TROLL

TROLL

By Ashley Michael Day 

"He without sin cast the first stone." 

-John 8:7

  Jasmine Harper was the most hated woman on the planet, and she loved every second of it. She had made a career out of being publicly despised. Her blogs, articles, and interviews had paid off her mortgage and afforded her a lavish lifestyle. 

  She had a 3.1 million pound Mansion in a secluded spot in Wimbledon. Despite being in the busy London capital, her three story house had a private gated driveway and was surrounded by tall, towering trees that gave her the luxury of privacy. Not surprisingly, none of her neighbours felt obliged to pop round to visit her, nor would she encourage it. Guests were like fish, after a few hours they started to stink. She had found it intolerable having to put up with that security specialist for the last fortnight. If she hadn't felt the need to upgrade her burglar alarm and had coincidentally received his company's spam email, she might not have gone through with it? 

  But - being the most hated woman in the world did have its risks… 

  It was early evening, and Jasmine could see her mirrored image in the reinforced glass windows. She was dressed in her Hundred Stars Kimono, enjoying the finely brushed cotton against her bare arms. The vibrant print of The great wave of Kanagawa on the negligee matched the blue silk of her shimmering nightgown. She admired her appearance in the glass. She was in her forties and desirable. Her long blonde hair, her slender figure, and expensive tastes kept her on the television. If she had been some obese shrew, Jasmine doubted she'd get the same media attention.

  If only they could see her now? she thought with a smirk. 

  Saluting her own success, Jasmine raised  her glass of Château nerf-du-Pape to her reflection. She breathed in the warm summer berries and enjoyed the wine's warmth as she swallowed. 

  Jasmine was regretting her decision to send her personal assistant home. She enjoyed making Kieran work late. Especially when she felt as sexy as she did tonight. Yet, she had decided beforehand that tonight would be "all work and no play." She had consciously decided to go offline for a month to wait for the unpleasantness to die down. Now, she was determined to come back with a vengeance. 

  She would post online a shocking article she had been toying with regarding women dressing inappropriately, making themselves targets for sexual predators. Not that she agreed with the  statement personally, Jasmine just enjoyed playing devil's advocate. It was something the plebs never really understood. When she was at private school, Jasmine had excelled on the debate circuit. Whether she agreed with the argument or not was inconsequential, it was always about winning, morality had no place in a political debate. 

  Jasmine took another sip of wine as she crossed the living room to her work desk. She had set the right ambiance for the evening; a blazing gas fire, softly dimmed lighting, and relaxing music that played gently in the background. And all linked to her phone so she could control her contemporary mansion at a touch of a button. The atmosphere was perfect! No distractions to keep her from her work. 

  Bliss. 

  Sitting at her desk, she turned on her laptop. As she waited for the screen to load, she took another sip of wine before lighting a scented candle. As the wax began to melt it released its fragrant oils. Jasmine sighed as the aroma of lavender filled the room. 

  The computer seems to be taking longer to load nowadays, she thought, as she waited for the icons to appear. 

  'No matter, I can use the time productively,' she declared to the empty room. 

  Jasmine picked up her mobile phone and logged online to her Instagram account. There were hundreds of unread notifications she would need to have Kieran go through, but until then, she would let her public know Jasmine Harper was back! She raised her phone into the air and took a selfie. After checking the image she tried again, rearranging her kimono so the most flattering amount of cleavage was on show. 

  Something for the boys. 

  Jasmine smiled, pleased with her new selfie, and after applying her favourite filter, she looked stunning. She posted the image with a brief message warning the world that she had a shocking article that will divide opinion. 

  Which could refer to anything she wrote.

  She copied and pasted the statement and posted it on Facebook and Twitter too. Now, all that was left was to write the article itself! 

  She opened a new document on her laptop and poised her fingertips over the keys. The blank page was always intimidating. That empty white screen and flashing cursor taunting her, willing her to procrastinate, or crumble from writer's block. But not tonight. Tonight nothing would get in her way. 

