Asylum - 13 Tales of Terror (4 page)

“No idea. I thought that it was just the two of them and suddenly there are three. All we can do is wait for first light, we’ll track the bitch then. We found her once, and we can find her again.”

Julian waited for the shouts that hadn’t come. Gemma had said that she would be in plain view when the men entered, and that would allow him to get the drop on them from behind. Wherever Gemma was she obviously wasn’t in plain view; he began to feel uneasy as yet another plan faltered. His heart stopped as all he could do was watch as the largest of the three men approached the closet. The door handle turned and he took a step backwards and raised the gun, his hand shaking. The door opened. He stood there illuminated for all to see in the harsh generator infused lights of the cabin. His arm ached from the tension and his finger twitched on the trigger.

The large man was turned slightly; his attention focused towards his two companions and he threw a heavy coat into the closet without looking. The coat landed over Julian’s outstretched trembling arm holding the gun and he gasped in silent disbelief as the door swung closed again leaving him undiscovered. He was ready to laugh in shock when a loud crash silenced the generator outside and the cabin was plunged back into darkness. Even from his secluded position he could smell the petrol as he heard it spill and splash. There was a soft whoosh and a couple of seconds later he felt the heat as flames licked hungrily at the wooden cabin’s walls. The three men moved quickly.

“It’s her,” one of them shouted, “She’s outside.”

Julian heard the front door crash open and he saw through the knot hole that two of the men charged outside; their hands reaching inside their coats. The closet door suddenly swung open as the third man reached for his coat only to pause in shock as he saw Julian for the first time. Julian raised his arm holding the gun. His eyes locked with the much larger man. He opened his mouth to tell the cop or whatever he was not to move - maybe to freeze - but his finger trembled on the sensitive trigger and the gun went off. The explosion was monstrous in the small closet and Julian felt deafened by the blast. He watched in horror as the back of the large man’s head exploded out into the cabin in a fine red mist. The man slumped to his knees with a look of bewilderment on his face before pitching forward, dead. Julian realised that he was holding his breath and struggled to expel the build-up of air in his lungs. He stumbled out over the body. The rear wall of the cabin was now fully on fire; the smoke and fumes were filling the small area fast.

“Bobby? Bobby?” One of the men outside yelled back into the cabin, “You get that bitch?”

Julian’s senses revolted at the unforgivable rudeness of the man; despite everything that they had put her through, the man still spoke with such disrespect. He moved quickly to the side window. With a quick check around, he heaved himself up and out. He crept slowly around to the front of the cabin. Despite the growing heat he still felt more comfortable hugging the wooden logged walls.

He moved to the front and peered around the corner of the small building. The other two men were peering in through the front door, their hands shielding their faces against the smoke and the heat.

“Freeze,” he said, stepping out and trying for an authoritative tone but falling some way short.

The two men turned towards him, their faces contorted with shock. “What the hell is this?” The first man said, “They’re using guns now?”

“Don’t you move,” Julian stammered, “You just stay where you are, we’re not going to have any more of this nonsense. We are going to set things straight and we are going to get back on the plan.” His voice grew with strength at the thought of getting back on the plan. “We are going to get the authorities here and we are going to set things right,” his wounded arm still trembled but the other holding the gun was now rock still.

“Look man,” one of the men barked irritably, “Just who the hell are you?”

“It doesn’t matter who I am, I am just the one telling you how we are going to do things. STAY WHERE YOU ARE!” He shouted, suddenly realizing that the two men were drifting apart. He now had to swing the gun between them to cover them both.

“Easy pal, just take it easy,” one of the men said whilst still tiptoeing away from his partner.

“Yeah buddy,” the other man said, drifting his own way, “Maybe you’ve just wandered into something that you don’t understand. Maybe we made a mistake thinking that you were a part of this.”

“STAND STILL!” Julian shouted, realizing that he was losing control again.

The man to his right suddenly reached inside his coat and whipped out a silver gun that glinted under the fires dancing light. “PUT IT DOWN!” The man yelled.

“YOU PUT IT DOWN!” Julian shouted back.

“DROP IT!” The other man shouted as he drew a weapon to match his partner’s.

An explosion of movement suddenly whipped from behind the two men. Julian saw it coming and was transfixed by the vision. The figure was large and bounded across the clearing with tremendous speed. Powerful muscles bunched beneath the fur and sharp white fangs glistened in the firelight. The thing didn’t slow down as it ran into the man to his right. Julian lowered his gun involuntarily as he stood mesmerized. Huge jaws clamped down on the man’s head; a wet popping sound turned Julian’s stomach as the bones crunched and shattered under the dominant assault. The man’s legs shook violently in a death dance bop and the creature ripped its jaws free. Blood spewed over the clearing and the thing howled to the heavens. The creature turned to the last of the men.

