Asylum - 13 Tales of Terror (2 page)

Martin shivered within the confines of the long dark corridor that they walking along. The cold stone walls seemed impervious to the hospital’s heating attempts. He could almost hear the tap - tap - tapping of Horace’s cane drifting through the dark, drawing ever closer. He smiled for the first time in a while; his mood brightened and he felt a little hope.
Damn
, he thought,
this really would make a good story; a haunted asylum born of a real history. Horace tapping his way through the night; there really is a book in this, even if I have to change the details and fictionalize the story.

“As the maintenance was neglected around the property,” Jimmy went on, “broken windows would go unfixed and un-boarded. Because of the sloping open ground between the house and the open sea, the wind would howl around the house unencumbered. On stormy winter nights, the weather would batter Blackwater Heights mercilessly. The cold sea air would whip viciously against the building, shaking its very foundations. Eventually, as Horace secluded himself in his study, armed with the only working fireplace left in the house and an endless supply of strong liquor, the house fell into a state of almost complete disrepair. To her credit, Emily found enough courage within her tired and weary frame and left. She took their son and ran into the night and back to her remaining relatives that still lived in the village below. Until the day she died, it’s said that her dreams were full of the tap - tap - tapping of an eternal haunting. She would wake in a cold, heart pounding sweat, always fearing that Horace would stop and enter.”

They had come to a stop before a door. Martin was so caught up in the story and his own ideas on how to write it that he almost walked straight into the door.

Jimmy looked at him silently and reached out past him, gripping the door handle. Martin stared as Jimmy pulled the door open slowly; his breath caught painfully in his throat and his heart pounded violently against his ribcage. The dim light overhead seemed to dim further as Jimmy opened the door and Martin finally saw inside.

The closet was full of cleaning equipment; shelves were laden with cloths and various bottles. The detergent smell was overpowering and the artificial fragrances were no match for the pungent chemicals.

“What did you expect?” Jimmy laughed, “Old Horace and his cane?”

Martin grinned sheepishly, “Something like that,” he conceded.

“Well don’t you worry son, he’s hell and gone from here by now, if there’s any justice in the world,” he added a little bitterly. “Well, I guess it’s about time we got some work done; follow me.”

The next couple of hours went by turgidly. Martin was mopping the hallways on his route. Jimmy had explained the janitorial duties to him; they weren’t complicated and shouldn’t have been particularly taxing. But although he had only been at it for a short while, his back was already a screaming mess. The accident had left him with little endurance for manual labor. The constant leaning and swaying movement of his duties left him bitter towards the doctors who had passed him fit for this job. He slipped a couple more Solpadol painkillers into his mouth and dry swallowed them with difficulty. He knew that they would make him sleepy, but at least they would take the edge off.

Jimmy had explained to him that Blackwater Heights was a private mental health facility. There were no basement torture chambers here; no electroshock labs, only hotel standard rooms and soft shoe counseling. The residents, he’d explained - always residents never patients - were only secured in their rooms at night. During the day they were free to roam the grounds, attend sessions and the myriad of activities that were available to them.

He slopped his way along the corridor - feeling obliged to do the best job that he could manage - and hated himself for the inconvenient compulsion. Whatever he did, he couldn’t help but do it properly.

The black and white floor tiles blurred beneath his eyes as the painkillers kicked in, but at least the overhead lights were subtle and comforting. The corridor was long and he could count ten resident doors. His watch read only 8.27pm, but he did not detect any movement from behind any of the suites. Despite Jimmy’s assertions that the residents were treated as guests, Martin found it easy to believe that a pharmaceutical nightcap was more than likely employed. His preconceptions about working within a “Looney Bin” had soon been expunged. The hospital was sleek and modern and there were no drooling maniacs rooming the hallways with murderous intent behind glazed eyes.

His cleaning route was on the opposite side of the building to Jimmy’s; this was the one fact that he liked just fine. He could just about put up with the job and was always happiest to work on his own. This way his mind could drift and partake of his real occupation - writing. Jimmy’s story about Horace and Blackwater had real potential. Best case scenario was to produce a book about this place with all the facts laid out. If - as was probably the case - the hospital objected to his idea, then the names and location could be altered, but the story could still be strong enough.

