Asylum - 13 Tales of Terror (22 page)

“What’s not tonight?” Zachery asked.

“What you’re looking for.”

“What do you know about it?” Zachery slurred, his voice seemed as tired as the rest of him.

“Oh I know a lot young fella. I’ve seen them all come and go, and I’ve seen the looks on their faces. It’s in their eyes you see, dark hungry eyes like yours,” the man chuckled.

Zachery looked up to demand answers, to force the filthy bum to reveal what he knew, to beat it out of him if necessary, but he had no strength. “Please,” he pleaded instead, “Help me.”

“Oh there’s nothing that can help you now sonny,” the bum cackled gleefully. “What you’re looking for won’t be back, and what you need you won’t be able to make,”

“There must be something I can do?” Zachery whispered.

“You got the taste, the taste that’ll never go away; it’ll only get stronger and the more you eat, the more you’ll have to eat. Whatever you did to get here, I’m guessing that you deserved it. Only the worthy are chosen sonny. What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Zachery said, his voice gaining a little strength from anger. “And whatever I might have done, I don’t deserve this,” he thumped a bony fist against his skinny leg, “I don’t deserve this.”

“You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t,” the man said.

“What is it?” Zachery asked, not really knowing if he wanted to know the answer.

“It’s an old word, a strange word, a word that means little to those outside of the circle.”

“What word?”

“Wendigo”

“What the hell is that?” Zachery asked tiredly.

“The Wendigo is an ancient spirit of cannibalism. It is said that any man who eats the flesh of another will bare themselves open to be filled with the Wendigo spirit.”

“Bullshit.”

“Oh really, and how exactly are you feeling today?” the bum giggled, “Feeling a bit peckish are we? Can’t eat no matter what you try to guzzle down? I’ll bet you can’t stop thinking about that one perfect burger can you?”

“What are you saying? That there’s a burger truck driving around the city serving up human delicacies?” Zachery wanted to laugh at the absurd notion, but somehow he couldn’t find the strength.

“Starting to get the picture are we Mr. Carmine?” the bum laughed riotously. “Starting to see the joke. You’ll never get better; you’ll never heal and you’ll never eat again. You’re going to waste away painfully, inch by inch, day by day.”

Zachery stared up at the bum who was now doing a clumsy jig around him as he laughed. “Guzman?” he asked as the bum danced and laughed. “Jonathon Guzman, is that you?”

“Oh yes,” Guzman’s mad eyes sparkled, “You took everything from me and now I’m going to watch you die slowly, so very slowly.”

Zachery sank into the rickety bench, his hand pressed against the cold steel of the razor sharp kitchen knife that he had brought from home. Even though his senses were severely dulled by his crippling hunger he still knew enough not to come into a neighborhood like this without at least some sort of protection.

“Guzman,” he whispered quietly, “Come here,” he motioned.

Guzman stopped his merry dance and moved in closer, “Is it absolution that you’d be wanting?” the widowed restaurateur said in a terrible Irish accent, “Is it the last rites that you’d be wanting son?” he snickered.

Zachery waved him in closer; he clutched the knife with a trembling hand inside his coat. Guzman leant in to hear his confession and Zachery drew the knife in a smooth fluid motion and plunged it deep into the heart of his tormentor.

Guzman staggered back in disbelief; his eyes bulged at the sudden turn of events, and Zachery drew strength and pleasure from the shock in Guzman’s eyes. A dark stain began to soak through Guzman’s chest as he sank to his knees and then fell onto his back.

Zachery heaved himself up off of the bench and stood over the dying man. His stomach lurched at the sight of the blood and he assumed that it was in horror, before a thunderous rumble and a salivating mouth corrected his assumptions.

----------

It was three in the morning before he staggered back into his apartment, his arms full of dripping bounty. He had first attempted to devour Guzman raw but his system had rebelled at the attempt. He had finally managed to clear his mind enough to think clearly. He had to recreate the burger, the recipe. He knew that he couldn’t heft Guzman’s whole body through the city streets all the way home, so he had beavered away into the cold night, slicing and dicing with an expert’s skill until he had enough of Guzman to see him through. Luckily he’d had the foresight to remove his own coat during the butchery and was able to use it to cover his now blood-soaked clothing. He’d wrapped the pieces in Guzman’s own coat turned inside out. He was more than a little concerned over the sanitary aspect, but figured that beggars really couldn’t be choosers.

He had carried his groceries all the way home in their makeshift dripping container, his stomach rumbling in anticipation, all the while his mind ticked over with thoughts of spices and herbs to add and combine. He knew that there was no recipe that he couldn’t recreate; his earlier attempts had been doomed to failure as he had lacked the right ingredients, but all that was going to change now that he had been shopping for the choicest cuts. He hummed merrily as he walked, assured that his ravenous hunger would soon be vanquished.