The man raised his silver gun, but way too slowly. The monster covered the distance in a flash and slashed with a violent razor tipped claw. The blow shredded the man’s thick coat with ease and he sank to his knees clutching to keep his insides in place.

The monstrous vision swiveled its head back to Julian and any thoughts that he had of a savior disappeared when he saw the hunger in its eyes. It began to pad towards him, slowly, as though savoring the moment. Julian locked his gaze with the beast; it walked on all fours but it was larger than any wolf or dog that he had ever seen before. It was around the size of a grizzly bear but sleeker and more nimble. Its powerful haunches shimmered with muscle in the dancing flame light and its snout was long with deep set yellow eyes. Julian could only stare as it approached. His mind struggling to comprehend what he was seeing; wanting him to just lie down and sleep.

He broke the locked gaze and suddenly realised that he was holding a weapon. He lifted the gun with difficulty. A simple piece of machinery with a simple purpose; he aimed the gun and pulled the trigger as many times as it would fire. There were five bullets left in the gun and three of them thudded into the animal leaving small red holes in its body. The animal staggered drunkenly at the impact and toppled over onto the ground.

The man who had been clawed was still moving and Julian could hear him trying to talk,. He circled gingerly around the animal and towards the man.

As he reached him he could see that the wounds were grievous and fatal; long bloody gouges were torn deeply in the man’s chest. His breath hitched and struggled in the cold night air. Julian leant in closer as the man tried to speak.

“Take this, take it,” the man panted, holding out his silver gun. “We hunt them; this will kill it, only this.”

Julian took the gun, more to remove it from a potential threat than to shoot the already dead animal. A movement behind him startled him from that conclusion. He turned in disbelief to see the animal starting to move. He raised his own gun again and pulled the trigger only to have the hammer clack on empty chambers. He stared down at the weapon; his forehead crinkled in puzzled thought.

He turned his attention back towards the monster; incredibly the creature was in mid-air as he turned. Drooling fangs shone from foaming jaws as death flew through the air for him. He raised the other gun and pulled the trigger. A flash of lightning spat from the silver gun and the animal jerked violently from the impact and fell to the ground. Julian could only stare in wonder as the monster began to change. Its body shrunk and shortened; the thick fur receded and the snout and jaws retracted. The torso became lithe and supple, soft and feminine until he was looking down at Gemma.

The man behind him dredged up his last words, “We tracked her and her mate. We killed him but only wounded her; that’s why she couldn’t change until she was stronger.” He gasped for the energy to finish before he was. “We thought that you were one too. That’s why you picked her up and saved her. Never heard of them running in threes. Should’ve known, sorry,” he panted. “Sorry I shot you,” he whispered, and then he was gone.

Julian stood on the muddy ground; his mind had now locked the doors and given up the ghost. He clumsily attempted to straighten his hair and his clothes as the sun drifted slowly over the horizon welcoming the day. He checked his watch. It had been shattered during the night but it did not matter; there was time, still time to get back on the plan. All he had to do was find the schedule again. He could still make Dartford and he could still make his appointment. His face was frozen with a distant glaze and a strange crooked smile. He began to whistle a merry tune as he stepped over the bodies that he no longer saw, and walked off blindly into the woods.

3.

BLACKWATER HEIGHTS

“You’re shitting me right?” Martin said when they emerged into the corridor again, “What the hell was that?”

“Just one of many tales here,” Jimmy said, his elderly face twisted in delight.

Martin looked back through the door slot into the room where they had just listened to an unbelievable tale. The small, balding, neat man sat on his comfortable bed; his hands crossed on his lap, his eyes staring at the ceiling. “How did he end up here?”

“He was found wandering the woods some eight days after he disappeared; he was incoherent and babbling, so they say. The docs reckon that he was wound so tightly that whatever happened out there in the woods just plain threw him over the edge. He is a guy obsessed with routines and schedules; you’ll often see him pacing around the grounds cataloguing anything that he can find.”

“What about his story? What about the people involved?”

“Oh they found them alright. They found the double car accident and the cabin burned to the ground. One man’s body inside the cabin with a gunshot wound and three outside; one woman, naked, also with a gunshot wound and two men who had apparently been mauled by some wild animal.”

“You’re not telling me that it’s true,” Martin laughed incredulously.

“All I can say is this; there were three bodies outside the cabin, and only two looked like they had been attacked by some kind of wild animal.”