He checked his watch again. Jimmy had told him that he could take a meal break at 8.45pm and had given him directions to the staff canteen. He finished the corridor floor and headed for the canteen. His shoes clacked softly on the tiled floor and he made an unconscious effort to walk gently. He was still a little afraid of the residents and had no desire to wake anyone.

The canteen was barely lit as he entered; he could see Jimmy sitting on his own at a table on the far side of the room. The double doors whooshed gently behind him as he entered.

The canteen looked to seat around fifty, and long communal tables with joined chairs were cleaned and polished. At the front of the room metallic cabinets were dimly lit by overhead lights. Martin could see that during the day the place would be in full swing, but at night it was barely operational due to the skeleton night shift.

Jimmy waved him over and he approached with a cheeriness brought about by the painkillers and a rumble in his stomach.

“Doris has left you some supper,” Jimmy greeted him. “Over there in the cabinet,” he pointed. “Use the oven gloves. The plate will be hot.”

Martin detoured to the cabinet and used the gloves hanging above to slide open the doors and retrieve the plate. The pleasant aroma of a hot beef casserole wafted enticingly into his face and crispy dumplings poked invitingly from the dark stew.

“This looks great,” he said as he sat down opposite Jimmy.

“Ah, Doris is a marvel. A word to the wise son; make a good impression with her and she’ll treat you right on these crappy shifts.”

Martin made a quick note in his little book; it was tips like this that were always invaluable when starting a new job.

“So how’s the first night going?” Jimmy asked as he sat back from the table having finished his own meal.

“Fine,” Martin answered through a delicious mouthful.

“This place not giving you the willies yet?” Jimmy chuckled.

“Not quite,” Martin answered dubiously “You sure that those room doors are locked?” He laughed, not entirely joking.

“Don’t worry, no-one gets out without one of these.” Jimmy hefted a large metal ring that jangled with dozens of heavy keys.

“They still use actual keys here? I’d have thought that everything would have been electronic considering the modern look of the building.”

“It’s the weather unfortunately. So many storms and high winds over the winter months means we are always suffering blackouts. The cost of maintaining backup generators for electronic door locks makes the idea prohibitive. So what’s a smart lad like you doing in a place like this?” Jimmy asked.

“A job’s a job, I guess.”

“But I’m guessing that this wasn’t in your life plan.”

“No, not exactly,” Martin answered truthfully.

“So what is it that you want to be doing?”

“Well,” Martin paused, feeling uneasy at divulging great chunks of himself to a relative stranger, but deciding that it was perhaps the quickest way to get to know someone. “I guess that I’m a writer,” he wavered.

“You guess?”

“No, I am a writer,” Martin stated more firmly.

“Good, now what is it that you write?” Jimmy leaned forward with genuine interest.

“Ah, now therein lies the problem. I’m still searching for an adequate subject. I thought that I was never going to find inspiration, until…” Martin left the thought hanging.

“Until I told you about old Horace and his tapping cane?” Jimmy finished the thought. “You know I’ve always thought that this place was ripe for a book; both Blackwater and the residents.”

“How would I go about getting permission for something like that?” Martin asked.

Jimmy only laughed, “Permission, that’s a good one. Look if you want to get out of this place and make this only a pit stop instead of a permanent residence like me, then you’ll have to show a little more backbone than that.”

“What do you mean?” Martin asked suspiciously.

“Look son, I don’t want to be stuck here forever either. Early retirement sounds pretty good when your body aches as much as mine. I can get you the stories if you’ll write the book and then we can split the profits perhaps?”

Martin watched the elderly janitor with growing respect. “You knew that I was a writer before I came here didn’t you?”

Jimmy’s eyes sparkled a little, “Perhaps.”

“And you told me Horace’s tale as a way of baiting the hook,” Martin stated rather than asked.

“And there are so many other stories here Martin. I can give them to you,” he jangled the keys to illustrate, “In their own words.”

After eating they both headed for the second half of the shift which they worked together. They headed downwards towards the lower levels of the hospital; here the lights seemed a little dimmer and the walls a little closer. Martin was under no illusion that he was still mulling over Jimmy’s suggestion; one night shift here had been enough to answer any moral questions. His back was emanating painful waves down both legs; his body simply could not withstand many weeks of working here. A book of actual mental patient stories would surely be vastly superior to any that he could dream up in his own undamaged imagination. Plus all of the patient tales could be tied together with the story of Horace and Blackwater.