25.

BLACKWATER HEIGHTS

“Uh, that’s pretty gross,” Martin said, back in the hallway again.

“Well just you remember that next time that you think the cafeteria’s food sucks,” Jimmy giggled.

Martin looked at the elderly custodian without sharing his humor. His taste for these stories had just about been exhausted, and he didn’t think that he could take another bite.

“The neighbors began banging on Zachery Carmine’s door at around 4am,” Jimmy began to explain. “The noted food critic was cooking up a storm apparently, and the aroma was filling the entire building. The pajama attired gathering all agreed that the bouquet coming from the apartment was mouth-watering, but the noise of the chef clanging around with noisy pans was a little too much at 4am. After numerous unanswered attempts to raise Zachery the police were eventually called.”

“Do I really want to know what they found?” Martin asked, feeling his own stomach roll over.

“When the police finally agreed to break into the apartment at the insistence of a high court judge who just so happened to live in the building, they were answered by a bloody chef,” Jimmy continued gleefully, “Zachery’s Carmine’s face was tarnished with red stains as pink meat hung from his greedily chomping mouth. They discovered gore smeared utensils and pans as the noted food critic stomped around furiously yelling about not being able to get a recipe right.”

“Lovely,” Martin said through a queasy creeping that formed a lump in his throat.

Jimmy merely grinned happily as though he was having the time of his life.

“Why don’t we just get this done Jimmy?” Martin snapped, “One more tale and we’re finished.”

“Oh yes Martin, you are quite correct,” Jimmy said in an abruptly serious tone, “One more tale and then we are finished.”

Before Martin could ask anything else Jimmy was already moving further along the corridor. He suddenly noticed that Jimmy seemed to be limping now, dragging his right leg behind him. His right arm hung low and swung gently as he walked, as though it was missing something in its grasp. The shuffling walk put him in mind of something that he couldn’t quite place, some memory of the night’s tales from earlier. His mind temporarily refused to reveal its hidden bounty and Jimmy opened the last door.

“After you,” Jimmy ushered.

26.

NIGHT CLASS

Sara Wilton pulled into the college car park as the wind whipped rain viciously against the windscreen. The usual busy hive of the day’s activity was absent from the dark and stormy winter night. She checked her watch and found that it was 7:25pm; she was five minutes early and none too eager to be late on her first evening.

She wrapped her jacket tightly around her and pulled the hood over her head. She grabbed her backpack from the passenger seat and exited the car. She carefully closed the door behind her; she had soon discovered that when you were the one paying you treated all things with more care. The three year old Mini may not be anything special, but it was hers and she had papers to prove it.

Sara was thirty four; she was naturally blonde and tall with a slim runner’s build. She had sparkling green eyes, a dusting of light freckles, high Nordic cheekbones, thin lips and a whole new lease of life. She was just beginning to breathe in fresh clean air again after a smothering 12 year marriage that had all but sucked the very life from her bones. It had been such a long time since she’d had a thought of her very own; one that hadn’t revolved around Randolph. Even the name still made her shudder. He had been older by a dozen years, a suave gentleman with manners and etiquette that had transfixed her from the beginning.

He had been a writer who had spoken at her college; a seller of tall tales both on and off of the page. She had been 21 when they’d met and so very tired of the clumsy fumbling approaches of the boys her own age. Randolph had been everything that she had ever dreamt about; a man of experience, a traveler of the world, a fierce intellect that had opened her eyes to the world beyond her narrow borders. Her own environment seemed suddenly grey and suffocating in comparison to Randolph’s peacock feathers. He was a tall and broad man. His hair was shoulder length and black and his eyes were dark and concealing. He was barrel-chested and slim waisted. His features were smooth and strong, and he always wore a goatee beard that was trimmed neatly. She had left with him when he returned to his native America and she had waved goodbye to disapproving parents and jealous friends. Randolph had always fancied himself a modern day Hemingway, but by the time that she had discovered he was full of shit her life was no longer her own. She had taken on the job as his assistant, followed by manager, wife, and general dogsbody. The next 12 years for her had been only an existence to further his. She catered for his every whim both professionally and personally. Even as his career faltered and finally died, she bore the brunt of his childish outburst and sulks. She became his excuse for his failings, as his writer’s block became a permanent structure roughly the size of China’s great wall. She had simply drowned under his personality, his genius, and ultimately his self-destruction down the barrel of a shotgun. It was only when she raised her head above the parapet after his funeral that she was horrified to discover that 12 long years had passed. She was left with his dwindling fortune that consisted of more debt than equity. She had tried to advise him about his finances many times before but he had never listened. Now with him gone she was able to restructure his accounts and armed with the sudden surge of sales after his suicide, she was able to clear the debts and provide for her future. The bulk of the estate was now safely tucked away earning 17% interest in an offshore account and the money allowed her the time and space to finally find herself again.

