Four doors down (standard:horror, 2229 words)
Author: Lev821	Added: Apr 29 2009	Views/Reads: 3263/2200	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
An angry postman starts opening the mail, and finds the location of vast wealth. Should he go and retrieve it? or leave it well alone?

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

before tossing them aside. Another letter he saw was for Ian Clayton, 
the man who lived across the road. Opposite this house and four doors 
down to the right. Geoff shook his head at the letter. Ian Clayton, he 
thought. Obvious and well known gangster. Thinks he's some sort of big 
player in the criminal underworld, and to all intents and purposes, he 
was. He was in his late thirties, and had that gangster-like facade 
that simply said: ‘Do not trust me'. Some people by their very 
appearance look untrustworthy and sly. Sporting a shaven head and 
random tattoos, standing 6feet 3inches tall, Ian was a nasty individual 
who was sure to end up in prison one day. As a dealer of heroin, 
cocaine, cannabis, and ecstasy, Ian kept bad company. His friends were 
all similar, and displayed the rewards of wealth, with over-the-top 
jewellery, and sports cars. Ian though, as unofficial kingpin, flaunted 
the most wealth, with his white Porsche 928 S4 auto outside, his gold 
and diamond rings, his five gold teeth, and his lavish interiors of his 
home. He unconsciously defied anyone to challenge him, his appearance 
and manner saying: ‘Don't you ever dare cross me. Else I'll put a 
bullet in your head'. Geoff hated delivering there. The front door was 
always open, so he had to reach in and leave the mail on top of the 
small gas cupboard. Sometimes there were friends of friends outside in 
the garden, mending or toying with bikes and scooters, teenage boys 
with their tops off, showing off their physiques which said: ‘Look at 
me, I go the gym', smoking and laughing and creating an air of unease. 
They had never said anything to Geoff, but he was always glad once he 
was past that house. Ian Clayton, he thought. Not so much a plastic 
gangster, more a glass, or quartz gangster, not quite gold or diamond. 
Not someone to get on the wrong side of, though, and he guessed that 
that was easily done. Let's see what someone's posted to him, he 
thought, tearing open the letter. It was a hand written note, torn 
hastily out of a pad. ‘Ian' it said. ‘I know you said that the next 
time you saw me you'd stab me if I didn't have your money, well I've 
only got three-quarters of it, and I know you're a man of your word, 
and will understand why I'm not delivering it personally. I've left it 
under the back room floorboards of 38 Tungsten road. The empty house. I 
hope you'll give me enough time to get the rest. Gerard'. Tungsten 
road, Geoff thought, that's just around the corner. How much is under 
there, he wondered. He realised that if he was get the money, he would 
have to be quick. Gerard may change his mind, or some squatters may 
come across it. He stood up, and was soon out of the house, heading for 
Tungsten road, a five minute walk away from the other abandoned house. 

By the time he reached it, he was nearly out of breath. He'd forgotten
the road sloped, and put his hand on the fence to rest for a few 
moments. The front door of this semi-detached looked closed, but he was 
soon trying it, and found it to be open. It creaked loudly as though it 
hadn't been open in years, and he stepped in, closing it behind him. 
There was no privet hedge here to shield him from ‘neighbourhood 
watch'. He trod the carpet of dust on the floorboards, which, he 
noticed, had many footprints along it. The backroom door was open and 
he found it be gloomy, the back curtains closed. He saw that the room 
was completely empty, and crossed to the curtains, pulling them back in 
a cloud of choking dust. He waved it away in a futile attempt not to 
breathe it in, but was soon turning around and looking at the floor. It 
was immediately obvious where a floorboard had been removed then 
replaced. One end jutted out about a centimetre. He crossed to it and 
crouched, removing it easily and finding himself looking at a wrapped 
up supermarket carrier-bag. It was impossible to see inside. He took it 
out. It was essentially a package, and he unwrapped it and looked 
inside. He did not understand what he was seeing at first, but it 
wasn't money. It was the innards of an animal. A face had been split 
open and he saw it was a cat. A cat that had been torn apart and placed 
in the bag.  Suddenly, two men marched into the room. Geoff looked up 
to see a baseball bat heading rapidly his way. It struck his mouth and 
shattered his teeth. He collapsed back, and saw that the two men were 
wearing black balaclavas, one wielding the bat which had sharpened 
nails jutting from it. He gripped it tightly in both black 
leather-gloved hands, so striking with high strength. The other man was 
dressed similarly, but held only a mobile phone which he was holding 
forth to record the other man, who struck Geoff repeatedly in the face, 
shattering his cheekbones, splitting his forehead, caving in his eye 
sockets, the nails puncturing his eyes and tongue. A garbled yell 
issued forth from what was left of his mouth, and his hands feebly 
tried to protect him, but the bat smashed through them, breaking bones 
instantly. The man then stopped and stepped back, breathing heavily. He 
proffered the dripping bat to his friend. “Have a go, I'm knackered”. 
“You're knackered after a few hits. You seriously need to get down   
the gym”. They swapped, the other man taking up position, looking down 
at Geoff, whose twitched and trembled, his face split and cracked, 
blood spilling onto the floorboards, a distorted attempt at crying 
aloud coming from the back of his mouth. He struck his throat to stop 
the noise, then proceeded to carry on where the other man left off, and 
slam the bat into his face, which he did until it became a bloodied 
mess consisting of tendons, splinters of bone, and pulverised eyeballs. 
His hair, cranium, brain and jaw, where the only things still in 
position, but soon they split, the nails stabbing into his brain. Geoff 
ceased to shudder, and the two men saw that he was dead. The wielder of 
the bat threw it down to the side. “You're right,” he said, “It is 
knackering”. He turned and stepped across to the other man who focused 
the mobile on him. “There you go” he said into the small lens. “We 
smashed his face in as you asked. There's your proof. Now it's time to 
pay up”. He rubbed his fingers and thumb together in a money gesture, 
then walked out of shot. The other man stopped filming, and fiddled 
with it for a few seconds while he sent it to Gerard. They both walked 
out into the hall, taking off their balaclavas and putting them in a 
sports bag that was at the bottom of the stairs. They removed 
fluorescent jackets, like that a builder would wear, one of them taking 
out a clipboard and pen. “So that was Ian Clayton,” one said. “I 
thought he was supposed to be some big local hard-knock gangster. 
Didn't look much like a gangster to me”. The other man nodded. “Yes. 
Well, it doesn't matter if it's the wrong bloke, we're now owed two 
grand, and we'd better get it”. They both left the house, closing the 
door behind them and walked along to the gate, one of them turning and 
pointing to the roof, then pointing at the other man's clipboard. He 
nodded emphatically, making a show for any nosy neighbours. They then 
crossed over to a Citroen dispatch van with ‘Conroy's commercial and 
domestic roofing specialists' written on its side. They said nothing as 
they drove away. 


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