“Are they dangerous? The patients, I mean residents,” Martin asked.

“Only a few would be considered so. They are the ones on these lower levels, but that’s why we clean this area in pairs,” Jimmy assured.

“What are their stories, you know, the residents in general?” Martin asked intrigued.

“Well, most come here after suffering a breakdown of sorts. They come here to hopefully get back in touch with reality again. Some are private check-ins, either self-funded or subsidized, and some are here, shall we say, in a court appointed manner.”

“I bet there are some tales in here,” Martin said half to himself, his brain ticking over at a rate of knots.

“Are there ever,” Jimmy agreed, “You think old Horace had a tale to tell. I’m going to introduce you to some folks with stories that would make your hair curl,” Jimmy said, pausing outside the first dark door.

“Really,” Martin leant forward eagerly, notebook in hand as Jimmy knocked on the first door. “What are you doing?” he hissed, panicked.

“Relax son, you want to hear some tales for your book don’t you?”

“Is this safe?” Martin said looking around, “What if we get caught? What about the residents? Will we be safe?”

“No pain no gain,” Jimmy grinned. “Relax Martin,” he said holding up a staying hand, “I have chatted with these folks many times before, and none of the other staff come down here after dark.”

“Ghosts?” Martin asked excitedly.

“More like laziness,” Jimmy answered, “The night shift prefer to stay up in their cozy lounge napping away,” he said as he slipped a key into the lock.

Martin felt his heart beat frantically and his breath paused about halfway up his chest.
Oh shit
, he thought,
we’re really doing this
, as the door swung invitingly,
we’re actually going to do this!
The room door swung open and Martin peered inside.

“Martin, I would very much like you to meet Julian,” Jimmy introduced.

2.

PICKING UP STRANGERS

The road wound its way sleepily through the night and Julian’s eyes drifted along with his weary travels. He was shaken back to his senses as the car suddenly veered off onto the gravel hard shoulder. He yanked the wheel hard and the vehicle whined in protest as it pulled reluctantly back into a straight line again. His heart thudded hard against his chest; he paused in the split second between knowing that he was going to panic and the adrenaline hitting him hard. His breath hitched and caught painfully in his throat;
shit
, he thought, that
was close, way too close
. The car straightened and the powerful headlights pierced the thin fog like a tiger’s eyes.
At least that scare will wake me up again
, he thought before realizing that he was terrifyingly drifting off to sleep again. He plucked a nostril hair quickly; the pain was instant and eye-watering. He blinked furiously and fidgeted around in his seat, desperately trying to stay awake.

The illumination from the car’s digital clock read 1:37am; he had been driving the rental car solidly for the last six hours since leaving Glasgow airport. He had flown in after a twelve hour delay because somewhere in central Europe someone had figured that they wanted to be paid extra for working after 10pm. His schedule had been razor tight as it was, and he was a man who believed wholeheartedly in schedules. His trip had been planned with military precision and it was literally a flying visit. He worked for a US manufacturing company that had recently purchased a UK arm for development. He had been due to fly into Heathrow in London. He was supposed to be picked up at the airport and whisked across the city to Dartford in order to tour the new facility. His plans had been unforgivably shattered due to the strike and the subsequent diversion; one that had meant he’d arrived in Glasgow instead of London. His mood had been further ruined when he’d realised that contrary to popular US belief, the UK wasn’t actually as small as everyone seemed to think.

It had turned out that Glasgow was some 430 miles away from his destination. The woman at the car rental desk had attempted to explain to him that he would be better off waiting for a flight the next morning, but he had been too pig-headed and tired to listen. His schedule had been adjusted several times already and he wasn’t about to alter his plans again. He had made the decision to hire a car and drive whilst still on the plane as it descended into the murky Glasgow weather. His structured mind would not stand yet another alteration.