  BRRP! 

  Jasmine glanced down at her vibrating smartphone. She picked it up and recognised a tiny green dot flashing, warning her that she'd received a message. 

  Unknown number. 

  Probably some scam, she guessed, I'll need to write something about this too…

  She opened the message and immediately dropped her phone. Her hands trembled by the side of her face as she watched her mobile hit the polished floorboards. Her heart was palpitating as her breathing became laboured. The device landed on its back, spinning on the varnished oak, showing the photograph of a dead man. Jasmine's eyes were wide with alarm as she stared down at the smiling face of the deceased.  

  His name was Danny Ambrose, he was a young man with autism who had committed suicide a month ago. He had stepped out in front of a moving train. Jasmine had wanted to forget the whole unpleasant experience. Especially when some hack had suggested he had killed himself due to an article she had written.  The whole thing was preposterous! How was she to blame? It was nonsense! She didn't personally attack him, as the media jackals hinted. All she had done was pose an argument that those with disabilities were being punished for a sin. A common belief in religions expressing ableism. How was she to know someone would take her argument so literally?! It was just an article for God's sake! How was she to know he was going too… 

  BRRP!-BRRP! BRRP!-BRRP! 

  The phone was ringing...

  Unknown number…

  Danny Ambrose's number. 

  Jasmine gingerly reached down and picked up her phone. The ringing vibrations matching her trembling shakes. She terminated the call without answering. Her exposed arms had turned to goosebumps. 

  'Some prank,' Jasmine murmured, 'just a tasteless prank. I guess I'll need to change your number again,' she said to her phone. And as if to answer, the phone groaned as Danny Ambrose sent another text. The message was short and flashed onto the screen. 

Be sure your sin will find you out. 

  Jasmine swiftly switched the screen to black and slid the device across the desk. She sat bolt right in her chair, gawping down at her phone like a startled Carp as she waited for it to ring. 

  Seconds passed, but no reply. 

  She gulped, questioning whether to check it again, to see if she'd received a further reply. She hesitantly reached for the mobile… 

  Wee-Woo! Wee-Woo! Wee-Woo! 

  Jasmine jumped out of her seat knocking her chair over. The deafening siren from the burglar alarm shrieked through the house. She rested a flat palm against her chest, feeling her heart thud violently inside. Taking a deep breath, composing herself, Jasmine rushed across the open planned living room towards the hallway. The shrill alarm was like a crying baby. The alarm's keypad was next to the entrance. She typed in the code and the alarm suddenly ceased. 

  She shook her head, shrugging off the incident as a technical glitch. "A gremlin in the system." There were bound to be a few hiccups. 

  Nothing serious. 

  As she turned away from the keypad the alarm sprung to life. 

Wee-Woo! Wee-Woo! Wee-Woo!

  She typed in the code again. The alarm stopped.

A second later, it went off again. Jasmine entered the code once more, but this time the alarm continued to shriek. She punched in the code again. 

  Nothing. 

  She tried it again, and again, and again. But still, the alarm continued to wail! The sound was excruciating! 

  It was giving her a migraine. 

  'Bloody thing!' she yelled, as she struck the keypad, hoping the sudden blow would show it who's boss. 

Wee-Woo! Wee-Woo! Wee-Woo!

  Giving up on the code, Jasmine checked the pad for an emergency contact number. Unwilling to fetch her mobile, she used the landline in the hallway instead. Lifting the receiver, she carefully dialed the security company. 

  'Vanguard Security, how can I help you?' 

  'This is Jasmine Harper. Your alarm system is on the blink! I've typed in my security code and it's not working! I want it switched off and I wish to complain!' 

  She gave the woman at Vanguard her full address and details and waited for a reply. Whilst she was on hold, she pressed a finger in one ear and the phone receiver against the other, endeavouring to drown out the noise. Jasmine's head was beginning to throb. 