She had returned to the UK to attempt reconciliation with her family, as 12 years under a tyrannical rule had left little room for correspondence. She was trying to slowly integrate herself again with lost ties and had purchased a modest apartment in the town. The next question had been just what to do with her time. Financially she was pretty well set; she wasn’t an opulent spender by nature and was content with her unassuming home and second-hand car.

She had toyed with the idea of returning to further education, as she possessed little in the way of standardized education. An evening class had seemed like the perfect gateway back into school; a way to meet a few people and perhaps to find out just who she was away from Randolph.

The Criminology Course had seemed like a little fun. She was an avid reader by nature and had always enjoyed crime novels, favoring the myriad of serial killer hunting novels. She thought that perhaps a peek behind the curtain of reality would be an interesting way to spend one evening a week, and perhaps she would be able to meet other people with similar tastes.

She swung her backpack over her shoulder and hoped that she wouldn’t look over prepared on her first night. Her bag contained several notepads of varying sizes; some lined, some plain and a whole host of pens, pencils, rulers, erasers, sharpeners and anything else that the store had been selling.

She ran quickly for the main entrance of the building as the storm raged around her. She held her hood, pulling it down against the growing strength of the wind and rain. The storm had been forecast but it wasn’t supposed to be as bad as this and she hadn’t wanted to miss her first class.

She pushed open the unlocked main doors and walked through onto the open atrium. The huge expanse would have been crowded during the day, but it was now empty. Sara faced the blackened atrium with some trepidation. There were no other night students visible and she folded her arms across her chest in a subconscious protective measure.

“Help you miss?”

Sara just managed to catch the scream in her throat before it leapt out and shattered the night. She turned around with her heart pounding painfully in her chest and saw a cruelly smiling security guard standing behind her.

“Didn’t startle you did I?” the man grinned.

Sara felt suddenly uneasy as the man moved in closer. He was around thirty with a pudgy spotty face and a short barreled body. His hair was short and roughly shaved. His eyes were a dull hazel and too close together. Acne scars pock marked his cheeks and a fresh rash of bulging spots were joining the show. He wore a dark blue uniform of cargo pants and a woolen jumper that strained at the seams across his girth. His expression was one of sour amusement and his piggy eyes rolled over her body with a voracious appetite.

Sara pulled her arms tighter across her chest and strove for a friendly disarming tone. “Hi, I was looking for the night class?” She smiled gently.

“Ah yes, Professor Rourke’s class, let me show you the way.”

Sara tried not to flinch when the guard put his chubby hand around her shoulder and began to guide her towards a darkened staircase that went down to a lower level. She wanted to shrug his hand away but she felt cornered by his confidence and her lack thereof. She started to panic and prayed for someone to interrupt as they reached the top of the stairs and the corridor below was all shadows and darkness.

“Oi Captain lecherous,” a savior called out from behind them, “Stop bloody pawing the poor woman.”

Sara turned around to gratefully face the female voice. The woman was around her age, but several inches shorter with tussles of black hair that fell out from under a baggy wool hat. Her face was hard and angrily set and her bright blue eyes burned with defiance and challenge.

The guard took his hand quickly from Sara’s shoulder and his face erupted in red, “I was just showing her the way to class,” he mumbled.

The woman strode sternly towards the stairs, “Class is upstairs,” she pointed with her middle finger in the guards face.

“Oh yeah, I forgot,” the guard stammered.

“I’ll bet,” the woman snapped, “Now piss off,” she barked as she turned to Sara with a warm smile.

“Hey you can’t talk to…” the security guard started.

Sara watched as the new woman silenced the man with a single glare and she suppressed a giggle as the man stomped away.

“Bloody perv,” the woman said, “He’s always trying it on with every newbie.”

“Oh I’m sure that he wasn’t…” Sara started, feeling an automatic response to defend the man.

“Bollocks he wasn’t,” the woman said seriously, “I’m Lacey by the way,” she held out her hand.

Sara shook the strong grip “Sara,” she replied.

“You’ve got a good nature Sara, I can tell, but that doesn’t mean that you have to put up with scumbags on a daily basis. Are you in Professor Rourke’s Criminology class?”

“Yes, it’s my first night,” she said nervously.

“Me too, so we’ll just have to become BFF’s as the kids would say then I guess,” Lacey laughed, linking an arm through Sara’s, “Come on, we’re upstairs.“

Lacey led her up the winding staircase and to the second level of the college. The walkway ran around the building in a circular motion overlooking the atrium below. They walked towards a large double door that had a sign reading “Library” over it.