Julian was a money man; an accountant who ran his whole life through the prism of structure and order. Every aspect of life had a column on a balance sheet and everything had to have balance. He was forty-seven; around five feet seven and always clean and shiny. He was lean and wiry with a balding head that was still ringed with a salt and pepper crown. His eyes were a pale washed out blue and were always hidden behind thick glasses. He favoured three piece suits of a dark blue nature and the cuts were always tailored and expensive. He knew only too well that his appearance only furthered the stereotype of his profession, but he didn’t mind. He was currently single by choice as he had found that women offered too many variables, and he was often at a loss when it came to dealing with the fairer sex.

He glanced at the digital clock again; the time seemed to be accelerating faster than he was driving. The only car that he had been able to obtain had been of a lower class than he would have liked, and the on-board facilities were severely lacking. He had been forced to plot his route on a hand held paper map; to use a relic of a bygone age, mainly because the vehicle had not come with satellite navigation as he’d expected. He knew that despite the UK’s reputation for its quaintness and lack of size, the road that he was currently driving on could not possibly be classed as a major one. The road lanes had shrunk from three to two, and then worryingly down to just a single. He had soon mastered driving on the opposite side of the road as it only took a slight adjustment to the rules of driving, and he was able to process the change swiftly and efficiently. The road that he was now driving on appeared deserted; the single lane traffic had all but evaporated leaving him as the sole traveler in either direction. He knew that he should pull over to inspect the map again and find out just where he had gone wrong, but his mind stubbornly resisted and he pressed forward regardless.

The urban sprawl had given way to open fields and grassland; now, however, the road was further encased by dark woodland on both sides. The thick forest encroached overhead and cut the visibility even more. The car swayed again as his eyes drooped; he slapped the steering wheel hard in frustration. The night was ticking worryingly by and he was falling further and further behind schedule. His stomach knotted in revolt as he grew more and more impotent to prevent his plan from failing. The plan was all. The plan was everything and he had to stick to it.
Goddamn strikers
, he thought viciously.
Damn airplane, damn delays
; it seemed like everyone was conspiring against him. He thought of Jenkins back in the home office and a snarl crept across his face. Jenkins would love to see him fail; Jenkins hated him as much as he hated Jenkins. He was thinking of his smug colleague when the woman ran out in front of him.

It was a close thing as he only saw her the very last minute and only realised what he was seeing a split second after that. Time stood still as he jerked the wheel hard and the car spun away. The front bumper brushed through her long skirt and her terrified face whistled past the driver’s window. He looked directly into her eyes as the car headlights bounced off of the deep blue crystal surface. Her skin was ivory pale and her long thick dark hair hung in matted waves. Her cheekbones were razor sharp and sculpted; her face was narrow and her figure was lithe with an almost feline grace. Then she was gone as the car passed within millimeters of her and skidded to a halt facing back the way he’d just come.

The twin headlights illuminated her as she stood rooted to the spot and for the first time he saw her clearly. She was around five feet five slim and athletic, toned and balanced; her ample chest heaved with stress and exhaustion. She stood staring at him; her deep blue eyes were almost feral and darted around with a nervous tension as her wild black hair tumbled around her pale face. She wore a white blouse that gaped loosely around her and billowed in the harsh wind. There were dark stains splattered across her front. Her long floral skirt was torn in several places and where her bare legs showed, they were scraped and bloody. Her feet were bare and she carried impractical shoes in a raw shaking hand. She stood shivering as he stared at her for what seemed like an eternity, their eyes locking across the short distance between them. Julian’s mind struggled with a scene that was so far out of the ordinary and removed from the plan that he found himself unable to move. Suddenly the woman broke from her frozen moorings and ran towards him; her pretty face twisted into a mask of terror and panic. Julian automatically reached to lock the doors and prevent her access before he was momentarily mesmerized by bouncing cleavage that had sprung free as she failed to prevent the spillage. The passenger door was suddenly wrenched open and the woman leapt into the car.

“DRIVE, DRIVE!” She screamed hysterically, “QUICKLY THEY’RE COMING!”

“Now hold on Miss,” Julian started, unwilling to have orders barked at him by a complete stranger.

She suddenly stamped hard on his foot and the accelerator roared into life. She reached over and hit the lever into drive and the car lurched drunkenly forward.

“Hey now!” Julian said striving to regain control as the car drove the wrong way.

“We have to go, we have to go,” the woman yelled hysterically, “They’re coming, they’re coming.”

