What Are You Afraid Of?

a horror collection

by Fallacious Rose

Copyright © 2019 by Fallacious Rose

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Venus Fly Trap

O h my god! Anna gets out of the car and just stands there, shading her eyes. Isn't it gorgeous?

Stacey's already at the trunk, lifting out their bags. She's fifteen years younger than her sister, so she makes sure to do most of the lifting and carrying. Just like in the ad, she observes, hefting out Anna's suitcase and her own, one in each hand. She's quite strong.

The house is isolated, which is just how they like it. They've both brought a stack of library books, and hope to find more in the holiday rental. It sits on a promontory overlooking the Pacific, sheltered from the wind by a stand of feathery casuarinas: below, they glimpse a half-moon of silvery sand and the ruffled blue of the ocean stretching towards South America.

The key the agent gave them turns easily in the lock, and immediately Anna goes to the kitchen and puts on the electric kettle. She can't survive for long without tea - about an hour or so, in Stacey's experience. She checks the cupboards and drawers: she's quite a connoisseur of the equipment provided by rental properties.

They've given us a good wooden chopping board and plenty of sharp knives, she says approvingly. They both like to prepare fresh food.

The place is very pleasant, in that slightly self-conscious, sea-themed way that most of the beach properties have around here, especially the more upmarket ones. The floor is polished pine, golden in the afternoon light; there are shells on the windowsills, branching coral in a dish, blue and white-striped cushions on the cane furniture. Picture windows overlook the garden, lush with hydrangeas and bougainvillea they’d never be able to grow in Canberra, because of the frost.

Stacey leaves the door open while she brings in their possessions, and then they go for a walk down to the beach, not bothering to lock up. There's no one within a mile, nothing to worry about. On the beach, they both take off their shoes and roll up their pants. Anna's legs are corded with varicose veins: Stacey's, at thirty five, are brown and slim. She often thinks that Anna is a living mirror of what she'll become, later on. They do look alike. The ocean kisses their toes, a cool salty caress.

As the sea-fragranced night draws down, they search through the host's video collection and find an old set of Hammer Horror. Stacey wouldn't have minded watching it, just for laughs, but Anna says no, even such dated, B-grade efforts as these give her nightmares. So they watch Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers instead. I used to dance like that, says Anna, sort of.

Stacey lies awake for a while listening to the sound of the sea sucking at the beach, and the casuarinas whispering. The house closes around her, like a flower around a bee. She feels safe.

The morning is blue and crisp: it'll be warm later. Stacey makes them both tea and toast, and takes it in to Anna in bed. She's already sitting up with a book, one of her detective things.

I hope you're not going to read all day, says Stacey sternly. We're going to swim, right?

Yeah, of course, I brought my swimsuit. Only we're on holidays - I want to lie in for a while first, ok? Don't nag!

Sure. Stacey presses her nose up against the picture window. Look how gorgeous the sea looks out there. I can't wait.

I bet it's freezing though. Anna pulls the duvet up to her chin. Don't worry, I'll go in. Just don't push me. I'll go at my own pace.

Stacey settles down with her own book in the sunny, pine-floored living room, with its artfully placed seahorses and model sailing ships. In the end, it's almost eleven o'clock before they've changed into the swimsuits and sarongs, packed some water and sunscreen, and washed the breakfast dishes.

Alright, let's go! Stacey goes to the sliding door on to the terrace, which faces on to the beach.

What? says Anna behind her, her towel bundled over her arm.

I can’t open it.

Just give it a tug. Here, let me! says Anna impatiently. Despite being older, and therefore punier, than Stacey, she’s still convinced she can do everything better.

It won't budge.

You shouldn’t have locked it.

I didn’t lock it! Stacey protests. It’s not exactly New York down here.

She examines the door from top to bottom, but it seems that there's nothing to pull, or lever.  It's probably one of those annoying modern designs that's supposed to be unobtrusive but ends up being unusable.

Leave it, we'll just go out the back, says Anna, turning away with an irritated pout.

Anna is first to the back door, which has a plainly visible, turnable handle, thank God. She turns it, and then, in a fit of pique, shakes it. The door rattles, but doesn’t open.

Oh for Heaven’s sake! Where’s the key – it must have locked itself!

Maybe you locked it, Stacey thinks: you’re always forgetting things. She brings the key and sticks it in the keyhole, turns. The door still won't open.

Uhhhrm! Anna gives it a small kick. Is it stuck?

Stacey pulls at the handle, hard, but not with everything she's got. She doesn't want to break anything they're going to have to pay for. No....I don't think it's stuck. It just won't open.

They stand back, temporarily defeated.

I don't understand. It opened perfectly well last night.

Stacey thinks for a moment. From the outside. Then we had it open most of the time, till we went to bed. It's only from the inside that it won't open.

Anna heaves, a shrug of temper. I'm going to make a complaint about this!

Not if we can't get out of here you won't, Stacey jokes.

I'll climb out the window if I have to, she promises, glaring at the door as if it’s an errant real estate agent. Is there another door somewhere?

They both go and explore. It's not as if they've got far to look: it's a small house, two bedrooms, one bathroom, one living room and a deck. At the end of the short hallway on which the bedrooms are located, there's another door, certainly - but it, too, is locked, and looks solid. Stacey runs her eye casually over the windows. Like the sliding door, there is no purchase for hands on them, as if whoever designed this place expected them to open electronically, like the entrance to a mall. Or a safe.

