Asylum - 13 Tales of Terror (12 page)

The light faded all the way down to barely above black and Martin took a worried step backwards towards the stairs. The corridor suddenly seemed longer and it lengthened and stretched beyond his vision. The newly decorated wall facades melted away before his eyes. The slick smooth surfaces were stripped bare and reverted back to their natural state. The basement became devoid of the modern improvements, becoming a stone brick wall cellar once again. A stench of damp and mould permeated through the ages, and Martin could feel the creeping cold sea air seeping through the building. He could hear the rain battering the outside walls as the howling winds whistled through the home of Horace Whisker. Martin felt the sands of time slip before his eyes; instinctively he knew that this was before, before the hospital, a time of one tyrant and his kingdom.

Suddenly the air was split with the tap, tap, tapping of a cane. Martin closed his eyes and he could see the swishing silver cane and gleaming gold wolf head. He could feel the shivering horror of Emily Whisker as she shuddered beneath the covers, clutching her young son to her chest, desperately praying the monster wouldn’t pause outside her door tonight and praying that the growing echo of the wolf’s cane would soon fade as he passed. He felt quaking terror as though he was under the covers; he heard the tapping and then the dreaded silence. He wanted to scream as the door knob squealed in protest as the bedroom door creaked ever so slowly open, and then…

“Martin, MARTIN!”

He felt someone shaking his shoulders violently, and then he was back. The building was a hospital again; the corridor was brightly lit and an elderly janitor was shaking his arm with limited strength and concern on his withered face.

“Martin? Are you ok?” Jimmy enquired worriedly.

“Uh, yeah, I guess so,” Martin managed, “Just kind of lost myself for a second there.”

“You know I couldn’t help but notice you taking those painkillers earlier,” Jimmy said kindly, “Those things can mess you up if you’re not careful.”

“I guess,” Martin said, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs.

“Don’t let this place get to you Martin; it’s still just a building, bricks and mortar, no matter what the legends say.”

“Why, what do they say?” Martin couldn’t help but ask, his natural curiosity overtaking his rational fears.

“Another time perhaps,” Jimmy said. “We still have a lot of ground to cover, and time’s a ticking,” Jimmy said as he opened another door.

14.

STORMY SEAS

Brittany Nicholls watched the waves from her safe and warm vantage point. The house had been built exclusively it seemed, with the views in mind. Every room at the front of the house had long wide windows that framed the ocean view like a Turner painting. She drew her long slender legs up under her body and her fingers curled around the hot cocoa mug as the delicious liquid warmed her through. The wind outside howled as the rain began to whip against the windows with an angry ferocity that made the glass shudder under the onslaught. Brittany was glad to be sitting inside; the fireplace crackled as the logs broke, and the dancing flames lit the room in swaying shadows.

Brittany was twenty three years old. She was dark haired and blue eyed; a dangerous combination of wealth and beauty that had drawn as many unwelcomed attentions as welcome ones. She was of an average height at around five feet six, slim, with a runner’s lean frame but augmented with a dancer’s curves. She had a wide, broad smile that glistened in perfect white, but without a shark’s aggression. She was generally sweet tempered and natured, but she was fiercely loyal to her friends and family. She did however keep her own heart high upon a secret shelf.

She was an author of some promise and repute in certain circles. The circles however that she had avoided to date were unfortunately the commercial ones. Her first novel, “Remnants of a Dystopian Dream” had been widely received by critics as a “Masterpiece produced by an author beyond her years”. However, it had passed the paying public by without drawing much attention. Her father was a well regarded lawyer in Southern California and her mother was a poet who had been once selected as the Poet Laureate to the United States. It was a large shadow that both of her parents cast, and it was one that she had yet to emerge from. Their family wealth was derived from her father’s side. Somewhere way back, some ancestor had bought a whole bunch of land that had turned out to be on top of one of the largest oil finds of the 18
^th
century. Money had never been a problem for them from that point on and Brittany had benefitted from the finest education, but she had floundered for a direction to make her own. After the soaring delight of her critical acclaim - followed by the crash of being dumped by her publishers over their views about her commerciality - she had fled her homeland for some much needed realignment. She’d left home hoping that her depression would be lifted by a change of scenery, and that her artistic fire would be ignited again. But she had yet to come up with a single viable idea for another novel, and besides, she no longer had a publisher.

She had headed for the winter wilds of Western Wales on the British coastline; the season was wet and cold in equal measures. Being a Californian girl she had struggled to cope with the sudden drop in temperatures and the almost incessant rain. She had rented a small cottage overlooking the bay of Freshwater East some three weeks ago now. The one story house was big enough for one person, but not too big to rattle around in. It was set upon a steep cliff top and her nearest neighbors were several miles away. The solitude had been the deciding factor when she had selected the property. She’d had the central heating on pretty much constantly since she’d got there, in the vain hope of keeping warm. Her wardrobe had changed from floaty thin to chunky thick in a matter of days.

