Asylum - 13 Tales of Terror (19 page)

He ran until his lungs threatened to burst out of his chest. He ran until his legs burned with acid and his throat roared with fire. He ran until he was through the border and had reached the extraction point. He ran until he thought that he was safe.

THREE MONTHS LATER

The evening gala celebrations were finally winding down. Major Donald Carragher felt that he would need to spend the following day in the company of a renowned chiropractor, considering the amount of back slapping that he’d had to endure.

He was standing in full uniform, ram rod straight and proud on the balcony overlooking the ballroom floor. He was now a hero of the battlefield in the vein of his father before him. He was the sole survivor of his unit; a man who had heroically fought his way clear of overwhelming enemy forces. His was no longer a name associated with the theory of conflict. Now he was man forged in fire. It had only been when he was being extracted out of Ricktenstien that he’d even had time to think about just what he was going to tell his superiors. One of the medics had taken one look at his face and misinterpreted his shame for that of battlefield horrors.

“I can’t imagine what you went through buddy,” the medic had said as the chopper lifted him to safety.

Donald had decided that maybe he could do a little imagining of his own when it came to making his report.

He smiled to himself as the band began packing away and the cleaners started to do their job. Admittedly he may have gotten a little carried away. By the time that he had finished it would have been sacrilegious to have not awarded him a medal. Apparently his unit had been overwhelmed by enemy forces. His sergeant - who had been thought to be a solid and reliable soldier - had frozen in the face of the enemy and failed to sound the alarm. Donald had fought like a tiger against impossible odds in order to save his men, refusing to run from the onslaught; a Custer who had lived to tell the tale. His men had fallen one by one, including the now discredited Sergeant Hoffman. Donald had killed more insurgents than he could remember before eventually managing to stagger clear. Only returning to the extraction point after the enemy had fled for the trees. Donald had retired from active duty with his reputation and now freshly self-penned legend set in concrete.

He puffed on the excellent cigar and swirled the brandy in his hand to warm the glass. He was finding that he had quite an appetite for the finer things in life now that he was a hero. His father had insisted on putting on the gala evening after his medal ceremony. The old man was positively falling over himself with pride. Donald had a whole future of possibilities laid out in front of him now. He had a burgeoning collection of luxurious business cards nestling in his pocket, each promising riches for just the cache of his name attached to their various firms. Life was good and it was going to get a whole lot better. He would fill the shame hole in his soul with wealth and privilege. He was finding that the more times he lied to himself, the more he was starting to believe his own story.

He was about to retire for the evening when he felt eyes staring at him. He turned quickly towards the open ballroom below. The streamers were now hanging limply across the dance floor and balloons were either saggy reminders or else empty skins. A man stood in front of the open fire exit door; he was tall and broad and stood motionless. Donald felt strangely drawn to the man’s gaze; something about the man seemed oddly familiar. The man remained rock still in the soft glow of the moonlight that streamed through the open door. Even from this distance Donald felt nervous. The man was making no visible threatening motions, but Donald could feel waves of anger emanating towards him. Suddenly the man turned and walked out through the door. As he turned the main lights of the ballroom came on as the cleaners went about their business. Just as the man turned the sudden explosion of light caught him as he moved outside. Donald’s heart stopped as he suddenly saw a shock of bright ginger hair.
Hoffman
, he thought, terrified.

He utilized the alcoholic courage that currently ran through his system and charged down the stairs from the balcony towards the fire exit. He reached the door but the man was gone. He stuck his head out into the car park, but there was no sign of the ginger haired man.

“Where did he go?” he demanded of the closest cleaner.

“Sorry?” The cleaner spluttered, un-nerved at the inquisition.

“The red haired bloke, he was right here seconds ago,” Donald insisted as he grabbed the cleaner by the shirt roughly.

“I didn’t see anyone,” the cleaner managed as he tried to squirm away from the much bigger officer.

Donald released the custodian without any kind of apology and dismissed him with a contemptuous wave of the hand. He pondered the vision of Hoffman in the doorway. It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that his mind was playing tricks on him, on this night of all nights. Eventually he figured that as Charles Dickens had once written, “There was more of gravy than of the grave about you”. He turned and left for good night’s sleep.

It was three days later when he saw the man again. He was sitting in a café on the high street enjoying a luxurious frothy coffee. The day was pleasant and passing pleasantly. The weather was unseasonably warm and Donald was appreciating the sunshine’s influence on the female wardrobe choice. He was watching one particular filly strut past when he suddenly felt an angry glare burning a hole in the back of his head. He turned around on the high backed Italian armchair and saw him. Across the street was a small park; a green lawn expanse designed for families and sitting. There was a bench around fifty feet from where Donald was sitting. On the bench sat a tall broad man. The man was wearing a non-descript dark blue hooded sweatshirt and matching jogging bottoms. The hood was up and the face within seemed fixed on Donald. The man sat motionless, but similar to the ballroom, Donald could feel waves of hatred emanating across the park and directed at him.

The man suddenly stood; he raised a hand slowly and dramatically to his head and pushed the hood back. The last thing that Donald saw before the man turned and jogged casually away was a shock of bright red hair.

Donald’s life followed a similar path for the next month. Wherever he went, whatever he did, the red haired man was there. Donald would be sitting in a restaurant and suddenly he would feel that hateful burning glare. He would turn around slowly and see the red haired man standing outside on the street. He would be driving and suddenly feel that burning glare and the red haired man would be in the car behind him in the rear view mirror. The red haired man would always be just out of reach, dancing just beyond his clear vision. Always the red haired man was there. Donald began to see his clouded face everywhere, even when he wasn’t there.