By this time they're both a little hungry. Perhaps it's just as well they didn't go down to the beach just yet. Anna makes lunch, sandwiches with tomato and lettuce and tuna. She doesn’t put tuna on Stacey’s, because her sister hates tuna: even the smell of it makes her gag.

They must have had weird taste, the owners, she muses, looking about at the walls while they eat. Everything's kind of pink.

Is it? I didn't notice.

She’s right. The walls, which had seemed a neutral off-white in the evening as they arrived, are now a pale blush colour. Even the ceilings have a reddish tint.  Sunlight shattering through the foliage outside makes the colour ripple slightly, like wavelets on the sand at low tide. The corals, too – even the shells – have taken on a faint pinkish hue. It reminds Stacey of blood in warm water.

After lunch, Anna rolls up her sleeves, a determined look on her face. She's a retired CEO, not one to take things like this lying down. Stacey follows her, the hired muscle. They try the back sliding door again, and the front door, without success. They examine the windows minutely, pushing and pulling and sliding. Nothing budges.

This is ridiculous! Anna explodes, throwing her hands up in the air. She stamps out to the living room: the floorboards shake at her tread. Stacey feels the same way. The house is full of windows, through which they can glimpse the wonderful sea and the beach - but they can't go there. They can't even get to the damn car!

If we can't get out the doors or windows, we're going to have to break something, says Stacey dubiously.

I'll ring the agent to come and let us out, and if that doesn't work, I'll call Dennis, or Robert. Dennis is Anna's ex-husband, and Robert their brother, the go-to men when anything requiring mechanical knowledge or brute force goes wrong. Anna picks up her mobile, since there is no landline in the house.

No signal! It’s unbelievable!

But... Stacey was sure she had bars last night. She checks her own phone. Nothing. The walls lean in, as if watching a play in a theatre of two. Ok, I'll try to smash a window. Pick one?

Anna points in silent rage to the window facing the sea. That one. What with?

Stacey wields her weapon, a rolling pin. This. Should pack a fair punch. Holding her breath, she whacks the window pane. There is a dull thud: pain shoots up her arm. It's like hitting solid rock. We need a stone or something. Something heavier.

All afternoon Anna and Stacey throw objects at the window panes – pots, books, whatever they can find. In the end they resort to pieces of furniture, launching them together like battering rams. If it wasn't so serious, it'd almost be fun: never has either of them had free licence to be so destructive. But by five o'clock, they are exhausted. Anna's almost weeping. Stacey feels like crying too, but puts the lid on it. At least one of them has to stay calm.

They make dinner in silence, and go to bed, wondering what they'll do if they really can't get out. It's an unthinkable situation, which neither sister is quite ready to believe. Surely, they will be able to think of something, in the morning. Surely.

In the morning Stacey brings the tea, as usual. Anna's sitting topless on the edge of the bed, rubbing coconut oil into her skin. She looks like she's been out in the sun too long, pink and flaky, but – obviously -  neither of them have been out all weekend. Fleas?

I know, me too. It must be an allergy, she says sourly, noticing the places where Anna's naked body creases and crumples. That'll be her, soon. She sits down, muses that when she gets home, she's going to redouble her efforts at the gym, and rubs herself without thinking. All night, her skin has itched and burned. She must look a fright, too. So what are we going to do?

I don't know. So much for the former CEO.

It's like being in a prison, she says thoughtfully. Like the Count of Monte Cristo. What did he do? Dug out the bricks with his bare hands, didn't he?

It won't come to that.

It might...

By mid-morning they're both hunkered down on their haunches, digging at the walls with knives from the cutlery draw and a screw driver that Stacey – an amateur mechanic - keeps in her handbag. In the back of her mind is the fact that, at some point, unbelievably, they'll run out of food. They'd banked on making the trip to the local shop, a couple of miles away - but that's not an option at the moment. The situation is bizarre.

The knives slip off the smooth concrete, making little impression, and in a few hours they both have grazes and cuts on their hands. Meanwhile, Stacey notices that the walls have become an even deeper shade of rose pink. The sensation of movement has got stronger. The internal structure of the house seems to pulse, as if with a slow heartbeat: she feels as if she's been swallowed.

By the third day their food has run out, although at least they have water. They sit morosely, staring at the floor, their implements scattered around them. The house has resisted all their efforts. The itching and flaking has got worse, so that they've taken to having cold showers, standing in there together just holding each other under the stream. It's some relief, at least while they're still cold and wet.

The house, by contrast, is getting warmer. No sea breeze penetrates its stifling prison: it's now almost the temperature of blood, or urine, the tepid closeness of a tropical monsoon. The sisters find it hard to move their feet over the shining pine floor, as if each footstep clings and sucks, as though they are walking in warm slime. The walls, too, drip and undulate.

Stacey's eyes settle dully on the refrigerator, though it stopped working on the first morning. If it was working, she fantasises, they could have made ice. What a blessed relief that would have been – she can almost feel the soothing chill against her inflamed skin. Pain has become ordinary. She and Anna are both the colour of boiled prawns. Half-flayed, there's little difference between them.

She slowly rises, and wades her way through the viscous fluid coating every surface. They don't have a lot longer. If they remain in the house, they'll die of suffocation, or starvation, or worse. What is worse?