The Black Widow
by Ron A. Sewell
Genre: Horror/Supernatural
Swearwords: None.
Description: Be careful who takes your fancy.
_____________________________________________________________________
Chris stopped his white Ford Transit outside 12, Pendle Street. Six men jumped out, each cast their eyes towards a derelict Victorian red brick, detached house, its roof absent and gaping holes where windows once existed.
“Is this it, Chris?” asked Charlie.
“Yup, we have one week to clear the site before the main contractor arrives.” Chris glanced up and down the road. “In hell’s name, where are the trucks and JCB? Nine o’clock on the dot, I said. Right, let’s take a gander and see if we can make a few pounds from any scrap. Bill, you check the mains are off and disconnected.”
Five men followed Chris into the main hall. “This was a quality parquet floor once,” said Harry.
“There’s a fireplace in this room,” shouted Brian.
“Well, get it into the back of the wagon,” answered Chris. “And the rest of you keep looking.”
Chris, clipboard in hand, checked the supporting walls and with a broad black marker, numbered each one for demolition. If he worked it right they could be out of here in four days.
In one of the bedrooms the remains of a fire blackened the centre of the floor. He stomped hard on the boards. “Pity,” he said aloud, “they were lucky. Mind you, that would have saved us a lot of work.”
To his amazement, the master bedroom door was in place and swung silently on its hinges. Chris ran his hands across a white marble fireplace; five grand, he thought. He opened the doors to a built-in-cupboard. From the top shelf fluttered a sheet of paper. He heard a noise, whirled around but the room was empty.
Curious, he picked up the brown-edged paper and read the scrawled words:
November 1956. Whoever is reading this, get out. My name is John Waterman and this bedroom is my eternal prison. It sounds stupid but I stand at the bedroom door and can’t ever walk through. She, of course, is always here. Why I stopped outside this damned house I don’t know. She stood in the entrance and was for me the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Her eyes, those dark hypnotic eyes, enticed me. She has the figure of Venus and black hair that frames her perfectly-proportioned features. She wears black silk, which clings to her skin. It remains unbuttoned at a seductive point between her breasts, revealing enough. I should have known better as a married man but the temptation became irresistible. I wanted her. She was unbelievable until I decided to leave.
A wave of ice-crushing, stunning confusion fell over me as those cold eyes slashed through my soul. “Nobody leaves,” she said. I went to the door but as much as I tried, I couldn’t step through. I shout at those who pass by but no one hears. She never eats or drinks and cackles like a Macbeth witch.
I know I’m not the first; I hope I am the last.
Chris screwed it into a ball and flung it into a corner. Downstairs he heard his team stripping and removing salvageable items. His survey complete, he wandered down and outside. The rumble of a JCB vibrated along the road. “Okay guys, the heavy mob’s here. Where’s Charlie?”
Harry peered from a ground floor window. “I saw him a minute ago chatting up a nice bit of stuff in a black silk dress.”
Chris charged up the stairs and pounded on a closed bedroom door. They never found Charlie.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Be careful who takes your fancy.
_____________________________________________________________________
Chris stopped his white Ford Transit outside 12, Pendle Street. Six men jumped out, each cast their eyes towards a derelict Victorian red brick, detached house, its roof absent and gaping holes where windows once existed.
“Is this it, Chris?” asked Charlie.
“Yup, we have one week to clear the site before the main contractor arrives.” Chris glanced up and down the road. “In hell’s name, where are the trucks and JCB? Nine o’clock on the dot, I said. Right, let’s take a gander and see if we can make a few pounds from any scrap. Bill, you check the mains are off and disconnected.”
Five men followed Chris into the main hall. “This was a quality parquet floor once,” said Harry.
“There’s a fireplace in this room,” shouted Brian.
“Well, get it into the back of the wagon,” answered Chris. “And the rest of you keep looking.”
Chris, clipboard in hand, checked the supporting walls and with a broad black marker, numbered each one for demolition. If he worked it right they could be out of here in four days.
In one of the bedrooms the remains of a fire blackened the centre of the floor. He stomped hard on the boards. “Pity,” he said aloud, “they were lucky. Mind you, that would have saved us a lot of work.”
To his amazement, the master bedroom door was in place and swung silently on its hinges. Chris ran his hands across a white marble fireplace; five grand, he thought. He opened the doors to a built-in-cupboard. From the top shelf fluttered a sheet of paper. He heard a noise, whirled around but the room was empty.
Curious, he picked up the brown-edged paper and read the scrawled words:
November 1956. Whoever is reading this, get out. My name is John Waterman and this bedroom is my eternal prison. It sounds stupid but I stand at the bedroom door and can’t ever walk through. She, of course, is always here. Why I stopped outside this damned house I don’t know. She stood in the entrance and was for me the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Her eyes, those dark hypnotic eyes, enticed me. She has the figure of Venus and black hair that frames her perfectly-proportioned features. She wears black silk, which clings to her skin. It remains unbuttoned at a seductive point between her breasts, revealing enough. I should have known better as a married man but the temptation became irresistible. I wanted her. She was unbelievable until I decided to leave.
A wave of ice-crushing, stunning confusion fell over me as those cold eyes slashed through my soul. “Nobody leaves,” she said. I went to the door but as much as I tried, I couldn’t step through. I shout at those who pass by but no one hears. She never eats or drinks and cackles like a Macbeth witch.
I know I’m not the first; I hope I am the last.
Chris screwed it into a ball and flung it into a corner. Downstairs he heard his team stripping and removing salvageable items. His survey complete, he wandered down and outside. The rumble of a JCB vibrated along the road. “Okay guys, the heavy mob’s here. Where’s Charlie?”
Harry peered from a ground floor window. “I saw him a minute ago chatting up a nice bit of stuff in a black silk dress.”
Chris charged up the stairs and pounded on a closed bedroom door. They never found Charlie.
About the Author
Ron A. Sewell was born in Leith, Edinburgh. At the age of fourteen, he ran away from home. Heading for the south of France, he found work as a deckhand on luxury yachts. On his return to the United Kingdom, he enlisted in the Royal Navy, eventually becoming a commissioned officer. During his career, he travelled the world, qualifying as an engineer, deck officer, boarding officer, a diver, and parachutist and for a time part of an Air Sea Rescue team. This has given him much experience and many ideas.
Ron has been writing for twenty-three years. He has written numerous short stories (many of them published) and five complete novels to date. Two of the novels, entitled The Collectors, are currently with his agent, who is attempting to sell them to a publisher.
Ron has been writing for twenty-three years. He has written numerous short stories (many of them published) and five complete novels to date. Two of the novels, entitled The Collectors, are currently with his agent, who is attempting to sell them to a publisher.