Control: A Novel of Psychological Horror and Suspense Read online

  Copyright©2014 by Matt Shaw

  Matt Shaw Publications

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  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

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  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The characters in this book are purely fictitious.

  Any likeness to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

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  CONTROL

  M A T T S H A W

  N O W

  D A Y S E V E N

  All twelve applicants were sitting around the long dining room table enjoying breakfast. Various conversations between them, all seemingly centred on the evening’s coming eviction, a nervous energy filled the room as no one wanted to be the first out of the house, not that any of them were admitting it they were all there to win.

  “Who do you think will go?” Paul asked Jack between mouthfuls of his cornflakes. At forty-two years of age, Paul was the eldest of the group and had already taken the father role. When the others got too drunk - when they were allowed alcohol, he would be the one to put them to bed. When the others argued over - apparently - nothing of any great importance, he was the one to step in and break it up. A shoulder to cry on when the younger members of the group started to miss their families despite only being a few days into the eight week show.

  Jack looked around the group. You could tell by his face he was judging each character on an individual basis in order to try and answer Paul’s question. Truth be told though it was an impossible question to answer. They had barely gotten to know each other in the short first week they had been in there, let alone get an idea how the public would be reacting to them as they watched each day’s forty-five minute show.

  “Okay,” Paul rephrased the question, “who would you want to go tonight?”

  Both Paul and Jack turned to look at Morgan as he filled his cereal bowl for the third time since sitting down to breakfast. Another over-filled bowl once again filled to the very brim with milk.

  “That’s pretty unanimous then,” Paul laughed.

  “I don’t know - he just irritates me and even if he didn’t, look at how much he eats!”

  Morgan was in his thirties, tall with dark hair and was pretty much the clown of the group. Thirty-five years old, going on five. If there was an innuendo to be made, he would make it. If there was someone to scare, he’d be the one jumping out. If there was someone to wind up, he’d be the one pulling the ropes. At first the group thought he was overcompensating to offset against his shyness but by day three they realised he wasn’t - this was just his personality and it was fucking annoying.

  Morgan realised Paul and Jack were looking at him, “What?” he asked, a mouthful of milk spilling from mouth to bowl. He returned to the table and sat next to Paul, in his original seat. “What you guys talking about?” he asked.

  “Just wondering who is going tonight.”

  “So you thought me?” he asked. The tone in his voice suggested he did not find much to joke about in this instance. He almost sounded as though their speculations had hurt his feelings. Morgan was the house clown but that didn’t mean he was stupid. Having caught both Jack and Paul staring at him, it didn’t take a genius to put two and two together; they were talking about who was leaving and they were looking at him. And there you have it.

  It was the seventh day though and already Morgan had been involved in more than a handful of arguments. It was never Morgan who was doing the arguing, or shouting, but it was always him who had managed to wind the others up to such an extent that something kicked off.

  “So does anyone else think I’m going tonight?” Morgan raised his voice so the rest of the table would stop their individual conversations and turn their attention to him. “Well?” he asked when he knew he had everyone’s undivided attention. “Anyone?”

  “We don’t know who is going tonight,” Jordy said. Twenty years old and mad as a box of frogs but in a good way. A fun way. Unlike Morgan she knew there was a time for fun and a time to be serious. She’d caught Morgan’s abrupt tone and judged now as being a time to be serious.

  “Well these two seem to know,” he snapped. He scooped another spoonful of cornflakes up and shoved them into his mouth.

  “I’m sure they didn’t mean anything,” Jordy tried to play peacekeeper. Jordy was fun, that you couldn’t deny. Clearly she had been chosen to go on the show because the producers thought she might liven the place up a little, just as they had chosen Paul to go in because he seemed like a nice man who would be able to keep the housemates in line, to stop things from really becoming silly, but what Jordy was not - was a peacekeeper; a role she tried to fulfil but often failed.

  “How could they not mean anything by stating I’d be the first out? I think it is pretty obvious what they meant - either they both hate me out of everyone here and want me gone or they think the public will hate me and want me gone. You can’t get any more fucking obvious than that!” he started to cough on his cornflakes.

  Jordy didn’t have anything to say to that. She turned to Paul in the hope that the real peacekeeper of the house would be able to say something to justify the conversation he had been having with Jack; Jordy’s favourite of the house’s ‘talent’ as seen in a drunken conversation between Kate and herself in the episode showing what happened on Day Four in the house.

  “Maybe you should go tonight?” Morgan pointed at Paul as he continued to cough.

  “Maybe I will,” Paul said. “No one knows who is going tonight. It was just a conversation about who we think could be in danger. You can’t deny you have caused quite a storm in here these past few days with your practical jokes and scare tactics and…” his voice was drowned out by Morgan’s coughing.

  Fiona, thirty-eight, walked to the kitchen of the open-plan house and fetched a glass of water. She brought it back to the table and went to hand it to Morgan. “You’re bleeding!” she said. Morgan was holding his throat as a burning sensation ripped through it, a small trickle of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. A look of panic on his face as his coughing got harder. Fiona turned to the group, “What do we do?”

