Nav Logan's Blog - Posts Tagged "thriller"

The Midnight Serenade

The following story won second prize in this month’s competition on http://thecultofme.blogspot.co.uk/201...

With hands still grimy from digging his most recent grave, the maestro lifted up the string and fitted it into the violin. The task was not a simple one for two reasons: Firstly, it was pitch black in the graveyard, and he needed to complete the task by touch alone. Secondly, the wire was still slick with fresh blood.

Each of the strings of his violin was anointed thus. Each wire had been consecrated by the blood of a young female victim. It was part of the ritual he performed whenever he needed to replace a string.

Since his rise to stardom, it had become so much easier, of course. He didn’t need to hunt his victims down anymore. They came to him; all wide eyed and simpering over his music. They eagerly accepted his offer of a private dinner, away from the crowds and paparazzi. The lavish dinner, prepared with his own hands, was followed by too much wine. Heady with drink, they would fall into his arms, and later, into his bed. It was there, during a night of wild passion, that they would meet their demise.

He loved the look of shock on their faces as the garrotte bit into their soft tender necks. He often became aroused again during their final struggles.

Later, he would carry their still naked bodies out into the family graveyard at the back of his mansion, and there they would be laid to rest, forever to listen to his midnight serenades.

When the new string was set in place, he would tune his instrument; a wonderful Mendini, as black as his heart. Plucking the newly-baptised string, he tightened the peg until the sound of the note was just right. Tiny droplets of blood flicked across his cheek as he nuzzled the chinrest and began to play.

Standing over his mother’s grave, he always played her favourite piece: Albinoni’s Adagio in G Minor. In his mind, he can hear the rest of the orchestra playing along as he performed the piece in front of a packed arena, perhaps even for the Queen herself.

He could also imagine the sighs of his many victims. They rested nearby, keeping his mother company through the long years of darkness. She had always demanded to be the centre of attention.

It was his mother who had bought him his first violin. She, who demanded the best on every occasion. She, who beaten him and locked him in his room whenever his performances where not up to scratch. She, who eventually became his first victim.

Playing his violin afterwards, with her blood still slick on the strings, he had found a new sense of peace. He had played like never before … and so the ritual had begun.

He was sure that his mother would have understood. It was such a small sacrifice to make for the art. He was sure that they had all understood eventually, once they had heard him play his midnight serenade.
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Published on May 24, 2015 08:21 Tags: short-story, thriller

Pleading the Fifth

Omertà: the code of silence. If it was good enough for the mafia, it was good enough for Flickblade Jack’s gang of cutthroats. “Not a word!” he warned. “Always plead the fifth!”
When young Pedro was kidnapped, he remembered those words. He would say nothing.
Sadly, this wasn’t good cop, bad cop, day. The rival gang poured hot tea down his trousers, and Pedro bit his tongue and said nothing. Then they took out a knife and pruned a few of Pedro’s fingernails. He remained silent until they got to his little pinkie. Then he told them everything he knew.
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Published on August 10, 2015 11:43 Tags: dark, drabble, thriller

Caught on the Line

I awoke and immediately sensed that I was in deep trouble. Blindfolded, bound, and gagged, I lay on the cold floor and listened, trying to make sense of my surroundings. I heard no one. There was only the sound of the wind whistling nearby. The world spun around me, making me disorientated. I lay there, quite still for a few moments, but the sensation did not lessen.
Eventually, I pulled myself together and focused on escape. Wriggling around on the cold floor, I searched for something sharp with which to cut my bonds. Every movement brought new waves of nausea, but my frantic search proved fruitless. I was like a blind worm desperately seeking its freedom.
Finally, I gave up and focused on the bonds themselves. I would open them up by brute force if necessary. Biting my lip against the pain, I tugged and twisted in a futile effort to free my hands. As I struggled against my bonds, I try to remember what had happened. How had I got here? The last thing I could recall was being in a bar, chatting up a very attractive young woman. She had approached me while I was eating lunch, and we had hit it off straight away. Had she spiked my drink and kidnapped me? Was my wife reading a ransom note right now?
Losing a lot of skin in the process, I managed to stretch the ropes that bound my wrists enough to gain my freedom. The blindfold came next. I needed to know where I was, so that I could plan my escape.
Moments later I regretted my actions. It was even worse than I had first thought.
Until now I had ignored the swaying motion, thinking perhaps I was still suffering the effects of the drugs that I had consumed. At worse, the swaying meant that I was being held captive on a boat. Now, however, the true depths of despair consumed me. My worst nightmares were coming to life.
I was naked, but that really was a minor insignificance.
The real issue was my prison cell. I was dangling a few hundred feet up in the air. My prison was a glass box which rocked to and fro on the slightest of breezes. Far below I could see the sharp rocks of a disused quarry.
My cage shuddered suddenly and creaked in an alarming fashion. Hyperventilating with panic, I turned away from the dizzying view beneath me and looked upwards. I felt a momentary relief from the swaying ground far below. Above me, I saw the orange arm of a crane. The machine was preventing me from plummeting to my death. I found comfort in that knowledge, but that comfort was short lived.
My glass cage wobbled again, quite alarmingly this time, and then it dropped fractionally.
Static buzzed in my ear, followed by a familiar chirpy voice, “Morning, my Darling. Did you sleep well?”
“Celia?” I exclaimed, only now noticing the earpiece that had been taped to my left ear. I was so grateful to hear her voice. “Help me! I’ve been kidnapped.”
My sudden relief slipped away when I heard her laugh in response. The sound chilled me to the bone. “Celia!” I pleaded. “I’m serious!”
“I know, Darling. Sadly, the police are bound to tell me not to pay the ransom. That’d only encourage your kidnappers to do it again.”
“What? Quit mucking about, will ya!”
“Still ... the life insurance will come in handy, and anyway, it’ll save an unpleasant divorce hearing. I really don’t need to have my dirty laundry washed in public. I’m sure you’ll understand.”
“Stop messing about!” I demanded. “This is serious. You’ve got to help me.” I looked around the glass prison, searching for my phone. Eventually I found it. It was taped to the outside of the box. I only had access to the Bluetooth device in my ear. “Celia, listen to me. I need you to call the police. Get them to put a trace on my phone, and they can come and rescue me.”
“Sorry, but that’s not going to work,” my wife replied. There seemed to be little remorse in her tone. “I do hope you like the view from the penthouse suite I arranged for you. There’s only one thing though ... it’s nearly check out time.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, trying to control the mounting panic.
I heard her sigh dramatically. “Look up, you idiot!”
“I am looking up!” I replied.
“Look closer,” she prompted.
It was then that I noticed the fraying rope ... and the knife! My glass cage was being held aloft by a piece of sturdy hemp, but each sway of the box caused it to brush against a razor sharp machete. Even as I watched, the cage moved in the breeze and with a shudder, another piece of the rope peeled away. The rope had already been cut halfway through. It was only a matter of time before I dropped into the quarry, far below.
My panic only increased the swaying of my glass prison, therefore, quickening my demise.
The sound of my wife’s malicious laughter haunted the last few minutes of my life. Looking around I couldn’t see her, but she had to be watching me from somewhere. She always did have a nasty streak in her. Was she hiding among the rocks down below, looking up at me through binoculars, or was she hiding in the crane’s cab high above me?
“Help me, Celia,” I pleaded. “I’m your husband, for God’s sake. I love you!”
“You should have thought of that before you started sleeping with my sister.”
Moments later, the final strands of the rope gave way ...
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Published on August 18, 2015 04:26 Tags: short-story, thriller, vertigo