Last Wrong Turn

  Copyright 2016 Amy Cross

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.

  Kindle edition

  Dark Season Books

  First published: May 2016

  If you're out late at night and you see her face, it's already too late.

  Lost on a rural English road, Penny and her husband are involved in a sudden, violent car crash. Waking up tied to a metal table in a remote farmhouse, Penny quickly discovers that she's the latest victim of a strange, deadly family. But Penny is different to all the family's other victims, because she just happens to be eight-and-a-half months pregnant...

  Fighting not only for her own life, but also for the life of her unborn child, Penny desperately tries to escape. When she comes face to face with the mysterious Enda, however, she quickly learns that getting away from the farmhouse might not be enough. Soon, Penny finds herself locked in a desperate struggle to keep her baby from becoming not just a victim of the farm, but one of its new occupants.

  Last Wrong Turn is the story of a woman who desperately tries to save her child from a horrific fate. Contains adult language and scenes of violence.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue One

  Prologue Two

  Part One

  Enda

  Part Two

  Penny

  Epilogue

  Last Wrong Turn

  Prologue One

  Alicia Clare

  Sixteen years ago

  “What's that noise?” I shout, drying my hands on a tea towel as I rush through from the kitchen. “What in the world is that dreadful -”

  Stopping suddenly in the doorway, I stare out at the yard and see a scene of pure horror. John is dragging two bloodied but still-alive, screaming bodies from the truck, taking them toward the pen where the pigs already sense blood. Beyond the screams of the two adults, however, there's another sound ringing through the air.

  A baby.

  “Where is it?” I ask, hurrying through the mud.

  Ignoring me, John marches ashen-faced toward the pen, still dragging the two bodies.

  Reaching the truck, I look into the back but see no sign of a child. Racing around to the other side, I open the door to the cab and then freeze as I see a bloodied child wriggling and screaming in a bundle of stained sheets. As the two other new arrivals are tossed into the pig pen and cry out, I reach cautiously into the truck with shaking hands, carefully taking hold of the infant and lifting it out.

  “Oh God,” I whisper, as soon as I see that the front of its face has been crushed. Where there should be a nose, there's nothing more than a bloodied gap ringed with broken bones, although the poor child's eyes seem intact and there's not too much damage to the mouth. After a moment, however, the dear thing burps up a patch of blood, and I realize there's a faint gargling sound coming from the back of its throat.

  “Stop!” a voice screams from the pig pen. “Please, why are you doing this?”

  With the baby in my arms, I step around the truck and make my way toward the house. John is over by the pen, and I can hear the pigs excitedly tucking into their feast. I wince a little at the sound of bones being splintered in the monsters' jaws, and I try my best to put a hand over the child's ears, in the hope that it won't hear too much of the horror.

  “You can't do this!” a man shouts from somewhere in the pen. “Alice, grab my hand! We're getting out of -”

  His voice is cut off suddenly, accompanied by the sound of a pig biting through his neck. I shouldn't know that specific sound so well by now, but I do.

  Slipping into the farmhouse, I carry the bleeding child into the kitchen and place it on the table. There's more blood dribbling from its mouth, so I tilt the poor thing onto its front and watch in horror as more blood runs freely from the hole in the middle of its face. Once the blood has become no more than a trickle, I turn the child onto its back again and then I take a pair of tweezers from my pinny. Carefully, I reach the tweezers' tip into the bloodied nose and start plucking out shards of broken glass. Some of the pieces have been pulverized, but there are still a few larger sections.

  All the while, the poor, dear child continues to scream.

  “Don't bother,” John says suddenly. “She's a goner.”

  Turning, I see him watching me from the doorway.

  “I think she can be saved,” I tell him. “Please, we have to try.”

  “She'd be no use anyway.”

  “John, please!” I say firmly, speaking to him much more forcefully than I'd usually dare. “At least try. If nothing else, it'd be good practice.”

  He stares at me for a moment, before coming over to the table and looking down at the wriggling, screaming bundle.

  “You want a girl around the place,” he mutters finally, sounding distinctly unimpressed by the idea. “Is that it?”

  “She's a girl?” Feeling a rush of shock, I look down at the child.

  “She'd be another mouth to feed,” he continues, sounding sour and skeptical. “Girls always eat more.”

  “She could cook and clean,” I point out. “When she's older, at least. We already have three boys. Can't we at least try to raise a little girl?” I wait for him to agree, but he still seems to be holding back, as if he's still reluctant. “It might be good for the family, too,” I continue, even though I hate appealing to this side of his nature. “Some of the stock is getting awfully muddied and close. I know you've noticed, the boys are... Well, it's showing in the boys. A girl'd bring something new.”

  He pauses, and finally he pushes me aside.

  “Leave us alone for a while,” he mutters. “I'll do my best, but I can't promise anything. It's a miracle she hasn't drowned in her own blood already, but she might grow up to be good breeding stock, if nothing else.”

  “Thank you,” I stammer, grabbing his arm. “John, thank you so -”

  “Leave me alone!” he hisses, pushing me away. “I can't work if you're clawing at me!”