  'Miss Harper?' 

  'Yes?' 

  'I have checked our records here, and er, I'm afraid there seems to be some confusion.'

  Jasmine sighed before asking:

  'What confusion?' 

  'Well,' the girl replied quizzically, 'you don't appear to be a customer of ours.'

  'As I said, I only recently joined with you. You probably haven't had my details updated on your system, yet.'

  The Vanguard employee ignored the caller's patronising tone and continued to explain:

  'Miss, our records are current. And I am afraid from what me and my colleagues have seen, you are not a recognised customer of Vanguard Security.'

  'I've just called your number from your keypad so I must be one of your members.'

  'I'm afraid not,' the girl replied, a little too pleasantly to Jasmine's liking. 

  'This is absurd!' 

  'Thank you for calling Vanguard Security.' 

  'Don't you dare hang up on me,' Jasmine snarled, 'do you know who I am? How dare you treat a customer like this. Do you have any idea what kind of damage I can do to your company! You have not heard the last of this-' 

  The line went dead.

  Jasmine stood aghast. She was so taken aback she hadn't realised that the alarm had stopped its screeching. 

  All was silent. 

  Including her connection. 

  No buzzing down the line. The girl hadn't hung up on Jasmine, The connection had been cut. She jabbed at the buttons on the handset, but it was hopeless. The line was dead. Cursing aloud, she slammed the receiver back onto its holster, then stamped back into the living room. 

  'Sodding useless phones,' she snapped, 'no wonder no one uses landlines anymore. And as for Vanguard! I'll show you what happens when you shun Jasmine Harper. Not our customer! When I'm through with you, I won't be the only one.'

  How could they not know her? she wondered, I spent a fortune with them! New alarm, sensors, lighting, safety windows, camera's, all linked together on an app for her to control. It had cost thousands, even with the discount! After all, that was the deal their installer quoted--

  Jasmine stopped in front of her desk, frozen to the spot. The hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end. It was a scary thought, but one Jasmine couldn't avoid. 

  'Did he work for them?' 

  She'd answered his spam email. Anyone could have sent that! What if this installer was an imposter? The idea was reviving her migraine. She massaged her temples trying to rid herself of the tension swelling inside her brain. She had let him inside her house! Trusted him with her personal belongings whenever she'd popped out for the day.

  The betrayal! 

  But it was not this revelation that had stopped her in her tracks. It was a pop-up on her laptop with a picture of Danny Ambrose's face. A conversation on Messenger. Jasmine could not turn away from the smiling face she had become so familiar with. The accusing articles, the interviews, the nightmares and sleepless nights haunting her. She had tried to push the memory away. Burying it with the dead, disabled boy. But someone, it seems, was not prepared to let the matter drop.

Accusing her.

Persecuting her.

Stalking her.

Jasmine didn't believe this message was coming from beyond the veil… 

  She squinted at the screen as she read the message. 

Be sure your sin will find you out. 

  'What sin?' 

  She stooped towards the laptop to type her reply, when suddenly a response came on to the screen. 

You know. 

  Jasmine shivered. Had she been too hasty in dismissing this as supernatural? She typed her reply with trembling hands. 

I am not responsible for the actions of others. Naturally, I am very sorry that he killed himself. But it was not my fault. 

  She didn't have to wait long for a reply. 

You're not sorry. 

I assure you, I am. 

You don't look sorry, standing in your fancy mansion in your silk nightie and dressing gown?

  Jasmine gasped in horror as she retreated from the computer. Covering her mouth with her hands, stifling a scream, as the lights went out. The only source of illumination came from the flickering flames from the gas fire, causing eerie shadows to dance around the room. 

  'My god,' she exclaimed, 'you're here, aren't you?' 

  An overwhelming sense of panic flowed through her. Her eyes filled with tears as she shuddered. But Jasmine Harper was a fighter. A survivor. Harnessing this fear into anger, she forced herself to stride back to her desk with her chin raised in indignation. She snatched up her mobile phone and dialed for the police. 

