Asylum - 13 Tales of Terror (16 page)

“What is it with everyone trying to give me a heart attack tonight?” Billy grumbled under his breath and out of Jerry’s earshot. Pete and Charlie giggled as the door behind them swung open as if by magic and they all trooped in.

“What are we doing here at this time of night?” Pete whispered as the three of them walked through the small deserted reception area.

“No idea,” Charlie answered, “Jerry called me up and told me to get all of our collective butts down here at ten to midnight and not to be late.,”

“I’m guessing that it’s got something to do with his latest plans for world domination,” Billy laughed.

“How right you are William,” Jerry said, suddenly appearing in the dark studio doorway.

The three of them stared in disbelief at their leader. He was wearing long red hooded robes that swished and swayed around him. Charlie and Billy cast a furtive glance at each other whilst Pete stood open mouthed.

“Come in, come in,” Jerry motioned.

The primal instincts ran deep in the three underlings, and even though their legs protested, they followed orders.

The studio was empty of all recording equipment; the floor space was now filled with a strange chalk drawing. There was a large circle with a five pointed star in the middle and five symbols at the apex of each point. There were several black candles alight and laying around the room that was lit by their dancing flames. The thick aroma of incense hung heavily on the air and mingled with the trails of candle smoke.

“Uh, what the hell is this Jerry?” Billy challenged, summoning up enough courage to do so.

“What does it look like William?” Jerry smiled none too pleasantly.

“It looks like devil worshiping to me,” Charlie laughed. He quickly stopped when he realised that he was the only one doing so.

“That’s just about right Charles,” Jerry smiled, “Why don’t you all take a seat and make yourselves comfortable.”

“I don’t know about this Jerry,” Pete squeaked.

“Just sit down Peter,” Jerry ordered dismissively.

Pete looked towards Charlie and Billy for help, but Billy was already rushing forward, eager for some laughs and Charlie could only shrug.

“Don’t worry Pete,” Charlie whispered, “I hardly think that anything is going to happen, Jerry’s all talk and no trousers.”

“My dad would kill me if he caught me involved in anything like this,” Pete said.

“Not if I do first,” Jerry said with menace, “Now sit down,” he demanded in a tone that refused further discussion.

----------

Jerry viewed over his dominion. His three servants sat with reluctant obedience in their eyes. Billy was eager for entertainment, Charlie looked curious and Pete positively trembled with apprehension. The book had shown him the way; no more fantasies, no more games. It was time to put away childish things. He began to recite the prayer.

“Lord Satan, by your grace grant me. I pray thee the power to conceive in my mind and to execute that, which I desire to do, the end which I would attain by thy help. O mighty Satan, the one true God who livest and reignest forever and ever. I entreat thee to manifest before me, that you give me true and faithful answer. So that I may accomplish my desired end, provided that it is proper to your office. This I respectfully and humbly ask in your name. Lord Satan may you deem me worthy father.”

Charlie looked at Billy who was grinning, wildly enjoying the show. He looked over to Pete who was shaking, terrified. “It’s OK Pete,” he tried to reassure the younger boy, “I don’t think that demons are about to spring forth and eat us all,” he offered a smile, meant to reassure.

“This all looks pretty real to me,” Pete said through a small strained voice.

Billy looked over as Jerry continued his chanting prayer in a rising tide, “You believe this shit?” Billy giggled, but his good humor suddenly dried up as the candlelight faded and dimmed.

Jerry intensified his call to his dark father.

“Uh, Jerry,” Charlie said nervously as the room seemed to close in around them.

“Show yourself to me Lord, grant me my desires and I shall be forever more at your command to do your bidding on this earthly plane,” Jerry raged.

“I don’t like this,” Pete whined.

“Yeah, shut it down Jerry please,” Billy begged.

The winds howled inexplicably within the confines of the small studio. The air was oppressive and stank of sickly sulphur. Billy, Charlie, and Pete huddled together in the growing darkness, clutching each other for comfort against the hungry terror that licked greedily at their toes.

“Reveal yourself to me!” Jerry screamed into the raging indoor storm. ”Reveal your face to me. I demand to see your face,” he screamed against the howling gale.

“Jerry please!” Pete begged into the wind, “Don’t do this!”

“Listen to him Jerry!” Billy shouted as the screams and wails of the damned filled the studio, “You’ve got to stop this before it’s too late!”