  Stuart, sitting next to Morgan, jumped up and started to pat his back in an effort to dislodge whatever was causing the choking, unaware something more sinister was afoot. “It’s not working!” he said, as he continued to hit Morgan’s back.

  Georgia, a pretty blonde twenty-four year old, who’d been put in the house for her looks as opposed to any personality she may bring with her, had run over to the Control Room - a room where, at any time, the housemates could talk to The Controller; The Controller being one of the many producers who helped to run the newly televised show. She pressed the doorbell in the hope that the lights surrounding the door would go from red to green - an action they did meaning you were permitted to go in. The lights didn't change as Morgan continued hacking in the background, “Come on, come on! Why aren’t you helping?!” she said as she looked up to one of the cameras just above the door.

  “Maybe it’s at the back of his throat,” Paul said. He leaned across the table and forcefully opened Morgan’s mouth in an effort to see if he could see anything lodged there. Morgan coughed dramatically and covered Paul’s face in a sludge of deep red blood and mucus and then - just like that - he stopped coughing.

  “Are you feeling better now?” Stuart asked. He twisted Morgan round to face him and went pale instantly. Morgan was as white as a sheet. Hi
s eyes fixed upon Stuart for what seemed to be a split second and then rolled to the back of his head. He slumped backwards, off the chair, and landed on the floor with a bang. Stuart dropped to his knees next to Morgan and felt for a pulse. Nothing. He looked up, “He’s dead.”

  “This is The Controller,” a loud dominant voice boomed over the speaker, “all Housemates go to the bedroom immediately!”

  “He’s fucking dead!” Stuart repeated, panic slowly starting to set in just as it was with the rest of the group too.

  “Why didn’t they help?!” Georgia screamed from the door of the Control Room –which was still illuminated in a red light. “Why didn’t someone come and help us?!” she screamed again.

  “This is The Controller! All Housemates go to the bedroom immediately!”

  “Come on,” Paul lead the group through to the bedroom. The door shut automatically when the last of the weeping group walked through the door. A red light illuminated the door surrounds as the blinds started to come down, sealing off the rest of the house and - more specifically - the twitching body of Morgan.

  “What the hell was that about?” Chris screamed. “Why didn’t they come and help us?” Like Jack and Paul - Chris was just your average twenty-five year old. His head was screwed on, he had a good job in the outside world and had signed up to the show for experience rather than a shot at the prize fund.

  “You’re sure there wasn’t a pulse?” Paul asked Stuart. He knew the answer. From the moment they had first arrived in the house, Stuart had been very vocal about his First Aid training. He had boasted about it as though it were something to be proud about, something that no other person could have achieved by the age of twenty-six - despite courses being readily available for people of all ages who expressed an interest. Stuart didn’t answer, he was pacing the room backwards and forwards with a panicked look on his face. “Stuart!” Paul called out; the father taking control of the situation.

  “What?” Stuart stopped pacing and turned to him.

  “Are you sure there wasn’t a pulse?”

  “I’m positive! There was no pulse!”

  “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Philip started shouting out over the girls’ crying. Eighteen years old and still trying to find a way of expressing himself in a way which did not involve vulgar language. “What the fuck?!”

  “Every one just calm down!” Paul shouted above all of them. “It’s shocking but we need to stay calm…”

  “What’s going on out there?” Georgia asked.

  “I’m sure they will let us know what is going on as soon as they have an idea themselves. For now though, we just need to get a grip and calm down. Getting hysterical about it isn’t going to help anyone.” Paul sat on the edge of his bed.

  Jack muttered, “Do you think what happened to Richard was real?”

  The group fell silent with the exception of a few occasional sobs from Karen - the youngest, and most sensitive, of the group at only eighteen years old.

  Up until now Philip had been fairly quiet in the group. From Day One he seemed to have more of an issue fitting in despite being of a similar age (mid-twenties). The group was surprised when he turned around and casually muttered, “Do you think the eviction will go ahead tonight?”

  B E F O R E

  J A C K L E T T S

  The queue snaked round the interior rooms and corridors and out of the main front doors of the building where it continued to circle the exterior. Thousands of desperate hopefuls all clamouring for their five minutes of fame and their shot at winning the one hundred thousand pounds being offered up to whoever survived the twelve weeks in the house. Some had come dressed to impress in their finest of clothes, some had come in fancy dress in an effort to steal away the producers’ eyes from people they were competing against and some - the better looking ones of the crowd - came dressed in little to nothing.

  Jack Letts, twenty-three years old from the South East of England, skipped this queue. Like a few hundred others, he was invited in through another set of doors, away from the impatient rumblings of the main queue, on the strength of his ninety-second video audition he’d sent in more than three months prior to this day. His queue was much, much shorter and he soon found himself sitting in a large waiting area lined with various vending machines along with the other successful video applicants who’d gotten through to the second stage.