The harsh weather outside seemed to ease slightly and she quickly jumped into the gap. Grabbing her thick waterproof coat and boots she headed out into the day.

The weather forecast had predicted the storm of all storms was about to come rolling in over the horizon, and residents were being told to batten down their respective hatches. Part of her was excited about the onrushing weather event as her days back in the US were spent beneath varying degrees of Californian sunshine. She had never witnessed a Mother Nature hissy fit and she was curious to find out just how much worse the weather could get than she had already seen.

At the rear garden of the house there was a sweeping path that led down through an open field, and emerging through the sand dunes topped with whispering grass and out onto the beach. The wind flung grains of sand hard through the air and she had to raise a hand to protect her eyes as she walked into the stiff breeze. She pulled her collar up high and took a thermal woolly hat from the coat pocket. As she walked she let her mind drift and allowed her worries and concerns to fly away on the wind. It was always here that she had become to feel most peaceful. The wild weather felt like an extension of her troubled mind, but the external winds were stronger than the internal ones.

The waves crashed hard as she approached the water’s edge. Vast tides of frothy spume had been hurled landwards by the powerful ocean, churned by the high winds of winter. Brittany always felt dwarfed by the sheer scope and supremacy of the sea, as the blue waves reached as far as the horizon. She held a hand up to protect her face against the coarse salt sea air. Suddenly she felt that she had seen something against the blue water; a dark shape that looked out of place. She craned her eyes into the stiff wind; there was something out in the middle of the churning waters. She strained her eyes further; at first she thought that it was a barrel or maybe a large piece of driftwood. Suddenly she realised that the object was moving. She wondered if it was a seal or a dolphin caught too close to the beach.

She waded into the waves not feeling the icy water as it began seeping through her jeans. As she got closer she suddenly thought she saw a hand; an arm waving frantically, a chunk of flesh toned skin amidst the dark silhouette.
It’s a person
, she suddenly thought,
oh my God it’s a person
. Being born in California she had been raised as a swimmer; the oceans were at her disposal and much of her social life had revolved around the beach. She had been a lifeguard for several summer vacations and she was confident that she could reach the figure in front of her now.

She quickly shucked off her heavy coat and boots, leaving them in a pile back on the beach to show that she had gone into the water. She quickly dragged her finger through the sand and wrote S.O.S. She scanned the beach quickly and wasn’t surprised to find it deserted. She had been living here for three weeks so far and had yet to see another living person.

She turned back to the water and waded out as far as she could. The beach had a slanted shelf and she got out to around sixty yards before the waves crashed above her waist. She eased herself forward and began a steady stroke towards the person. The water was icy cold but she froze the thought from her mind and concentrated on a smooth form. The further out that she got the more the water calmed; the large crashing waves became huge pregnant swells ready to explode onto the sands. For one terrified moment she lost sight of the person. The dark silhouette suddenly dipped below the horizon as she was raised up high on the water. She suddenly grew alarmed that she had imagined the shape moving in the first place. She could end up dragged out to sea and drowned for the sake of a tree log. Her worried thoughts were interrupted as she caught sight again of the figure.               She could now see the shape of a man clutching a large piece of what looked like wreckage as a buoyancy aid. She dipped her head and powered towards him. As she reached him she could see that he was about done. His eyes were closed and he began to slip beneath the surface. She dove under the water as she reached him; her eyes struggled under the dark waves to find the man. She reached out desperately for him; her fingers closed on nothingness in the blackness. Just as she thought her lungs would burst her hand snagged on something coarse in the ocean. Her fingers caught, lost, and then caught again. She kicked hard for the surface pulling the dead weight with her. She exploded out of the water and drank in great greedy gulps of precious air. She rolled the man onto his back and prayed that he was still breathing, knowing that if he wasn’t she could do very little about it at the moment. She hooked her left arm over his shoulder and under his chin. The water was still swelling worryingly as she began to tug him in a sideways stroke. Her lungs were already wheezing and her breath was short and she cursed herself for her slipping fitness levels. She fought against the rising tide of panic as the beach seemed further away than she had first thought. The sea tried to drag her backwards and out, seemingly unwilling to relinquish its prize. She slowed her breathing and began to stroke and kick in a steady motion, relaxing into the swim and refusing to panic. Gradually she began to feel the land grow closer; she fixed her eyes on the beach and pulled towards it, ignoring her burning muscles. She was shocked when her feet suddenly touched the ground still some way out, having forgotten the slopping shelf of the beach. One last spiteful wave crashed over them as she stood on wobbling legs. The pull of the water as it retreated was almost too much and she staggered with the additional weight of her passenger. For a second it was close; she almost gave way to the ocean, and then her passenger was pulling her. Strong arms took her weight easily and she was hefted free of the water as his powerful legs pumped through the increasingly shallow water. Her strength was gone; emptied by the sea. Suddenly she was lifted up and her arms wrapped around his thick neck.