The hurricane reached a crescendo. The screams and wails reached fever pitch; the wind pounded harder, threatening to tear apart the very fabric of existence. And then it all went black. The whole room was suddenly silent. All noise ceased and the light had been completely extinguished as though the very substance had simply ceased to be.

Slowly Billy heard the soft exhausted panting of the drained Jerry; he reached in the dark and couldn’t find Charlie or Pete. “Guys?” he whispered, afraid of the dark.

“Billy?” Charlie’s voice whispered back, “Where are you?”

“I don’t know. I can’t see a thing,” Billy answered.

“It should have worked,” Jerry’s tired voice crept out of the blackness, “I did everything right. I followed every instruction to the letter. His face should have been revealed to me. He should have been compelled to appear in his natural form before me.”

“Who should have? The Devil?” Charlie said incredulously.

“Of course, you mindless slug,” Jerry snapped.

“Wait a minute, you were hoping to summon Satan himself?” Billy asked shocked. “And just what the hell did you think he was going to do if he showed up?”

“Well, now we’ll never know, will we?” Jerry’s tired voice said through the darkness.

“Shit, where’s Pete?” Charlie suddenly said.

“I don’t know, I can’t see a damn thing in here,” Billy answered, sharing his concern.

“It should have worked,” Jerry mumbled again.

“I told you not to,” Pete’s voice was suddenly deeper and rougher than the others remembered. “You were playing with fire Jerry, messing with forces that you can’t possibly comprehend.”

“Pete, what’s going on?” Charlie asked, suddenly scared. He could hear Pete’s voice but could also now hear a slithering in the darkness.

“What are you babbling about Petey?” Jerry snapped in his usual aggressive and dismissive tone. “Why don’t you just run home to daddy like a good little boy, you’re of no use to me, none of you are. I did everything right and it still didn’t work,” he said mumbling the last bit to himself.

“Who said that it didn’t?” Pete said as his voice grew deeper and louder until it was a roaring that filled the room and their ears, threatening to drive them all insane.

The black room suddenly began to glow and brighten as the thick night was forced back. Charlie and Billy staggered back against the far wall; Jerry could only stare as Pete’s form was gradually revealed in its full splendor.

Pete was no more. In his place stood a monstrous creation forged in the fires of hell. The demon stood over seven feet tall, its skin was a hardened ridged shell like a tortoise but a deep mottled grey. Vicious spikes protruded from its scaly arms all the way up to its broad and powerful shoulders, and two horns stood proudly on top of its head. Its face was covered with withered tight skin that looked like ancient parchment paper, and its eyes were sunken and strangely mournful.

“I told you not to,” the Pete demon said sadly.

“Are you…, are you the Devil?” Jerry spluttered.

“No, but there is a certain family resemblance, I told you that my father wouldn’t approve,” the Pete demon suddenly stared up at the ceiling with his eyes closed as though seemingly listening to a silent voice. “He wants me to relay his displeasure,” the Pete demon said unhappily.

In a flash of fangs and claws Charlie and Billy were splattered all over the room. A bloody explosion of red gore was smeared across the walls.

Jerry could only stare in horror as his shirt became sprayed from across the room and red flecks dotted his pale cheeks. He watched in disbelief as the demon shrunk before his eyes and became slender Pete again.

“I really wanted to be in the band you know,” Pete said sighing, “but Dad never would have understood all that blasphemous ideology. You know he never did understand the connection between himself and that sort of music. He hates metal, loves Sinatra if you can believe that,” Pete said with a small smile.

19.

BLACKWATER HEIGHTS

Martin stood outside the room again, “So if Jerry’s in there, what happened to Pete?”

“The police never found any trace of him It was like he never existed at all,” Jimmy answered.

“And let me guess, all of the metal music, tattoos and make-up made it very easy to believe that poor old Jerry in there just went nuts and killed his two friends?”

“Now you’re getting it,” Jimmy grinned a smile that was several teeth short of a full one. “Every tale in here is fuel for the fire,” he whispered, almost to himself.

“What does that mean?” Martin asked, once again spooked by his elderly guide.

“Oh nothing, nothing at all, my dear boy,” Jimmy said with a reassuring smile that didn’t quite seem to touch his eyes. Jimmy looked down at his watch, “Time’s wasting, those clock hands do keep on creeping don’t they. We’d better hurry if you want to finish before morning.”

