Asylum - 13 Tales of Terror (18 page)

Terry stood motionless at the sound of laughter. His knees felt weak and his hands trembled.

“Terry,” Sheila spoke softly after isolating Terry’s channel, “You’ve got to get him moving down into the cellar.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” Terry spluttered under his breath and away from Morton’s live mic.

The demonic laughing below intensified in pitch and tone and became far removed from anything feminine or even human.

“You’ve got to get him down there,” Sheila pleaded, “Everything is riding on this, for all of us Terry.”

“Can you hear that laughing? There’s no way in hell I am going down there.” Terry said dubiously.

Sheila took a deep breath and realised that she was no longer interested in keeping Morton’s secrets and running his errands. She found that she did have a little self-respect after all. “It’s all fake Terry. Morton rigged the house with special effects.”

“Are you shitting me?” Terry hissed, “I’ve been crapping my pants in here, and it’s all been a giant sham? I don’t believe you, all the weird stuff with the doors and the blood?”

“I’m sorry Terry, but Sheila’s telling you the truth,” Derek interjected. “It’s all part of Morton’s great comeback trail.”

“Son of a bitch,” Terry said grinding his teeth in anger.

“
Morty…Morty…
” the chuckling voice sang from the cellar

Morton stood at the cellar door, his outstretched hand trembling badly. “Maybe folks we should delay our excursion into the unknown before we know a little more,” he said to the camera. “I’m not afraid to admit it ladies and gentlemen, but perhaps we are unprepared to deal with such a level of unmistakable evil.”

“What the hell is he doing?” Derek snapped, “He’s going to ruin everything.”

“Morton,” Sheila barked down the line, “you’ve got to go into the cellar. The network is demanding it. We can’t tease the audience this far and then not deliver.”

Morton remained motionless, “Perhaps we can do a séance, perhaps we need to bring a priest to bless the house,” Morton said to camera as he backed away.

“For Christ’s sake you arrogant prat,” Derek yelled into the mic, “get your ass down those stairs.”

Sheila stared furiously at the monitor as she watched Morton remove his earpiece and their voices from his ear.

“
Morty…Morty…
” the voice continued to sing, “
I’m waiting Morty, and I’m so hungry Morty, so very hungry.
”

Morton backed further away from the cellar door.

“Terry can you hear me?” Sheila said quickly.

“Yeah I’ve got you,” Terry answered.

“I don’t know what game Morton is playing, but he’s going to ruin this for all of us. Get him into the cellar, I don’t care how you do it,” Sheila barked, utilizing her newfound sense of self belief.

“My pleasure,” Terry answered with glee. He outweighed Morton by a few pounds, but where Morton was soft, Terry was hard and muscular. He had carried heavy cameras on his shoulders all over the world and they were broad and powerful. He transferred the camera from his right shoulder to his left and placed a strong meaty paw on Morton’s back and began pushing.

Morton looked around in disbelief as he was suddenly propelled forward and towards the cellar again. “No, no,” he begged, “Please don’t,” he said struggling.

“Watch the camera Terry,” Derek said watching the monitor, “It’s shaking all over the place.”

The laughing behind the cellar door rose like a tidal wave and the door began to shake in anticipation as Morton approached.

“This isn’t a game anymore,” Morton pleaded, “This is real, somebody help me, please don’t make me go down there, this is real.”

Sheila shared a laugh with Derek in the truck, “Who thought that he had that sort of acting ability in him,” she sniggered.

“I think he’s actually starting to believe his own lies,” Derek snorted.

“Poor baby,” Sheila giggled.

On the monitor in front of them, Terry’s shaky camera was distorting the pictures as he carried the heavy equipment on the wrong shoulder whilst shoving Morton forward with his right hand.

Suddenly the demonic laughter stopped and the cellar door was flung open. The camera picture wobbled nauseatingly as the two men staggered through the doorway and down the narrow stairs.

“We need it steadier Terry,” Sheila instructed.

Over the mic they could now hear a soft whimpering that was coming from Morton.

“Is he… Is he crying?” Derek asked, not knowing whether to laugh or be concerned.

“I think so,” Sheila said coldly, “I certainly hope so.”

The monitor glowed green with the night vision setting on the camera, and the picture steadied a little as Terry had to expend less energy shoving Morton forward. The camera panned around the cellar; there was smashed furniture all over the floor - massive oak slices that had been thrown around with contemptuous ease. Sheila spotted the white huffs of breath from Terry and Morton as the temperature dropped again.