Martin pondered the tale that he had just been told; it was one thing to fantasies about hearing these tales and compiling them into a book. But it was quite another to listen to a possibly deranged mental patient speaking so articulately as he spun his tale so convincingly.

He looked down at his notebook his scribbled shorthand had already filled many pages between the background beginnings of the building itself, and Julian’s strange tale. His back nagged at him, sticking in a painful reminder of his injuries and his unsuitability for manual labor such as this. He looked over at Jimmy; the elderly janitor was stooped and twisted with age and his job. His finger joints were swollen with the unmistakable signs of arthritis on the march. His tired face was creased and lined with endless nights pushing a sloppy mop along these very corridors.

Martin caught a flash of his own reflection in a clean and gleaming window; was this to be his future? His own pristine new uniform faded before his eyes, the blue becoming paler over time and continuous wash cycles. His features became tired and wrinkled; his hair grew white and thin. His back became stooped with pain and his very life force dissipated before his eyes. He shook off the vision angrily. He would not, could not, allow his future to become set in stone; a stone that was tied around his ankles as he was thrown to the bottom of life’s dark murky waters. Jimmy was offering him an alternative, an escape. A way out of this servitude; he knew instinctively that this idea could work. He could see himself taking a book of stories derived from the mouths of the seriously disturbed. The sheer notoriety would be enough to launch the book on a wave of interest and disgust. He could picture himself defending his book on morning TV shows, sandwiched between soap opera gossip and fashion tips. He could see himself being lightly grilled by grinning orange skinned women caked in too much makeup. It really could work; it could be a way out and a way forward. He looked towards the patiently waiting Jimmy and steeled himself against the dark night ahead.

“Alright,” he said firmly, “Who’s next?”

4.

THE VOICE

“Push him,” the voice whispered, “Do it now, quickly, quickly.”

Duncan Murray turned around quickly to face the man behind him; a man who was not there. The voice had whispered in his ear but there was no-one standing behind him on the railway station platform. A woman some ten feet away was staring at him nervously as he had spun around with an angry expression to find that he was facing no-one. He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders;
must be over-tired
, he thought to himself.

Duncan was thirty eight years old, heavy set and scruffy. He was a graphic designer who existed within the tight confines of a soulless cubicle day in day out. His shaved head poking over the top of his clipped together walls, the bullet tipped shape seemingly unseen by his peers. His wardrobe consisted of three different, but equally ill-fitting suits. His was a figure of lumps and curves that refused to conform to standard clothing shapes. He was a quiet man of little consequence; he’d often thought to himself that he would make a perfect bank robber as he seemed to cast little shadow over the world. He would find himself on far too many occasions having to reintroduce himself to people that he had actually met several times before. He was around six feet tall and shoulder broad; his middle was thicker than he would have liked, but eating was his crutch. His overweight frame was the convenient reason that he could point to for his general unhappiness. If only he was thinner then life would be better, but he knew deep down that he would never put the theory to the test. His hair was shaved short, mainly because he lacked ambition or imagination towards his appearance. His face was round; his eyes were a common hazel and he wore a chinstrap beard as he felt that the hair made his face look a little less like a beach ball.

He looked up to the large station clock that hung on the railway station wall; it read 6:37pm. The evening was already dusky and the night was closing in fast. He had been struggling at work with a new advertising campaign for some dog food company product and his eyes were still seeing graphics and text floating across his vision. He was a man who would often stay too late and work too hard. Once he had a project he found himself unable to put it down until it was finished. This would have been an admirable trait if only anyone ever noticed. His work was always well received and viewed, but credit always fell further up the line than his desk.

“Duncan,” the voice tried again.

He turned around and still there was nobody within whispering distance of him. There were only three of them on the platform; himself, a woman dressed in evening attire behind him, and a man standing worryingly close to the edge of the platform in front.

“Push him,” the voice insisted, “Quickly, it’s nearly too late.”

Just then the 6:45 train pulled into the station. The PA system crackled into life, announcing the arrival and Duncan gratefully boarded the train home. He took the closest seat amidst the deserted carriage. The cloth smelt vaguely of smoke despite the countrywide ban in enclosed spaces. The carriage was empty and Duncan was happy for the silence. He was obviously working too hard and was too tired. He closed his eyes as the train pulled away and let the gentle rocking sooth his weary mind. He was almost asleep when the voice spoke up again,

“Duncan,” it whispered.

Duncan closed his eyes tighter and willed himself to sleep.

“DUNCAN!” The voice barked loudly in his ear.