Martin watched the elderly janitor; he weighed up his options of keeping moving forward or just leaving. These tales had left him intrigued, frightened, shaken, and eager. He knew that he had the basis of a decent book within his scribbled notes, if only he could find the stomach to write it. There was obviously something not quite right about Jimmy and the original idea of a collaboration on the book now seemed like not such a good idea. He struggled to picture Jimmy cackling alongside him on the promotional tour. The old man was a loose cannon, one that wouldn’t do well in the cold light of day. Jimmy’s constant assertions that all of the tales were true wouldn’t be quite so endearing on a morning chat show, sandwiched between autumn fashions and low calorie recipes. He made the snap decision to treat Jimmy like a mushroom - feed him shit and keep him in the dark.

“Lead on Macduff,” Martin said with forced cheerfulness.

“As you wish,” Jimmy smiled.

20.

PRIMETIME SPECIAL

Morton Banks was fifty five years old, six feet two and of a heavy soft build. His face was pudgy and redder than it should have been; broken veins crisscrossed his bulbous nose swollen by too much strong alcohol. His hair was high and full, peppered with silver and blown into bouffant waves with a thick moustache to match.

The building was large and imposing; a gothic nightmare in anyone’s dictionary. The dark night swirled around the rusty iron gates and the fog drifted picturesquely around his feet, before climbing his legs and circling his waist.

“Dammit Terry,” Morton snapped impatiently. “That’s too much smoke. Tone it down a little or do I have to do everything myself?”

Terry Jarvis mumbled grumpily under his breath as he adjusted the small commercial machine that was pumping out the atmospheric fog.

“Better,” Morton said, which was as close to praise as he could get.

“Are we good to go Morty?” The voice from the outside broadcasting unit parked around the corner whispered in his ear.

“I’ll bloody well tell you when I’m ready to go,” Morton barked, “and Sheila, just because I banged you a couple of times doesn’t mean shit when we’re out in the field, so knock off the Morty crap.”

Morton smiled cruelly, imagining Sheila’s beetroot red face as he embarrassed her over the open line.

The “OB” Unit occupants were no doubt squirming in their sweat stained clothing and stinking of body odour mingled with stale coffee. When it came to home comforts on the road, Morton was the only one that didn’t go without. His trailer was luxurious and plush and strictly off limits to anyone else. “Terror Trails” was his show after all. The television program was a journey around some of the country’s most infamous murder sights. It was relatively low budget with Morton presenting and one cameraman to accompany him. They shot exclusively at night and promised the viewers an up close ghost hunt.

Morton regarded his viewers as morons with little imagination or comprehension. This gig was only ever supposed to be a pit-stop on his journey to bigger and better things, but he had been consistently held back by jealously and bitterness, at least in his own deluded mind. The reality was that Morton was born an asshole and only grew bigger. He went through cameramen and producers at a rate of knots and the program had suffered as a result. His timeslot had faded away until only those with the most nocturnal natures were still watching. Morton took all of this with only an outward sense of blame; his blind spot was all encompassing when it came to his own deficiencies.

“Morton, we need to get moving,” the weary voice droned in his ear.

Morton could picture Derek Korn’s bloated face. The producer was no doubt twitching nervously, his pig-like beady eyes glued to the clock.

“Yeah in a minute,” Morton yawned with exaggeration, enjoying his petty torments.

He looked up at the building again and shuddered. Some of the scene had been added for dramatic effect; the smoke and the creaking gates, but the house now appeared to have engaged its own sense of menace after darkness had fallen. The infamous “Wayward Shelter for Lost Souls” had been a place for the homeless and destitute to rest their weary heads with a clean bed for the night and a hot meal. Mary Colbert had been a saint in most people’s eyes. After the death of her beloved husband Theodore she had opened their lavish home as a shelter, much to the disgust of her surviving family. The press had descended on her story like voracious locusts, “Rich widow opens heart and home” they decried. But when she had missed a succession of appointments and no-one had heard from her for around a week, the alarm was finally raised. Fearing for her life - and especially after much concern over the poor woman’s saintly nature - the police had finally broken down the door to her shelter. The neighbors gathered, clutching each other in fear of the poor woman’s fate.

