It was the severed heads that haunted Samantha and compelled her journey back to Roger’s workshop in the depths below the mansion. Once more trapped in chronic insomnia, the life-like plaster faces frozen in gasps of horror called out to her in the night.
Though she was used to being up alone at night, moving stealthily in the dark, it would take great effort here since the mansion was unfamiliar terrain. Roger Aldrich was a prolific best selling novelist, and this sprawling fortress atop the hill was one of Hollywood’s landmarks, its layout a maze.
Tonight she had actually managed to sleep just over two hours. Since the assault three years ago, Samantha was unable to sleep through the night. The perp had been caught and convicted, and she had made all the necessary life changes to ensure it would never happen again, yet the event still haunted her.
Roger was snoring away after their passion drove them late into the night. When you’ve been dating someone for a while, you gain a sixth sense as to whether they are next to you in bed or not, but this was their first night together, so she assumed he would stay asleep while she fumbled around in the dark. There was still no sign of him when she reached her destination. To her surprise, the door leading to the long flight of stairs was unlocked.
The workshop must have been burrowed deep into the rock below the mansion, Samantha thought, realizing there were more than a hundred steps spiraling down to the huge wood and iron door which was unlocked as well. She turned on the lights and entered the workshop.
The heavy door closed with a thud and she wondered if that would wake Roger, but there was no turning back now anyway. She knew this was a violation of Roger’s trust and assumed he didn’t show this place to just anyone. The first time they met she was here to interview him for a literary horror magazine. In the course of the interview, Roger learned she was also an aspiring novelist. That, and their instant mutual attraction, prompted him to bring her down here to witness his sanctum sanctorum.
Strewn about the room and stuffed onto the shelves were hundreds, if not a thousand or more books, ranging from the cheapest, dog-eared paperback novels to antiquarian delights from all ages and on a vast variety of subjects. But it was not the books or other relics in this throwback to some Nineteenth Century gothic novel that brought her here. Within seconds her eyes were fixed on the sculptures atop the tallest bookcase. Nine severed heads arranged neatly in a row, crying out to her in horror.
She approached the bookcase, remembering Roger’s proud revelation of the grotesque sculptures. “My cast of characters,” he called them. “The centerpiece of each of my novels is the gruesome untimely death of one of the main characters. I dabble a bit in sculpture in an adjoining workshop. This has always helped me focus. Having the bust of the current victim before me as I write.”
“Okaaayy,” she recalled thinking to herself at the time. “A little crazy.” But then again, it was just the sort of spice to make her article unique.
On the desk before her now, facing toward the chair, was his latest work. Samantha picked it up. Running her hands across the surface, she noted how superb it was in every detail. She looked into the face of a middle-aged man, contorted in agony. She was in that region of half-sleep and that was probably the reason why, but she could almost hear the man’s screams.
“What the hell are you doing down here?” This voice booming from the doorway was definitely not imagined. Roger stood before her, wide-eyed. His six foot frame looked even larger as he filled the entryway to the room she had violated.
Startled, she dropped the sculpture. The details came to her slowly, like a dream, as she watched Roger’s artwork hit the floor. She expected a loud crash, but it made more of a thud when it struck the concrete below. Plaster did fall away and scatter about the room, but much less than imagined there would be. Then she stood there, wanting to scream but remaining mute in horror, as she discerned the truth. The object that fell from her hands was a severed human head thinly veiled in plaster!
Roger rushed over to her, his face wild with rage. “Now you know why I treasure them so, and why I understand them all so well!” he yelled. Standing before her, he pulled from his robe pocket a large butcher’s knife. “You’ve decided your fate for me. Now I have no choice.” He smiled at her and waved the knife in the air. “You will be a bestseller after all.”
He grabbed her and wrapped one strong arm across her chest, bringing the knife down towards her throat. The memory of her assault flooded her mind, but an instant later she also remembered the tactics from her self defense classes. Resolved never again to be a victim, she calmly fought back.
The next few minutes were a surreal mixture of adrenaline and madness. The ten heads seemed to cry out in pleasure as she made the right defensive moves to free herself. And then she lost all control, no longer satisfied with selfpreservation. Voices cried out for vengeance. Whether they her own, or those of his victims, she knew not, and she was surprised how quickly she learned to use the knife so efficiently.
Samantha sat at her desk, typing away at almost preternatural speed. She had tried in vain so many times before, but this time she would finally finish her first novel and she knew it would be a success. All she had lacked before was the proper inspiration.
She stopped writing for a moment and smiled, then leaned over to kiss the top of Roger’s head.