  No connection. 

  No service. 

  She tried again. 

  No service. 

  Raising the phone up into the air like the Statue of liberty, endeavouring in vain to get a signal, knowing in her heart that help would not be coming. The terror was flooding back. She reached for a weapon: a gold, ornate fire poker, and brandished it as she made her way to the front door. Jasmine spun left to right, half expecting the rotting corpse of Danny Ambrose to leap from the shadows like some grizzly apparition from a horror film. Jasmine retreated to the front door unmolested. Giving up on the phone, she backed into the solid oak door and felt for the lock with the same hand. Her other was pointing the fire poker towards the gloom. 

  She unbolted the door. 

  Twisted the catch. 

  Pulled down the handle...

  Nothing.

  The door was locked!

  How!? she screamed inside her own head. Why won't you open?! 

  The door handle flapped but it wouldn't move. 

  She had unlocked it.

  Jasmine tried to use both hands to wrench it open, tugging at the handle until it snapped off the door. She fell onto her bottom, sliding across the polished floor boards. The fire poker clattering beside her. Jasmine winced with disgust. Her mouth tasted coppery. Wiping the back of her hand against her lips, she recognised a dark, thin trail of blood. She had bit her lip as she fell. 

  Ignoring the pain and feeling of fright, she raced around the room trying all the doors and windows on the ground floor. None would open. Jasmine did a circuit of the open planned room with its white, art deco interior and found herself back in the living room. The warm glow of the fireplace lured her in like a moth to a flame. The only other light was the brightly lit screen of her laptop. As Jasmine turned to face the computer a message sprung up for her to read. 

Be sure your sin will find you out. 

You can not escape it. 

  Groaning with exhaustion, Jasmine tried to think logically. No one is in the house, she was sure of that. So how did Danny Ambrose know what she was wearing? Danny Ambrose? Why am I calling him that? Danny's dead! This isn't some ghost or ghoul seeking revenge beyond the grave. Spectres don't hire security companies who send emails. She had seen the man who had installed the equipment. He was no phantom. He was flesh and blood, with a grudge. 

  Camera's! Had to be, she deduced, He must have hidden cameras inside the house! 

  Jasmine gazed up at the ceiling as she slowly spun round, holding the fire poker like a Fairy Godmother's wand. 

  Where would you hide a camera? 

  She had drifted towards the centre of the living room, until a ping from her laptop drew her attention. 

  Another message. 

  Jasmine returned to her desk. The smell of lavender from her scented candle aggravated her now. She huffed at the flame extinguishing it causing a wisp of silvery smoke to drift up into the air like a spirit. Jasmine rolled her eyes at the image, as she read the new message. 

Cold. 

  She frowned at the glowing screen, wondering what it…

   Cold? Cold! 

  Jasmine unplugged her laptop and lifted it off the desk. The device was expensive and light in weight. She was able to hold it with one hand as she slowly maneuvered her way around the room. As she drifted from one direction to the next, her computer would ping with each incoming message. 

Cold. 

Colder. 

Cold. 

Ice cold. 

Cold. 

Warmer. 

  She had been so preoccupied with the hints on the screen that she had not taken notice of her location within the room. But now that she was getting warmer she took a look around the space. She was nearing the bookcase on the opposite side of the room. 

  She took another step towards the bookcase. 

Warmer. 

  And then another step. 

Hotter. 

  Impatience got the better of Jasmine Harper as she hurried to the bookcase. In the faint glow of the fire she was able to scan the titles and woodwork for any sign of a camera lens. She bit her lip in concentration, causing fresh blood to flow. Many of the novels and knick-knacks that decorated the shelves were familiar to her, but still she examined them thoroughly for any sign of an anomaly. Jasmine was beginning to lose hope, when she suddenly saw a book that didn't belong. 

  Crime and Punishment. 