  Hurrying through to the hallway, I drop to my knees and then lean back against the wall, closing my eyes as I squeeze my hands together.

  “Please,” I whisper, as the child's screams continue to ring through the house. “Just one girl. Just one. I won't ask for anything else ever again, not in all the world, I just want -”

  Suddenly the front door crashes open and the three boys race through, colliding with one another and slamming into the stair-rail.

  “Did you see?” one of them asks excitedly. “The pigs are tearing apart two people at once!”

  “I saw,” I reply, opening my eyes.

  “One of them was still begging for mercy after his head had been torn off!”

  “Now that's not possible,” I tell him. “You're exaggerating.”

  “Only a little,” he continues with a grin. “It was still gross!”

  “What's Pa doing?” another of the boys asks, frowning as he looks through to the kitchen. “Is that a baby?”

  “Leave him be,” I say firmly, and then I grab his arm when he tries to go and take a closer look. “Leave him be!” I snap, pushing him back toward the others. “Pa's got to sew her face shut first.”

  “I want to see!” one of the others says, pushing past.

  Getting to my feet, I try to pull him back, but I'm too late. Hurrying after him, I grab his arm just as he gets to the table, but then I freeze as soon as I see John digging a needle through the center of the child's face. For a moment, all I can manage is to stare at the screaming baby, and to watch as John carefully threa
ds a piece of wire through the poor little thing's flesh. He might be a harsh, brutish man at times, but no-one could ever accuse John of not knowing his way around a human body.

  His hands might be scarred and dirty, but they're also firm and strong. A surgeon's hands.

  ***

  “It's done.”

  An hour later, having tried to take my mind off things by sewing patches onto the boys' pants, I turn and see John coming into the front room. There's blood caked all over his hands, and he seems wearier than ever before.

  “Is she alive?” I ask, looking through to the hallway. It's been a while since I heard the child cry, and in my heart of hearts I've already begun to prepare for the worst.

  “We'll see how she fares in the morning,” he mutters, taking a seat in the armchair by the window. “Maybe she'll make it, maybe she won't. One things for sure, though. She'll have a hell of a scar.”

  “I'll get you some food,” I tell him, getting to my feet and hurrying through to the kitchen.

  In truth, as much as I know I must find something for my husband to eat, I'm also very keen to check on the girl. Sure enough, I find that John left her still in her bloodied shawl, and he made no effort at all to clean her. As the boys shout and play outside in the yard, I step over to the child and look down at her face. Her eyes are closed, almost as if she's dead, but when I place the back of my hand against her mouth, I feel her breathing. John probably knocked her out with a little alcohol, and I expect she'll wake screaming before too long.

  For now, though, thick silver and black wire runs in and out of her broken flesh, binding the center of her face shut. John has most certainly done a good job. I'd like to clean the poor girl, but I'm worried about damaging the needlework so I decide to wait until tomorrow.

  Spotting a bloodied label on the shawl, I peer closer. I use a thumbnail to scratch away some dried blood, and finally I'm able to read a name.

  “Victoria Williams,” I whisper.

  Looking at the child's face, I can't help thinking that she deserves something better. Victoria might have been her name before she arrived at the farm, but she needs a new name now.

  “Ethel,” I say finally, “after my grandmother.”

  No, that still seems wrong. She needs a better name.

  Reaching out, I brush her chin with the side of my hand. She's so beautiful and soft, and I feel absolutely certain that she'll survive the night. Perhaps it's a mother's intuition, but I feel sure that she's already starting to heal, and I shall sleep down here with her, just so I can be sure I'm available for whatever she needs. I know raising a girl won't be the same as raising a boy, but this little beauty is going to be a perfect miracle.

  Staring down at her face, I wait for the right name to pop into my head. After just a couple of seconds, I smile as I realize exactly what to call her.

  “Enda,” I whisper. “That's your name. After my own great-aunt. And I promise you, everything is going to be okay now that you're here with us.”

  Leaning closer, I kiss the side of her face.

  “Welcome to the farm, Enda Clare.”

  Prologue Two

  Penny

  Today

  Suddenly sitting bolt upright, I see that the car's headlights are picking out yet another dark, remote country lane.

  “It's okay,” Pete says as he turns the wheel, easing us around the next corner, “you can nap longer if you want. We won't get to my parents' for a few more hours yet.”

  “No,” I mutter, looking down at my hands as they rest on my huge, domed belly. “I'm fine.”

  “Feel anything?”

  I shake my head. “Did you take a wrong turn?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I just wondered.”

  “You think I don't know the way?”

  “I'm sure you do,” I reply, forcing a smile. He always gets so offended whenever I question his sense of direction, although I thought we were supposed to be at the house already. Then again, the dark Kentish countryside all seems the same to me, but I guess John knows the area well enough.

  “You know we wouldn't be coming down to see them if it wasn't urgent, don't you?” he asks. “Mum kept telling me on the phone that Dad's fine, but I could hear it in her voice... Something's wrong and she's not telling me. I don't think it was just a minor stroke. I think there's something else she's not letting on.”