  He was nervously sitting, watching the other hopefuls. All of them had stickered name badges stuck to their tops. He seemed to be the most nervous there. At least, he was the one who appeared as though they were struggling with hiding their nerves compared to the rest of the group. Some had made friends with the people sat around them and were quietly chatting whilst others did as Jack did and just sat there - isolated in the crowd - looking around with a look on their faces which could only be described as ‘rabbit in the headlights’.

  A three-man television crew were milling around the room. A long-haired, loud mouthed presenter Jack recognised from the television, a sound man and a camera operator. Jack did his best to avoid eye contact with them as they continued to negotiate their way around the crowded room pouncing on those who appeared to be more nervous or easy to pick on. The presenter fired questions at them mercilessly as the cameraman and sound man tried their best not to laugh. Sometimes the presenter wouldn’t even wait for an answer before shouting out his next question. Jack could only cringe as he watched those picked upon go red in the face and stutter their way through the impromptu grilling.

  “What makes you think you’d be a good contestant?”

  “…”

  “You look boring to me. BORING. Are you boring?”

  “…”

  “Do you speak English? Would you like a translator?”

  “Er…”

  “I’m sure we’ve got someone on the staff who can speak idiot…”

  And - with that - he’d venture on to the next victim. Of course not everyone felt for those being picked on. Jack was in the minority there. Most just laughed as the wannabe applicant was brought down a peg, or two. Jack guessed they enjoyed it because it meant the person’s confidence was severely knocked more or less forcing them out of the running before they’d even started the race for real. Of course - smiles soon faded from faces when they were chosen next for the over-the-top roasting.

  “You’re ugly! We don’t want you on the show! People will see your face and be forced to change the channel!”

  Jack looked out of the window and caught sight of his appearance. He looked tired. His blonde hair was all over the place - and in dire need of a cut - there were bags under his eyes from where he’d been forced to get up early to get to the auditions in time and there was an unsightly stain down the front of his shirt, caused by an early morning commuter spilling his coffee over him when the train jolted to a stop at London Waterloo.

  “Come far?”

  Jack snapped back to reality and turned to his right. A large male teenager in what looked to be women’s clothes was sitting next to him - a look of desperation Jack had seen on the faces of many other people patiently waiting to be called through. Jack couldn’t help but notice the boy’s sticker had him labeled as Jo-Jo.

  “Southampton. About an hour and a half on the train. Not too bad, I guess.”

  “What kind of people do you think they’re looking for?” he asked.

  Jack shrugged, “Not sure.” He shifted in his seat nervously. On the one hand it was good someone was talking to him because it made him less of a target for the roaming television crew but - on the other hand - this guy was irritating.

  “I dreamt last night that I won,” he continued. “Such an amazing dream. I ended up in a room with the one hundred grand rolling around naked. I was rubbing the notes over myself. What do you think it meant?” he asked.

  Jack raised an eyebrow and turned to look at him. He wasn’t sure whether Jo-Jo was being serious or whether he was on the wind-up, just to get a reaction from him. Jack shrugged again, “Honestly
I have no idea,” he said.

  “It means you’re a freak!” a male voice shouted.

  Both Jack and Jo-Jo jumped at the sudden outburst. They both turned round and were confronted by the television presenter looming over them with a sadistic grin on his face. The presenter turned to the camera and sound man, “Tell me you got that?” They both nodded. Jo-Jo was glowing red. Even Jack felt his own face heat up from embarrassment as the presenter turned his attention to him, “You’ve got weird friends, mate, if I were you I’d dump them. At the bottom of a sea. With a rock tied around their ankles.”

  “He isn’t my friend. I don’t know him!” Jack protested.

  “That’s the spirit! Ooh…Mercenary! You’ll go far!” the presenter laughed. “But how far will you go? If I offered you one hundred grand right here and right now, would you drop him into the bottom of the ocean?”

  “Er…I…”

  “I’m just joking with you!” the presenter laughed and skipped off to his next ‘victim’.

  N O W

  Jack was sitting on the bed he had been sharing with Morgan. Not everyone shared a bed. Some of them were singles so some of the group had a bed to themselves whilst others were forced to double up, unless they wanted to sleep on the uncomfortable floor. He looked stressed, as did the other housemates too, but he seemed more so.

  Paul went over and sat next to him, “Penny for them?” he asked - referring to the thoughts Jack was clearly struggling with.

  “I was just thinking about Richard,” he said. “We all laughed. Remember?”

  “I do.”

  On opening night the housemates had walked into the house, one by one, after a quick introduction to a baying crowd by a female presenter who none of them had recognised. The housemates would come through some double doors, walk down a small gangway to where the female presenter was waiting, they’d have a quick interview and then be instructed to enter the house via a set of spiral stairs leading to a door. On the other side of the door was a narrow corridor which lead the way to another set of doors - the final set to go through before getting into the house for real.