Sometime later, ashen faced veteran policemen staggered out of the house; the stench of torturous death hanging on their very souls. Unfortunately for her army of supporters, Mary Colbert wasn’t quite the saint she had pretended to be. What the police had actually found was initially the heart attacked corpse of Mary, lying innocently dead in the kitchen. However the stench of death had been far in excess of one recently deceased saintly pillar of the community sitting neatly in a high backed kitchen chair. Twitching police noses soon led them to investigate the cellar where the bodies of around twenty men in various states of decomposition were discovered. The bodies had been hacked into so many pieces that they were never able to quite reassemble them all together again. Amongst such carnage no-one could quite bring themselves to openly discuss just what Mary Colbert had been stocking in her famous soup kitchen.

Morton knew that he needed something to turn his career around, as even rats know when the ship is sinking. The ratings were bottoming out and his agent had already stopped returning his calls with the urgency that he once showed. Morton knew that drastic times called for drastic measures. The show had been a scary thrill ride of green night vision cameras and carefully orchestrated jumps. But today’s audiences were tired of using their own imaginations. Now they seemed to want everything handed to them on a plate, so Morton had decided to give them all that they could handle.

The house had been rigged with every device and special effect that he could think of. He had emptied his savings account and poured every penny into this night. He had begged and bullied every favor he had left in the bank to get the show on a primetime live slot. He had exhausted the knowledge of every skeleton in every closet that he had held on file; those with evidence, and those where the recipient could only guess that he had them cold. The show had to work. He had to get back to where he was supposed to be and then he could shed all of his excess baggage, starting with that pig of a producer and the clinging bitch of a director.

He let the unit wait a little longer, just because he could. “Terry,” he snapped at the waiting cameraman, “We go in one minute.”

“Dammit Morton, I’m supposed to tell you when to go,” Sheila snapped in his ear.

“Well stop wasting time talking to me then,” Morton sneered. “Nineteen-eighteen-seventeen,” Morton mocked, enjoying the panicking sounds from the OB Unit in his ear.

“Five-four-three…” Terry waved the last two numbers of the countdown silently.

“The Wayward Shelter for Lost Souls,” Morton began earnestly as the camera rolled, “was supposed to be a safe haven for the poor unfortunates who were down on their luck and with nowhere else to turn. But their haven became a bloody nightmare as the once saintly Mary Colbert was revealed to be a monster. The police broke down her doors fearing for her safety, only to discover a gristly scene fit for the most twisted imaginations.” Morton walked slowly and dramatically to the rusted iron gates, raising his right hand high and becoming the picture of sorrowful remorse. “Over twenty men came here for shelter and only found death,” he lowered his head and clasped his hands in front of his admittedly overly round middle. “Tonight, we will dare to venture into the scene of the massacre; we will walk where no-one has dared to tread since that horrific discovery. We invite you to come with us tonight. Take our hand and let’s step into the darkness together.”

“And we’re clear for commercial, three minutes,” Shelia informed him through the earpiece.

“Really? Three minutes? Like I need you to tell me that,” Morton scoffed.

“I don’t know why you put up with that asshole,” Derek said to Shelia in the truck, carefully muting the mic first so that their conversation would be devoid of Morton’s knowledge.

“Oh, he’s not that bad really, he’s just under a lot of pressure,” Sheila answered, hating the whining sound of her own voice.

“He’s a prick is what he is,” Derek said kindly, “and you should get the hell away from him as quickly as possible.”

“I know, I know,” Sheila shrugged.

“You’re far too good for the likes of him. He’s a washed up never was, except in his own mind.”

“Maybe, but we’re back in 10 seconds,” Sheila said pointing to the monitor where Morton was waving his arms frantically.

Derek turned up the faders.

“…the hell is going in there? Have I got to do everyone’s freaking job around here? Should I stick a broom up my arse and sweep the floor as I go?” Morton raged.

“Back in five-four-three…” Shelia said sweetly.

Morton swallowed his rising tide of anger and got back on track fast. No-one was going to derail his plans.

“This house of horror has lain dormant for over ten years,” Morton continued to preach to his audience, “not a single soul has dared to cross this threshold, until now.”

Morton eased the rusty gates open with a well practiced creak. The house had a large front garden encased by sharp tipped fence spikes that kept in, as much as they kept out. The lawns were a dirty brown stain as Morton had been generous with a large container of industrial strength weed killer when he had destroyed the grass a few days earlier. The large house was derelict and abandoned, as it had indeed been empty for several years. Not everything out of Morton’s mouth was a lie.

“Imagine the tortured souls that still dwell within the confines of their own personal hell,” Morton continued as he walked slowly up the winding path towards the house’s front door. “Grown men slaughtered and dismembered in a dark cellar at the hands of a maniac.”

