This dark world had opened its arms to receive her but she was ignorant of the dangers. The truth is she needed him, at least for a little while.

There was, of course, another reason, although it was one she could not bring herself to accept, even to herself. She was here because it was exciting. Her old life had been one of compromise, all preparation and no action. Now she was living. And it was this excitement that uncurled in her stomach, rising up to erase all doubts, as Mark stepped from the bathroom and saw her for the first time.

He was only wearing a towel, wrapped around his waist, and she saw how the water on his naked skin shone like broken glass. He was powerfully build: strong shoulders supporting a thick, muscular neck. His arms and legs looked huge and she could see the clearly defined lines of a six pack, rising in tiers up to his muscled chest. It was only his face that seemed out of place, almost feminine despite the five day old stubble that was as dark as his eyes. He reminded her of someone who would not have looked out of place on an episode of Twin Peaks; a sensitive soul uncomfortable with the everyday violence he had to deal out for the team. She was sure this was bollocks, that he was probably just as eager to break noses as the next guy in the scrum, but you wouldn't necessarily know it to look at him. Also, the thought occurred to her that he was probably too young to remember Twin Peaks making her feel, suddenly, very old.

But then she saw clear evidence of his interest rise up underneath the towel. Wow, she thought, and I can do this just by looking at him? That feeling of power excited her, and she leaned back slightly on the bed, appraising him. All thoughts of her hunger gone, as had any thoughts of leaving, at least for a time. A more enjoyable, and far more familiar feeling had replaced them.

She asked him the question, beckoning him to come closer. She held his gaze, willing him to join her and she felt a sharp thrill of excitement when he took steps towards her.

He stopped just in front of her, and she was very conscious of the prominent bulge pressing out through the thick towel. Leaning forward she placed her hands on his waist, just above the soft material. Then, while smiling up at him, she gently kissed him, transcribing a circle around his navel, feeling his soft body hair brush against her lips, his damp skin radiating heat. His flesh was soft from the shower but she could feel the hard plain of muscle beneath. A tremor passed through his body. A shiver only partly caused by the feel of her soft, cool lips on his skin. She pressed the palm of her hand against his groin, feeling his hard bulge beneath the towel. She squeezed playfully and was satisfied by the soft moan of pleasure she drew from him.