The first thing that Donald did of course was to ascertain the details of the remains’ recovery of his team. There had indeed been a recovery mission launched; a small unit had penetrated the Ricktenstien border. But according to the files there had been no bodies found. Reports stated that evidence of a fire fight was found with multiple rounds found from multiple weapons, along with blood traces but no bodies. Donald knew that the Ricktenstien government would have cleaned up the scene quickly and efficiently, but what if? What if there had been survivors? What if there had been prisoners taken? What if Hoffman was still alive somehow and what if he was back? Donald had parlayed his cowardice into a hero’s welcome and a lucrative private sector position with a UK arms manufacturer. His life consisted of long lunches and longer dinner events. His Victoria Cross medal was the highest award in the British services and it opened many doors for him. His salary was commensurate with his ability to wine and dine those politicians with influence that his new employers wished to utilize. His life was set, his bank account was swelling quickly and his future was rosy. Only the truth could ruin him.

The longer his haunting went on, the less he was able to sleep and soon he was barely functioning and his behavior was becoming increasingly erratic. It began to affect his work when he saw the red haired man at a dinner hosted for the Ministry of Defense. There was a fat juicy contract up for grabs and Donald was wheeled out for decretive dressing. He had been talking to a fat minister who had a love of military history and no real desire for service when he had seen him. The red haired man had been wearing a waiter’s uniform and serving canapés. Donald had lost it completely and charged across the dining room chasing the running server. He had caught the man for the first time and accosted the waiter, coarsely swearing and pummeling the man, more through fear than anger. He had been mortified to see that the cowering man beneath him was a trembling teen with blonde hair not red. He had been so sure that the red haired man was stalking him again, only to realise that he was seeing Hoffman’s face everywhere it would seem. He was able to hang onto his privileged position only by the skin of his teeth, and by allowing his actions to be deemed post-traumatic stress disorder.

At the suggestion of his employers he decided to take a holiday, perhaps a change of scenery would clear his increasingly troubled mind. He rented a deserted cottage in the wilds of North East England. It still was out of season and the area was quiet. Tourists had yet to brave the chilly North and Donald was looking forward to the solitude. He selected a small cottage mainly for its unencumbered immediate surroundings. The photo of the place showed that it was located in a large open expanse of fields; no encasing trees or thickets of woodland. No cover when approaching the cottage on any side, and no way for anyone to be able to creep up undetected.

Donald left his city dwelling behind and headed for the isolation and rest that he and his mind desperately craved. The roads started as major motorways, before morphing into A roads, drifting into B roads, and finally becoming a single track that wound its way through a picturesque countryside. Donald felt his mood lift as he left the madness of uncertainty far behind. Whether or not the red haired man was Hoffman - real or otherwise - or even if he was just a figment of Donald’s guilty conscience, Donald needed some peace. His thoughts were taut like piano wire. He had barely slept or eaten in weeks and his life had become merely a hollow existence. The night before he had left for his break, he had woken up at three in the morning. The gentle moonlight was cascading through his bedroom window and somehow, he just knew that he had to look outside. He lived in a plush apartment on a swanky street of high end homes. The terraced buildings were curved around in a circle, high above the city’s bright lights. On the pavement opposite his building was a streetlight that shone powerfully, using city resources to power a burglary deterrent at the tax payer’s expense. The streetlights were immaculately maintained and always in perfect working order. Donald had awoken without the comforting illumination framing his expensive home. He had crept to the window knowing just what he was going to find, and not being disappointed. The red haired man stood leaning motionless against the streetlight and obscured under the dead bulb. His silhouette was casual and only the bright moonlight glinted off of his bright red hair. Donald had stood transfixed at the window for almost an hour. He wanted to open the window and scream at the man. He wanted to demand answers,  to hurl insults, but he could only stare back. He had toyed with the idea of going to the police, but the red haired man had never spoken to him, never threatened him, and never even approached him. And after all, Donald was supposed to be a war hero, decorated on the battlefield and was now terrified by a man who had merely looked at him.

He finally arrived at the cottage. The small coastal village of Ermsby was the closest population centre to him, and that was seven miles away. The single story cottage was chocolate box perfect; stone walls with climbing ivy and a thatched roof. A delicate path wound its way through a perfect garden framed with pretty flowers all standing to attention. The day was fast passing into evening as he pulled up and the expansive view ran down over the open fields to the ocean in the distance. The rolling fog was drifting inwards and Donald shuddered as the fog reminded him of the fateful night when he had fled and left his men to die.

He shook away the morbid thoughts and hefted his bags from the boot of the car. He had packed lightly but with heavy attire. The most important item of course was his trusty Browning 9mm that he had kept from his service days, and he never travelled anywhere without it. He knew that if he was caught and searched he would be in trouble despite his former occupation, but he also knew that he couldn’t take the risk of not carrying it.

He reached the cottage front door and used the key that had been posted to him by the rental company. He stepped inside the front door and reached for the light switch. His stomach rolled over with bile when the lights didn’t work. He desperately flipped the switch over and over again to no avail, and he stood in the doorway not wanting to enter the house. He quickly dropped his bags and reached in to the smallest one retrieving the Browning. He backed away from the doorway and out into the night. The gun was held in front of him with both hands pulled in towards his chest in a classic stance. He swung the weapon around as he checked the surroundings; there was no red haired man to be seen. He relaxed a little and reached into his jacket and pulled out his mobile phone. He scanned the menu for the rental company’s number and pressed send. All the while he kept one eye flicking around and keeping watch. The phone rang and rang without answer. He was about to hang it up when a harassed voice finally answered.

“Blackwater Rentals,” the women’s voice spoke with irritation.

“This is Donald Carragher, I have a cottage booked through you, only there seems to be a little lack of electricity,” Donald snapped.

“Hang on a minute,” the woman’s voice was accompanied by rustling papers. “Here we are, Mr. Carragher, oh…”

“Oh, what?” Donald barked.