His eyes snapped open and he stood, but the carriage was still empty. He looked around desperately for the origin of the voice, but there was none.

“Who’s there?” He asked nervously, “Where are you?”

“I’m in here,” the voice whispered, “Inside.”

“WHO IS THAT?” Duncan shouted loudly, his voice echoing off of the empty metal shell.

“I’m in here Duncan. In you, and if you continue shouting then someone is going to lock you up my friend.”

Duncan sat back down heavily with only the rising dust for company
. I’m just tired
, he thought again,
that’s all it is, just tired and I need some sleep. Everything will be right as rain tomorrow.

“Oh I don’t think so,” the voice laughed, “I don’t think that you will be ever again.”

When Duncan finally laid his head on the pillow some two hours later, the voice was still singing incessantly in his mind. Apparently there was an endless supply of bottles that were sitting on a wall somewhere, and for some reason they kept falling off. He thrust his head further into the pillows in a futile attempt to drown out the noise, “Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!” He raged to no avail.

The night drifted by interminably slowly like a wispy marshmallow cloud on a windless summer day. Duncan was unable to sleep and by the time the dawn’s rays crept around his bedroom window curtain he was close to tears. His whole body screamed for sleep and his insides were twisted into knots of frustration and impotent anger. “Please,” he begged, “Please, what do you want?”

“Just to have a little fun is all. It’s very lonely in here,” the voice answered softly.

Duncan dragged himself into the shower; the hot water splashed his face but only slightly woke his senses. He dressed quickly in jogging bottoms and a large baggy hooded top. It was Saturday and these were his weekend clothes; loose and comfortable, shapeless and anonymous - much as he saw himself.

“So what are we doing today?” The voice asked pleasantly.

“I don’t know,” Duncan answered, vaguely aware that he was engaging in a two way conversation with an imaginary voice, but also feeling too exhausted to care.
Perhaps it’s a tumor
, he thought depressingly. He couldn’t think of any mental health problems that ran in his family, but he wouldn’t be surprised.

“Why don’t we go out?” The voice pondered.

Duncan sat on the large comfy reclining leather sofa in his lounge. The house was a modest two bedroom bungalow that his parents had left him seven years ago when they had both died in a car crash. The house was clean and tidy but Duncan had found that he had left little impression even in his own home and that his parents’ stamp was still firmly imprinted on the house. He flicked the large 50” plasma screen television on and attempted to drown himself in the rugby game that, despite the early hour, was currently underway somewhere in New Zealand.

“Let’s go out,” the voice whined.

Duncan turned the TV volume up higher; he concentrated hard on the match in front of him. He had a love of most sports and found the brutal conflict of rugby to be most agreeable.

“Come on Duncan,” the voice persisted, “Don’t make me have to make you,” it said with an air of menace.

“You’re just a voice in my head,” Duncan responded, “What can a voice do?”

The expensive television flickered; the picture rolled and static invaded. Duncan looked up at the set that was barely two months old. “That’s just a coincidence,” he stated aloud, as much to reassure himself as anything else.

“Let’s go outside,” the voice said again, “It’s a wonderful day, too nice to be stuck indoors.”

“I can’t hear you,” Duncan mumbled.

The TV flickered once more and then went black.

“Maybe I do feel like some fresh air,” he announced, standing up. The TV suddenly came back on again and he stared at the set contemplating sitting down again. But even as he began to crouch, a strange burning smell wafted from inside the expensive television. He wrapped up warmly in a heavy waterproof overcoat and put on his insulated walking boots.

Duncan lived in Brighton. His commute into the office in London would take him around two hours each way every day, but he could not bear to encase himself within the concrete jungle. The sea air was bracing and the winter day was in full effect as he walked towards the near empty beach. There were only a few brave souls out today and he pulled his collar up around his neck to protect it from the weather’s icy fingers. The sands were deserted save for a few distant silhouettes braving the elements for the sake of their four legged friends’ daily exercise. The wind whipped his face with stinging cold rain and he lowered his head to walk into the onslaught.

“I thought you said that it was a nice day out?” He asked the inner voice.

“Always better out than in,” the voice chuckled nonsensically.

Duncan was walking with his head lowered when his feet suddenly became entangled with a golden retriever that looked up at him happily. The dog’s mouth was shaped into a happy grin as it played, running around him looking to entice the new participant into its fun, despite the foul weather. Duncan looked down into the pleasant deep dark eyes of the friendly animal; he wasn’t a pet lover by nature, but he could appreciate the appeal.

“Kick it,” the voice said.