  “It's okay,” I reply, forcing a smile even though I think I might need to pee again soon. “I understand. Anyway, the baby's not due for another two weeks. I'm sure we can handle a few days away from home. The only thing I'm worried about is your mother smoking around me while I'm pregnant. I hate cigarette smoke at the best of time, and with the baby I really think I should avoid -”

  I wince as I feel the baby shifting slightly.

  “Penny?” Pete asks, sounding concerned. “What was -”

  “Nothing,” I tell him, leaning back and taking a deep breath. Staring at the road ahead, I can't help feeling that we must be miles from anywhere. I'm just doing my usual London-girl panic routine, the same one that kicks in every time I'm out of the city. Slowly, my eyes start to close and the motion of the car lulls me into another doze, but after a few seconds I sit up again with a jerk.

  “You can't do it, can you?” Pete asks.

  “What?”

  “You can't just relax and sleep while I'm driving. You constantly think I'm going to take a wrong turn and get us lost.”

  “Of course I don't,” I mutter, taking another deep breath. As we flash past a road-sign, I see that we're about nine miles from Wexham, which means we're still a fair way from Pete's parents' house. “I'm going to prove it to you,” I continue, closing my eyes again. “Wake me up when we get there, okay? We might need to stop sooner, though, 'cause I think I'm going to need the little girls' room.”

  “We passed a Happy Eater a few miles back,” he replies, “but it was all boarded up.”

  “That's fine.” I take another deep breath, trying to calm my thoughts. “It's all good.”

  As the car bumps along the road, I let my head tilt forward. I'm not quite asleep, but I feel I might manage to drop off eventually if I can just clear my thoughts. I keep telling Pete that this little trip is fine, but that's a lie. The last thing I want to do in my final trimester is to visit his parents, but I know he's worried about his father so I figure I should just suck it up. Besides, I'm not quite ready to pop yet. With my head lolling down and my chin bumping against my collarbone, I feel myself gently easing into sleep...

  I can feel the baby moving, too. Shifting position slightly, still growing. A faint smile crosses my lips as I try to imagine what it'll be like when I finally see my child's face and -

  Suddenly there's a loud creaking sound. Opening my eyes, I see a flash of tarmac against the windshield and then something reaches into my chest, as if an invisible force is swinging me around. Just as all the air rushes from my lungs, the car smashes down on its roof and then spins, clipping the side of a tree and then rolling back out across the road. There's a terrible grinding sound from the roof, and for a moment I feel as if the entire world is about to break apart, but a few seconds later there's another loud thud and everything goes dark.

  Reaching down, I run my hands over my bump, desperately hoping for some sign of life. The seat-belt is tight against my chest, but it takes a moment before I realize we're upside-down.

  “Pete?” I stammer, as the engine makes a loud, clanking revving sound, almost as if it's about to explode. “Pete, are you okay?”

  Reaching out into the darkness, I feel jagged broken glass against my hand, but then I manage to find Pete's leg.

  “Pete!” I shout, running my hand along his leg and onto his chest. I can't see a damn thing, although I quickly manage to touch the side of his face, only to feel some kind of hot, sticky liquid all over his cheek.

  Blood.

  “Pete!” I scream, shaking his head. “Pete, we have to get out of here!”


  The engine is still revving, but all I can do is keep shaking my husband, hoping against hope that he might suddenly wake up.

  “Pete, listen to me,” I stammer, with tears running down my cheeks. “Can you hear me? For God's sake, Pete, say something! You have to -”

  Suddenly I hear a loud bump over my shoulder, and I turn just in time to see a shadow outside the car. After a fraction of a second, the shadow moves and I realize someone's out there.

  “Help!” I shout, banging on the window. “We're in here! Help us! Call an -”

  Before I can finish, something smashes into side of the car, shattering the window and showering me with glass. I turn away, while trying to protect my bump with my hands, but now I can hear a heavy grunting sound from outside the car. Turning to look, I see a hand reaching through the broken window and fumbling against the seat, and then finally the fingers brush my shoulder. The hand stops for a moment before reaching in a little further, feeling the top of my arm as if to check that I'm really here.

  “Help,” I stammer, trying not to panic as the hand moves toward my neck.

  Two fingers press against my flesh, as if to search for a pulse.

  “Please help,” I whimper, with tears streaming down my face.

  The hand pulls away.

  “I'm trapped,” I continue, starting to tremble with fear. “My husband isn't moving, please, you have to help us!”

  I wait, but now it's as if the person has left.

  “Are you still there?” I ask, struggling again to loosen my seat-belt. “Please, you have to call for help. We need an ambulance. Is that what you're doing? Are you calling for help?”

  Again I wait, watching the broken window, hoping that -

  Suddenly the hand reaches in again, holding a syringe. Before I'm able to react, the needle slides into my arm and I feel something being injected into my body.

  “What are you doing?” I shout, although I'm already starting to feel light-headed. “I'm pregnant! You have to be careful, I'm pregnant and...”