“When…? How is Morton faking this?” Derek pondered aloud.

Suddenly the image wheeled violently out of control. The camera’s pictures spun around through the air as though something was flinging the camera and cameraman.

“Terry, TERRY!” Sheila screamed down the mic

A piercing scream shattered the air from somewhere off camera. There was a sound of wet ripping and soft moans and struggling breath. Morton’s voice that had screamed now began to sob quietly. The camera picture rolled over and over as the camera itself rolled across the cellar floor. The image came to a stop on Terry’s bloody face; his eyes were blank and motionless and seemed to stare forever into the abyss. His mouth was twisted into a petrified mask of horror; his features bulged in death and spoke of some abominable terror that had been his last vision.

The camera suddenly lifted up off of the floor and panned around to frame Morton rocking back and forth in a fetal position. His face was deathly white and his eyes were glazed and distant.

Shelia and Derek watched on helplessly from the OB truck as the camera filmed Morton. It was Sheila, who finally asked the obvious question,

“Who’s holding the camera?” She screamed in terror, “Who’s holding the camera?”

21.

BLACKWATER HEIGHTS

So who was?” Martin asked back in the safety of the corridor, “Who was holding the camera?”

Jimmy only smiled, “Who knows my boy, perhaps Mary herself wanted to get a little face time.”

“What did the police have to say?”

“Well, about what you imagine. They found all of Morton’s special effects. Sheila and Derek testified as to Morton’s intensions to film a faked show. But poor old Morton in there has barely spoken since that night. Whatever he saw in that cellar ruined him. Terry’s body was ripped apart with far more force than Morton could have ever mustered, at least so the coroner determined. And with Morton unavailable for comment there was no alternative than to section him and place his care in our fair hands.”

Martin watched the old man carefully; his intrigue had soon taken a detouring side road to a wary distrust of the elderly janitor. The man could be engaging and charming one minute, and then secretive and downright creepy the next. Martin felt the night dragging as never before and was beginning to wish that it was just all over and done with.

“How many more of these have we got to go through Jimmy?” He asked tiredly.

“Not flagging already are we?” Jimmy cackled, “A young buck like you, you should have plenty of energy left in the tank my boy. It’s an old geezer like me that needs fresh batteries from time to time.”

“Hey, it’s only my first day here remember, and I don’t want to be stuck here forever.”

“Want doesn’t always get,” Jimmy said with a strange small smile that tightened his features further around his bony skull.

Before Martin could ask just what in the hell that meant, Jimmy was already opening another door.

22.

YELLOW STREAK

Major Donald Carragher sank his face lower into the mud, praying that he could sink beneath the surface of the wet ground and disappear into the darkness below. The night was black and cold and its icy fingers were nipping at his toes despite the army issue thermals’ attempted defense. He was lying in full camouflage gear, his face smeared with black and green streaks to hide his presence further. His eyes darted back and forth over the misty horizon with scared rabbit-like flicks. The thick fog had descended around the mound where he was currently positioned and was threatening to invade the ravine below. He was lying on a grassy hill overlooking a small valley that disappeared into a thick forest. It was winter and the season was in full effect. The grass was sodden with the cold damp; the terrain was rocky, and great mountains framed the horizon with snow topped peaks.

Donald had been a soldier for a little over ten distinguished years now; his father’s dreams of another Carragher name to continue the family’s deep military tradition all but fulfilled. Donald had taken to the training and structure of the army with a natural instinct. He had excelled during his basic training, so much so that he was soon selected for officer school. He had found an aptitude both in and out of the classroom, and had headed his unit in all categories. A bright future was earmarked for him, making his seemingly unappeasable father actually pleased for once. Unfortunately for Donald, he was a coward. It wasn’t something that he had decided to be, it was just a simple fact. He had blue eyes, brown hair, a slight dairy intolerance and he was a coward. Initially everything about his army career had been fine - everything had been strictly hypothetical. Every exercise had been friendly, with scenarios created and manned by staff members. Guns fired blanks and training officers changed into generic uniforms to play the enemy. By the time Donald had graduated, the conflicts around the globe that he could have been sent to were all considered resolved, at least as far as his superiors were concerned. British soldiers were no longer being deployed to the likes of Afghanistan and Iraq, and troops were being sent home as operations wound down. Donald had breathed perhaps the longest and deepest sigh of relief that had ever been released, and he had settled into a life of toy soldiers. He began to cultivate his reputation as a tactical mastermind, a brain devised for conflict resolution. He had attended courses and seminars around the globe and his abilities under theoretical battlefield situations soon began to become the stuff of legend. He played the part of the frustrated soldier to a tee, sharing many evenings with his once unapproachable father, bemoaning his lack of opportunities to put into practice just what he preached. He had risen quickly through the ranks, becoming a Major some three years earlier than even his retired father had managed. His father, Horatio Carragher, had retired a Lieutenant General and a legend. He was a man who had forged his own career on the battlefields of Europe. An officer born of conflict, one who had directed his men with a gun in his hand and under fire as the bullets flew.