“I’m not going to kick it, what’s wrong with you?” He snapped.

“Kick it,”

“Screw you,” Duncan said as he petted the dog’s happy head.

“Kick it now,” the voice warned with a menacing low tone.

Duncan could now see the dog’s owner approaching across the sand and pebbles. The woman looked to be in her sixties but she was healthy and hearty. Her face was reddened by the coldness of the day, and white hair devoid of vanity poked out from under her coat’s large hood that she was using against the wet weather. She was short at around five feet two. She wore a large red coat, waterproof trousers, and wellington boots. A small backpack was slung over her shoulder with a blue plastic ball throwing arm tucked in through a strap on the side.

“Sorry, is she bothering you?” The woman greeted him, pointing at the retriever.

“Alright,” the voice whispered, “Kick her instead.”

“I most certainly will not,” Duncan said aloud.

The woman looked at him strangely, “I’m sorry?”

“Um, I meant no, she’s fine,” Duncan said, hating the strange glances the woman was now throwing his way.

“You don’t have to speak to me out loud dummy,” the voice chuckled irritatingly, “You want them to think that you’re nuts?”

“Am I nuts?” Duncan thought, curious for the answer.

“Don’t ask me, I’m just a voice,” the voice answered in his head.

“Well, we better be on our way,” the woman said, shuffling away nervously.

Duncan hated the look of fear in her face.

“For God’s sake kick one of them!” The voice demanded.

“No,” Duncan said aloud, immediately forgetting that he didn’t have to speak, he needed only to think.

“Look mister,” the woman said nervously, “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but I am most definitely leaving, come along Lady,” she said addressing the dog.

“Last chance,” the voice said ominously.

“Good day to you madam,” Duncan said grandly, “Please be on your way,” he added with a sweeping gesture of his arm.

“I warned you,” the voice said.

The elderly woman turned and took a few steps away; her pace was hurried as though eager to be gone. She was no more than eight feet away when she suddenly clutched her left arm. Her body went rock still as she grabbed the arm with a pincer like claw. She turned enough so that Duncan could just see her face; the ruddy red healthy glow was abruptly replaced with a sickly green pallor and she sank to her knees, and then flat on her face, and lay motionless.

Duncan waited for the ambulance, passing the time throwing balls for the ever willing retriever. He always carried a phone and had used it to raise the alarm. Ever since the woman had collapsed and died on the sand, the voice had gone strangely quiet and he was enjoying the peace and quiet.

The paramedics found them soon enough and they were accompanied by two police officers. Duncan was relieved to find that there was soon no suspicion thrown his way after even the most cursory of examinations by the paramedics. He had overheard them tell the two officers that the signs were obvious and all the early indications pointed to a heart attack. Duncan found himself praised for his good citizenship; for waiting patiently in a day and age when many would have walked on by unwilling to get involved. Duncan barely heard them as he concentrated on the silence in his head. He could happily picture the tumbleweeds blowing across the dusty plains of his empty mind.

He was making his way back across the beach, having politely refused the offer of a lift home, professing that the walk would do him good after such a shock. He had told the police that he had merely bumped into the stranger on the beach and she had told him that she felt a little unwell, just before she collapsed.

“Miss me?” The voice returned and Duncan’s heart sank heavily.

“What do you want now?” He asked.

“Hey don’t get snippy with me, I did try and warn you, but you just wouldn’t listen.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that the heart attack was your doing?” Duncan sniggered, “You’re just a voice in my head, what can a voice do?”

“Oh you would be surprised Duncan, although I must say that was a little exhausting. I didn’t realise that it would require so much effort, I even had to take a little nap afterwards.”

Duncan stomped his way grumpily across the beach. He headed up the stone steps and onto the promenade. The signs of winter were all around him, the smiling face of the summer tourism trade seemed a million miles away. Everything was carefully packed away for the off-season. There were only large waterproof coverings where there were once colorful rides and laughing children.

“Perhaps we started too big,” the voice offered considerately, “Hey I’m new here too; it’s only my second day on the job.”

“Then you’re fired,” Duncan grumbled.

The sound of echoing laughter battered against the inside of his head and it throbbed woefully.

“Not bad, not bad at all,” the voice chuckled, “We’ll make this work yet.”

“Make what work? What is it that you want from me?” Duncan demanded.

“Pinch her ass,” the voice replied.

Duncan looked up to see a shapely teenage girl walking towards them, “What?” He stammered internally.

“Pinch her ass.”

“No I won’t.”

“Have you already forgotten what happened the last time you said no to me,” the voice said, all trace of good humor suddenly gone.