Terry the cameraman rolled his eyes discreetly at Morton’s theatrics.

Shelia directed from the truck, “Terry pull out a little, let us get more of the house behind him.” She winced at Morton’s over the top acting. She had tried to tell him before about reigning it in, but he would never listen.

Derek jammed another candy bar into his mouth, stuffing his resentment and unhappiness down his throat with a sugar coating.

Morton had reached the front door of the condemned property. He reached out slowly and delicately to touch the door handle. He paused and looked directly down the lens. “Tonight I shall risk everything; my life and my very soul to bring you access to the borders between worlds, between life and the afterlife.”

Suddenly the door began to shake, gently trembling at first until it pounded against the hinges, threatening to tear itself free from the frame.

“Are we getting this?” Morton shouted with a finger pressed into his ear to show the audience that he was talking to those behind the scenes.

The door vibrated violently and the night was suddenly shattered with a scream of monstrous pain.

“What the hell’s going on?” Sheila panicked in the truck alongside Derek.

“Jesus Christ,” Derek spluttered, “Is this for real?”

“Terry keep the camera straight,” Sheila barked to the shaking cameraman.

As suddenly as it had started, the night became still and silent again.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Morton addressed the home audience somberly, “What you have just witnessed can only be the beginning. But I undertook a solemn vow to bring you all with me in a television first. A fearless journey into the unknown, and I will not turn away from my promise. Join us after the break.”

Morton held his bowed pose until Terry gave him the all clear sign.

“Morton…, Morton are you alright? Is everything OK?” Sheila spoke softly into his ear.

“I would be if you’d stop prattling on in my ear every two minutes,” Morton snapped.

“But the door, that scream, what the hell was that?” Derek asked concerned.

“Just a little magic,” Morton replied enigmatically with a wink.

“Wait a minute, what the hell is he up to?” Derek asked Sheila after muting the open line.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sheila said averting her gaze to avoid Derek’s eyes.

“Yeah you do. Did he rig the house for the ratings? Is that what he’s been up to the last couple of weeks?”

“Look, he made me promise not to tell anyone,” Sheila said unhappily.

“What the hell else has he rigged up in there?” Derek said, suddenly looking up at the house on the monitor nervously.

“He wouldn’t tell me everything,” Sheila answered honestly, “but I guess that we’re going to find out.”

“Back in one minute Terry,” Derek said un-muting the line again.

“I don’t know about this Derek,” Terry said down the open line to the truck, “I didn’t sign up for this.”

“Never you mind,” Morton replied casually, “You just keep the camera and me in focus. Any shaking and twitching on your part will only add to the entertainment. Remember you don’t work for them you ignorant prick, you work for me. You all do!” Morton raged, “and you’ll do exactly what I tell you to do.”

“Hang in there Terry,” Sheila offered, “Another forty three minutes and you’ll be done. Just think of it like a theme park ride.”

“Easy for you to say,” Terry mumbled.

“Are you ladies all done?” Morton said, “Because we’re back in five-four-three…”

“What the hell has he rigged up in there?” Derek asked again as he looked to Sheila nervously. All of their futures were riding on the show.

“Who knows? He may be a lot of things, but Morton does know how to attract an audience,” Sheila shrugged. “Maybe he can pull this off for all of us.”

Terry kept the camera steady as they rolled again, framing Morton standing bravely at the front door to the dark house. Terry was currently wishing that he was anywhere else.

“Here we go folks,” Morton said invitingly as he turned the door handle and stepped into the house.

The hallway was long and dark. The open plan atrium was lined with fading and peeling wallpaper that had long since discarded its original pattern. The flooring underfoot was soft and spongy with a reek of decay. A winding banister stretched to the upper floor that was missing several spindles. One window on the second floor had been cleaned free of grime and the moonlight now cascaded through it atmospherically. Morton had worked hard to provide his viewers with the perfect environment. He had been prepping the house for several weeks now after purchasing the property with the last of his savings. He had left a hosepipe running through the house for two days straight, rotting the carpets and peeling the walls. He had rigged the door with an air compression unit and set hidden speakers throughout the building. He had raided the studio’s special effects’ department for cobweb spinners in order to dress the set. He had also selected black soot bags, a smoke generator, fake blood, sound effects, and a strip of yellow crime scene police tape that had been aged appropriately and now hung across the cellar door.