Donald had been content in his life when it had all come suddenly crashing down around his ears. Some madman with dreams of dictatorship high on his perverted agenda had invaded his neighboring country, and Donald’s life was ruined. His father had pulled more strings than Donald had known existed and he had found himself selected to lead a small unit on a recon mission.

Donald scanned the woodland with expert eyes that were currently using their fullest ability to hopefully avoid being detected. His initial brief had been one of a strict “Look but don’t touch” policy. The world was being informed that Ricktenstien’s forces had been merely operating preventative measures to protect themselves from terrorist incursions into their borders. But intelligence had suggested that actually Ricktenstien was carrying out a cleansing operation to rid itself of undesirables. Donald was leading his small unit of six men beyond the borders to gain Intel on just what the reality of the situation really was.

Donald had done everything that he could possibly imagine to try and get out of the assignment, but apparently his father’s influence had far exceeded his own. He had held onto the grim hope that he could indeed carry out the operation without his terrible secret becoming public knowledge. He had held onto that hope right up until he had met Sergeant Hoffman.

Hoffman was a rugged grunt of a man; six feet three of broad muscle and real experience. He was powerful with muscles born of sweat and hard work; he had piercing green eyes and a shock of bright ginger hair. Hoffman had seen straight through Donald’s careful reserve in an instant with a steely sourly amused glare. Donald had addressed his men and briefed them on the incursion mission, whilst all the while Hoffman had just stared straight through him with contempt. Donald had soon discovered that his cowardice was not only limited to the battlefield, he was also found wanting when it came to any confrontations, armed or otherwise.

“Hummingbird what’s your twenty?” Donald jumped as the radio in his ear sparked into life. He had instructed Hoffman to refer to him as eagle-eye but the impudent sergeant had renamed him with a suitably mocking moniker. Donald looked around nervously, as though the muffled earpiece had broadcasted his location across the open valley. His stomach twisted into knots with suppressed anger that would forever lay dormant. Hoffman just seemed to be able to sense all of his weaknesses and all of his comments walked a tightrope between banter and insubordination. Donald wished that Hoffman would cross that line and then he could use the bureaucratic might of his position to squash the sergeant like a bug.

“Hummingbird,” the radio squawked again, “This is eagle-one,” came Hoffman’s smug voice.

“Hummingbird to eagle-one,” Donald whispered swallowing more angry bile, “Coast clear, proceed two by two.”

“Eagle-one out,” Hoffman signed off.

Donald watched as the five man team moved out in full fatigues. They moved under his position high on the mound. Donald should have been in the valley walking point and leading his men, but his cowardice was a streak that was long and wide. Hoffman had known that he would never be able to run point and had offered to lead whilst Donald sat in the crow’s nest keeping watch. Donald shuddered at the presumed conversations going on between the men under his command. No doubt Hoffman had taken great delight in announcing his lack of courage. The sergeant was a grunt of the first order, poorly educated from a rough working class background, and Donald could only imagine the size of the chip on Hoffman’s shoulder.

He waited until they were in the valley basement, then he hoisted himself up and followed their progress from above. He wore a Burlap Ghillie, a dense full body suit in woodland colours. The suit was designed to cover a lying figure and was hard to walk in; the long bushy outfit dragged on the ground and he had to work hard to keep his balance. He was paralleling his men when suddenly Hoffman raised a clenched fist and the other four men immediately dropped to their knees and Donald collapsed as best he could.

The night had closed in fast around them and the fog was thick and almost impenetrable. Donald cursed Hoffman’s instincts, but he trusted them just the same. If Hoffman felt something was wrong he wasn’t going to argue.

