The cold, harsh September wind whips my bare face as I clamber clumsily out of the old taxi. Behind me I drag my leather suitcase, its wheels scraping off the wet, loose gravel of the neighbourhood street. Once I have heaved myself and my belongings out of the taxi, I shuffle round to the driver’s window. He winds it down slowly and winces at the icy gust that hits him at full blast in the face. “Breezy, innit?” he says to me, and I nod in agreement while fumbling with some money in my wallet.
“That’ll be 30 quid,” says the taxi man casually, not looking at me, but at the front window. I hand him 35 pounds. “Thank you,” he smiles, reaching for change in the glove compartment. “So where are you off to now, young man?” wheezes the taxi man, bent over his chubby stomach trying to stretch to the glove compartment without having a heart attack.
“Oh, I’m off to – I’m not sure if you’ve heard of it,” I reply. “I know the whole city of London like the back of my hand, my boy,” says the taxi man, and I can hear the change rustling in the glove compartment.
“Okay then, I’m staying at Walsh B&B, not far from here.” Just as I finish my sentence the taxi man sits up, change in hand. He hands me the coins and looks me in the eye, a sudden look of concern on his face. “I’ve heard bad things about that place,” he mutters, breaking eye contact. “Don’t worry, I’m a grown man, I have a phone, and besides, it’s cheap accommodation so I’m sold!” I laugh.
“Anyway, just be careful sonny. God knows what goes on in that place, but I’ve heard rumours . . .” mumbles the taxi man. “Hey, thanks for the ride. See you round,” I say, trying to get away hastily. “No problem, mate.” The taxi driver starts winding up the window again and, in no time, the engine of the taxi starts up and he drives off into the night, wheels spinning on the loose gravel.
I sigh, and shudder at the thought of what the driver said. He seemed so concerned for me, it was honestly . . . disturbing. I decided to shrug it off and I began my walk in near darkness to the B&B, rushing as fast as I could to get off the streets and into shelter.
It didn’t take long to arrive at Walsh B&B. It was a small-enough, run-of-the-mill city house and looked like it would only have enough room to accommodate at most three families. I stumbled up to the front door and reached for the golden knocker, only for the door to open before me. Standing behind it was an elderly couple, looking at me intently.
“Hello.” They spoke in unison, which was slightly unsettling. I gave them my booking details, my name, phone number, that sort of stuff. “Reservation for Mike Davis?” they ask, again, in that same eerie tone. “That’s me,” I half-sigh. “Well come on in and get unpacked young man!” This time only the man speaks and his tone is cheery and welcoming, which is incredibly relieving to hear. “Thank you,” I smile, nodding gratefully. I clamber through the small doorway along with my luggage, smiling awkwardly at the couple as I make my way in.
My room is situated upstairs. It surprises me the amount of space there is on the dimly-lit upstairs landing. I was sure the house didn’t look this big from the outside, but oh well, who am I to complain. My room is actually quite nice, very minimalistic and old-style, but I don’t need anything fancy. To be fair, the couple who own the bed and breakfast may have taken the name “Bed and Breakfast” a little too literally, as the room is mainly comprised of one bed, a tall lamp next to it and a rug on the floor. I don’t mind that much, but I’m paying good money for a room that should have some sort of luxuries in it.
Once I have unloaded my luggage and have everything laid out in my room the way I want, I head downstairs to have dinner with the owners, who wanted to cook for me. I’m not sure what I’m having, but I’ll eat anything that’s going. As I think of this, I hear my stomach rumble angrily.
At dinner I learn the names of the man and woman. John works as a doctor in surgery and Catherine is a retired vet. I struggle to believe that both of them have medical experience, and so much of it. They have prepared a beautiful roast pork dinner, served with roast potatoes and vegetables. After our conversations at dinner, I feel more comfortable with John and Catherine. They seem like genuinely good people and my prior thoughts of suspicion disappear.
After I have eaten my fill, I thank John and Catherine for the delicious meal and decide that it is time to go to bed, seeing as I have an important business conference in the morning. Catherine thanks me for my company. As I’m walking upstairs, I can hear the couple chatting quietly amongst themselves in quite serious voices. I hate eavesdropping, so I carry on with my business. John and Catherine seem like a nice couple, but I still haven’t made up my mind about them. The way they act just . . . confuses me.
I climb into bed and pull the surprisingly comfy duvet over me. I’m too tired to even read tonight, so I turn off my lamp and stare at the growing darkness above me, reaching down and blacking out my eyes until I can see nothing more. I soon feel myself drifting off into a deep, relaxed sleep.
A violent white flash of lightning wakes me up. I sit up, sweating and confused. I wait for the thunder after the lightning, and as I do so I reach to turn on my lamp. I pull myself back on to my bed, breathing heavily. I’m staring at the barely lit ceiling when the terrifying realisation dawns: my room doesn’t have a window. I spin round quickly to face the door and my soul nearly departs my body. Positioned in the frame of the door are two figures, both wearing Halloween masks. Only then do I realise John’s frighteningly large stature. In his hand is a camera and in Catherine’s . . . a knife. I can feel myself slipping into a state of hyperventilation. I pinch myself on the forearm, but to no avail. Catherine and John start backing out the door calmly, leaving me flustered and confused. “Wait – what – stop!” I splutter, but it’s no use. Before I know it, they’re out the door and I’m left alone in this dimly lit room.
I’m not dreaming. I just know it. And I also know that I am NOT sticking around after this. I could be hallucinating or just very tired? No. I know that this . . . this is something I’ve never encountered before and I’m not sticking around to see how it will play out. Catherine had a knife, but why?
I quietly slip out of bed, trying my very hardest to not make any noise on the old wooden floorboards. I dress myself as quickly as possible because I don’t know what is going on behind that door. They could be plotting something horrible . . . they had a camera, and it flashed.
Once I have donned my suit, even though I still look a bit crude having been woken up in the middle of the night, I tiptoe over to the door as silent as a mouse. I rest my hand on the cold handle before opening it, only to get possibly the worst fright of my life. There, standing behind the door, no longer with masks on, are John and Catherine. I don’t hesitate to scream, backing away, tripping over myself, but suddenly it hits me. If I back out now, I may never see the light of day again.
Knowing this fact encourages me to get the hell out of there. I stop backing away and stare John in the eye, bellowing in the most intimidating voice I can muster, “LET ME GO!” John just stares at me coldly, not showing any signs of aggression nor fear. Screw this, I think, and before I know it I’m sprinting out of the room, past John and Catherine. The cold air of the house stings my face as I dart down the stairs. When I reach the door, my plan goes sideways. It’s locked. I can sense John and Catherine closing in on me.
I barge against the door, crying and yelling in frustration. Suddenly, the lock gives way and I tumble out on to the wet, rough ground outside. I sob with relief.
I’m alive.