“This is us,” Lacey said as they entered the library.

The room was long and narrow with a central straight walkway through the shelving units off on both sides. The lighting was muted as all of the main lights seemed to be turned off outside of daytime hours.

“We’re down here,” Lacey motioned, “One of the side rooms.”

Sara could see several closed doors beside glass windows with drawn blinds, side rooms for private study and consultation out of the thoroughfare of the library. Lacey stopped in front of a room and opened the door ushering Sara inside.

Sara was greeted by four upturned faces as she entered. The room was fairly compact and could only seat around 10 comfortably. The wraparound desks were each connected to a chair; all looked pristine as though untouched by the lurid imaginations of student etchings.

Of the three waiting evening students, there were two men and one other woman.

The first man sat twitching nervously. He was around forty with a brown haired side parting that looked a little too slickly plastered to his head. He wore a beige checked shirt under a thick green knitted cardigan. He looked to Sara to be every TV writer’s poster boy lookalike for a nutter if ever she saw one.

“Barry,” the man said as he nodded almost imperceptibly at Sara and Lacey before lowering his head quickly as his cheeks flushed.

The second man sat leaning backwards in his seat with one elbow casually resting on the arm rest. He looked younger than Barry by some distance; Sara pegged him for early twenties. His spread legs and open body language reeked of self-confidence. He wore light blue jeans, a skin tight long-sleeved white top that emphasized his physique with a thickly padded green and black lumberjack shirt over the back of his chair.

“Well good evening ladies, so nice to see the décor improving, I’m Eddie,” he said in an attempted husk, which made him cough a little.

The remaining woman turned to introduce herself. She looked to Sara to be about the same age as Eddie. She had long thick dark hair that fell across her face in natural waves and every now and then she puffed a little air from the corner of her mouth as though the hair tickled her face. She was pretty with dark eyes and a quiet smile that looked as if it was rarely used.

“Molly,” the woman said barely above a whisper whilst raising an unnecessary finger to indicate herself.

“Lacey and Sara,” Lacey said with an air of confidence that Sara could only admire.

Sara took a seat next to Molly leaving an empty space between her and Eddie as the last thing that she wanted was to be hit on by a boy who looked barely old enough to shave. She had joined the class in the hope of meeting similar minds to hers. During her marriage to Randolph she had not been permitted any circle of friends; her interactions with the outside world tended to consist of his business affairs. Lacey seemed just the sort of person to drag her out of herself and on first impressions. Molly seemed a little more introverted even than she was. Barry seemed like a male version of Molly, but without the charm, but Eddie just seemed annoying.

“I know who you are,” Molly whispered next to her in a struggling shy voice.

“I’m sorry?” Sara asked surprised.

“You were married to Randolph Perry.”

“Yes that’s right, did you know him?”

“Oh I read his work all the time; it must have been something to be married to a genius.” Molly barely managed as her cheeks flamed red.

“Oh, it was something alright,” Sara said a little bitterly.

“Son, I’d eat you alive.” Lacey suddenly laughed raucously as Eddie was attempting to whisper his version of sweet nothings in her ear.

Sara turned to the laughter. Lacey had sat to her right in the empty space, Eddie was to her right and Barry was on the end further down.

“Does anyone know much about the course?” Barry piped up from the end of the row.

“You looking for a few tips Bazzer?” Eddie asked sneeringly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Barry replied indignantly.

“Oh come on,” Eddie answered turning to the rest of the row, “Hands up who thought serial killer when they walked in and saw old Bazzer here?” he put his own hand up in the air theatrically.

Sara felt the ghost of a smile rise to her lips against her will and almost laughed when Lacey put her hand up.

“Sorry Barry,” Lacey shrugged with a grin, “Just being honest.”

Sara almost cracked further when Molly put her hand up as well, rather more timidly than Eddie or Lacey.

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

“Oh well that’s just lovely,” Barry huffed.

“Come on Bazzer,” Eddie said, “You’ve got to admit that you look like you’ve been shopping for clothes in the psycho aisle at…, at…”

“Laura Slashley?” Lacey offered with a shrug and a wink towards Sara.

“Marks and Slicer?” Molly suggested quietly.

“Giorgio Harm-ani?” Eddie asked unsure.

“Boo, that’s awful,” Lacey laughed.

“Well, I’m glad that you children are able to amuse yourselves with so little,” Barry sulked and made as though he was going to leave.

“Sit down Barry,” Sara said kindly, “I’m sure that they were only joking.”

Barry turned to her with a look that told her everything she needed to know about his life and those who were “only joking”. She smiled to reassure him that they were indeed only good natured barbs.