He peered carefully through the darkness for the source of the sergeants concern, but he could neither see nor hear anything out of place. Five silhouettes sank below him waiting silently in the darkness, their breathing slowed and hearts calm. Donald was shamed by their icy cool calm as he sweated nervously. He eased himself flat onto the ground; the camouflage suit fell over him and covered all but his two eyes.

Hoffman regained his feet and pressed forward, slower and more cautiously than before. Donald lay rooted to the spot whilst his men moved forward below him. Suddenly he felt movement to the side of him; dark shadows crept out of cover and towards the unsuspecting soldiers below. Donald’s heart pounded furiously against his chest as the insurgents expertly moved with stealth and precision. They slunk on their bellies down the stony ravine towards the unsuspecting soldiers. Donald’s voice was frozen in his throat; his body refused to answer any of his calls and his nerves were shredded. He knew that he had to warn his men; he had to raise the alarm as they were supposed to be under his protective eye, but he could only shiver in fear. He trembled under his protective covering and prayed that he wouldn’t make a sound to attract any attention. The black night was silent but no longer empty, and Donald held his breath until he thought that he might pass out. A figure slithered past him barely four feet away; the insurgent was covered in dark fatigues and his face was painted completely black. Donald caught a pungent aroma of body odour and stale strong tobacco from the man. And then he was gone, descending into the darkness below.

The dead night suddenly exploded into life. Shouts of surprise were soon joined with the echo of strong men’s cries of battle. Small arms’ gunfire spat viciously, shattering the quiet. Donald quivered, his camouflage may have offered secrecy but it was scant protection. Shouts and screams of two nationalities pierced the fog. Insults and struggles drifted up through the darkness and Donald could only hope that he wouldn’t be discovered. He drew his knees up to his chest in a fetal position and prayed that it would be over soon.

Slowly the gunfire and screams were replaced by soft moans and whimpers. Donald struggled to free the 9mm Browning L9A1 from his hip holster with a trembling hand. He was finding that a little courage had returned, now that the men below seemed silent on both sides of the argument.

He crept out from under his full body suit, shucking off the heavy garment in case he had to flee. He pulled the Browning free and slipped off the safety; the gun was a small metallic comfort in his hand. He gripped the pistol as tightly as he could, feeling the heft of the weight and praying for his father’s strength. The Browning had originally belonged to his father and had been fired in battle by him on numerous occasions. His father had presented him with the gun for luck and he had promised to take good care of the weapon. He had kept his word; the Browning gleamed and shone with care and maintenance. Donald was an expert with weapons, just as long as he didn’t have to fire one in anger.

He crawled forwards to the edge of the ravine as quietly as he could manage, terrified to announce his presence. The fog was thicker now than before and Donald could barely see his outstretched hand that held the shaking 9mm Browning handgun. He cocked his head and tried to listen for sounds of survival at the bottom of the ravine. There were several different toned whimpering prayers but no immediate strong voices.

He turned to head back the way he’d come, back towards the safety of the border and away from the death below. As far as he was concerned he had fulfilled his officer’s duty to his men by creeping a few feet forward. He wasn’t about to reveal his position by actually calling out, or putting himself in danger.

He stilled his heavy panting and tried to relax. He was alive and undiscovered. As far as he was concerned there was no sound from below and thus no reason to climb down into the darkness below.

“Major?” A voice drifted out of the fog from the bottom of the ravine, “Major?” The voice struggled.

Donald recognised the voice immediately. It was Hoffman, it would have to be him. Of all the possible survivors, why Hoffman?

“Major, I’m hurt real bad,” Hoffman panted, his voice was weak and shaky. “Please Major, you have to climb down and help me.”

Donald waited, praying for the cold hand of death to take the miserable sergeant swiftly.
It couldn’t happen to a nicer guy
, Donald thought bitterly.

“Major…” the voice trailed off.

He turned to leave when a bloody hand exploded out of the fog and gripped his arm. Adrenaline infused his body and he spun around in terror. The gun in his hand spat venom several times before he realised that he was even firing. The gunshots were monstrous in the dead night and his ears rang with the deafening noise. The bloody hand released him and the shadow fell backwards into the ravine with barely a grunt as the bullets struck home with deadly force. Donald ran. He didn’t care who had grabbed him or who was left behind; he only knew that he had to get away. The area was notorious with carnivorous wildlife and he knew that by the time the sun broke through and lifted the fog there would be little left.