  She had never read it in her life! 

  Jasmine was never a fan of the heavy hitting Russian authors. Nor would anyone (in their right mind) give it to her as a gift. As she inspected the wide spine of the epic novel, she noticed a small black lens where the gold leaf scales of justice had been removed. Seizing the hardback, she yanked the heavy volume from the shelf. The book snagged, revealing some exposed wires that powered the secret camera within. With one more yank, the wires came away from the wall. As Jasmine cradled the faux leather book in her arms, she beamed at her small victory over her unseen tormentor. She pulled open the front cover to see what was inside. As she did, a large wire spring snapped inside the book like a mouse trap, crushing her right thumb. Jasmine yelped, letting go of the book with her left hand. The heavy volume dangled from her trapped thumb causing Jasmine to cringe. As she struggled to free herself from the booby trap, clippings concealed inside the book fluttered down onto the floor like confetti. 

  Freeing herself, she sucked her swollen thumb that pulsated inside her mouth. As she soothed her pain, Jasmine glanced down at the photos and news clippings at her feet. They were all about Danny Ambrose. Her article, his pictures, the accusations, his obituary. 

   Jasmine dropped to her knees sobbing. Her tears were not for the confused, autistic, suicidal man, but for the relentless persecution that was being inflicted upon her. 

  'What do you want from me?!' 

  All was silent, until the familiar ping from her laptop. 

  Weeping with weariness, she glimpsed at the message on the screen. 

Be sure your sin will find you out. 

Confess. 

  She shook her head in frustration before asking:

  'Confess? Or what? What if I refuse?' she snarled with contempt. 

Ping! Ping! Ping! Ping! Ping! Ping! 

  Jasmine spluttered, as her screen filled with multiple video boxes. The videos were all of Jasmine in her mansion. Her home had been filled with hidden cameras, recording her in secret. They were in every room from different angles. But it was the videos of her in the bathroom and bedroom that made her want to dry heave. Her tormentor had seen everything. 

  Everything! 

  Jasmine felt violated. 

  He had footage of her using the lavatory, taking a bath, using the shower. Her naked body revealed in every conceivable angle, exposing every unflattering position. 

  If those images were not enough to end her career as a legitimate journalist, the footage from the bedroom would make her a laughing stock. A night vision filter had captured every detail. Kieran tied to the bed posts whilst she eagerly performed a sex act upon him…

  In her last act of defiance, Jasmine leapt to her feet, sweeping up her laptop in both hands. She raised the computer above her head and threw it at the window pane. The same mirrored glass she had admired herself in earlier that evening. The device was thrown with such force, she was anticipating the satisfaction of destruction. She would take some pleasure as the laptop shattered the glass with a ferocious crash…

   The window did not break. The computer clattered off the glass and spiralled down to the floor. It struck the hard wood and died. The screen a black jagged crack... 

  But the window was unscathed. 

  As she gazed at the glass, it dawned on her the predicament she faced. She was trapped in a prison of her own making, and her captor was the only one who possessed the key… 

  It was not the article Jasmine Harper had intended to write tonight, but her public apology for the culpability in the death of Danny Ambrose would still be a source of controversy. She had managed to write her admission of guilt on her mobile phone, which made it convenient for her to share it to her social media outlets. Sitting in the warm glow of her fire, in the middle of the room, surrounded by  paper clippings and photos of a dead man's smile, swigging the last dregs of wine from the bottle, Jasmine mourned. Not for the stranger in the photos, but for the life she had made for herself. The life she feared was slipping through her fingers. All she could do now was wait. Wait to see if she would be granted her freedom? Or if the sex tape would be leaked online anyway, and go viral? Or to discover if her last article is just that? Her last. Jasmine whimpered as she hugged the empty bottle. She had made her confession. Whether it would end her career, (like the sex tape would certainly have done) time would tell? But if it was indeed the end, she could still claim the fame of being the most hated woman on the planet.