“Hey,” she murmured as he carried her, “This was supposed to be my rescue!”

“Hush now Miss,” he said. His voice was rough and salty like the sea itself, “You just rest now, you’ve done enough.”

She nestled into his broad chest and felt his heartbeat as it thumped rhythmically; unbelievably it sung her a lullaby, and she slept.

Brittany awoke to the heavy pounding storm that raged outside. Her small new home had never felt more vulnerable. The wind screamed and the rain battered against the walls. She felt the powerful rumblings of thunder overhead and the crash of lightening.

She sat up, groggy. Her whole body seemed to ache and she had trouble lifting her head from the sofa. She suddenly realised that she was wearing different clothes; she grasped the thick woolen jumper around the neck in panic. She sat up too fast and felt her head spin worryingly. She looked around and saw that she was in the lounge and a freshly laid fire danced before her, heating the dark room. The memory of her rescue - and rescuing - suddenly fell upon her like the roaring waves of the ocean that she had fought.

“How are you feeling?”

The rough voice startled her from behind and she jumped to her feet and away from the voice. Her legs buckled dangerously beneath her and she reached out to the fireplace mantle for support. The man from the sea stood before her; he was tall and broad with a weather battered face that was covered in red stubble. His hair was the same dark red and hung loosely over his face with the unkempt style of the recently toweled dry. His eyes were deep green pits that were large and gentle; his nose was narrow and his lips thin. He wore dark blue canvas trousers and a pristine white vest. His arms were powerful and muscular and she could see how he had carried her with such little effort.

She suddenly realised that she had been staring at him for must have seemed like an age as he waited patiently for her to answer. “Did you…?” She looked down at her change of outfit and felt oddly charmed by his deeply blushing face.

“I had to,” he mumbled embarrassed, “You were soaked and shivering.”

She could almost feel the rumbling timbre of his voice from across the room; he had a singing quality to his accent that she could not quite place.

“What’s your name?” She asked as his eyes caught hers and she felt like she was in danger of drowning all over again.

“Michael,” he said, slightly hushed as though whispering a prayer, “Michael Felton.”

The locked gaze between them was electric and Brittany felt the rising tension in the air; a tension that seemed greater than even the storm raging outside. Michael stood before her, his powerful frame shivered and seemed almost ethereal to her. It was almost as though he wasn’t really there.

“What were you doing out there?” She asked.

“We were fishing and we got caught in the storm. We were starting to head back in, but I guess we left it too late. The ocean got angry at our arrogance and the waves sank us. They just tossed us around like ragdolls and everyone went down.”

“Didn’t you radio for help?” Brittany asked.

Michael looked away awkwardly, “There wasn’t time.”

Brittany stared at him. His story and manner seemed ill at ease. She only had a rudimentary knowledge of common sea practices but she imagined no sailor worth his salt would be out when a storm of this magnitude was on the horizon. She felt that he was lying about his reasons for being out at sea, but she also knew that it was no place of hers to interrogate him.

A loud crash against the kitchen window broke the tension and they both spun around towards the noise. Brittany raced into the room; one of the small window panes had shattered inward and a large tree branch was poking through the hole. The howling gale battered the small house and rushed through the broken window, bringing the torrential rain with it. Brittany grabbed hold of the thick branch and tried to force it back out the way it came, but the sturdy wood resisted. Suddenly Michael’s strong hands were easing her aside and thrust the intruding object back into the night.

“Have you got any tools around here?” He asked in his rhythmic lilt.

“I think so,” Brittany tried to remember. Her memory was hazy about the contents of the small house. “Try the garage,” she said pointing to the adjoining door in the kitchen.

Michael emerged a few minutes later holding a small square of wood and carrying a hammer in his hand and a mouthful of nails. He patched the hole quickly and efficiently and the makeshift mend was soon holding the storm at bay.

Brittany looked out through the kitchen window. The storm was raging outside and the sky was a darker black than she could ever remember seeing before. The trees and hedgerows at the bottom of her garden were being flung from side to side effortlessly in the high winds. The rain was coming down in an almost horizontal fashion and the gale force outside whipped it viciously against the house. An explosion of thunder quaked her to her bones and the lightning was almost instantaneous, telling her that they were in the eye of the storm. Suddenly they were plunged into darkness as the power went out, proving that that the modern invention of electricity was no match for the primal force of the squall. She quivered in the dark, and then Michael’s arms were wrapped around her. She buried herself into his musk and clutched him fiercely. She felt him tremble against her and she suddenly felt his essence as it joined with hers.