“Who’s coming? Just what exactly is going on here?” Julian snapped. Despite the woman’s obvious distress, his own was greater as the plan wavered yet further and his stomach churned at this latest interruption.

He shoved the woman away from him and stopped the car in a skidding halt.

“I’ve just about had enough of this young lady. You run out in front of my car in the middle of the night half dressed, shouting and screaming at me; you leap into my car and attempt some sort of hijack. I won’t have it, do you hear me? I just won’t have it.”

“Please,” she sobbed, “Please.”

“Now we are going to sit here and you are going to explain to me just what exactly is going on.” He turned off the ignition and sat back pleased with his successful wrestle back of control. There was only one way to do things in this world as far as he was concerned, and that was his way.

Just then powerful spotlights burst from the woods and several dark silhouettes staggered out onto the road. The woman screamed as soon as she saw them.

“They’re here, they’ve found me,” she sobbed.

Julian flipped the headlights onto full beam and opened the car door. He stood out into the cold night and peered towards the now approaching figures. His ordered mind relaxed as the light picked up a dark uniform of some kind of British authority.

“Now perhaps we can get to the bottom of this,” he said thankfully. “Over here officers,” he waved.

He looked back into the car; the woman was mewing softly, shaking, and rocking gently as she hugged herself.
She must be a criminal on the run perhaps,
he thought,
although she does look like she has been through some terrible ordeal judging by the state of her
, he puzzled. No matter, the authorities would take over now and he could be on his way and back to the plan. He could even get some expert directions now, he cheered himself.

A crack and a flash of light exploded in the clear night and he was puzzled as a waft of air passed by his face. A second and a third noise echoed out and suddenly he felt a powerful punch to his shoulder; there was a split second before the monstrous pain exploded.
I’ve been shot
, he marveled,
they’re shooting at me. Why are they shooting
? He tried to shout but his breath was taken from him. More small cracks lit up the night, and one clanged against the car’s metal side leaving a nasty scratch along the trail. He was trying to remember if he had taken out the full insurance policy with the rental company when small claw-like hands were dragging him back into the car. The woman dragged him across into the passenger seat and climbed over him into the driver’s. She started the engine just as the men were running towards them. The shots got closer and more accurate as the men closed the distance, and the car was suddenly peppered with gunfire. The back window blew out and she screamed. She stuck the car in reverse and floored it as the shots exploded around them. As the distance increased they began to drift out of range again.

Julian looked out of the front window as they reversed at great speed away from danger and the dark figures began to disappear into the gloom. “What the hell is going on?” He spluttered through gritted teeth against the pain from his shoulder wound.

The woman was still concentrating hard as she drove silently backwards; her face was a mask of sweaty effort.

“I asked you a question young lady,” he snapped.

The woman stamped hard on the breaks and the car slid to a stop; she executed a clumsy three point turn around in the road. As soon as they were facing away from her pursuers she stepped hard on the accelerator again.

Julian sagged in his seat; he could feel blood seeping through his shoulder and into his expensive suit. His biggest current concern was suddenly just how he would ever manage to get his clothes cleaned properly. Tiredness and shock were on the march as the car ate up the road before them. His eyes drooped again and his mind drifted as the machine spluttered, unable to deal with the violent turn of events.

The explosion of pain woke him from his slumber; one minute he had been drifting warmly through a deep sleep and the next he was bolt upright, and a scream was vomiting from his mouth and scorching his lungs.

“Sorry,” the woman mumbled as she cleaned his wound.

He found himself topless and blood soaked down one wounded arm. He risked a glance towards the small hole in his shoulder and his stomach lurched in protest.

“Don’t look,” the woman offered weakly.

She was pouring water into the injury and wiping the blood away with part of his now shredded shirt.

“There’s a bottle of whisky in the trunk,” he said through a pinched expression.

The woman only looked at him with a puzzled face.

“The boot,” he said remembering the colloquialism. “The alcohol should help to disinfect the wound,” he said hoping that the movies were right. The expensive bottle of whisky had been a gift for the new manager in Dartford. His mind was already wondering just how he was going to make the meeting on time to get back on plan.

The woman quickly retrieved the bottle and also brought a sweatshirt from his case in the rear of the rental.

“Who were those men?” He asked again, a little more gently.

“I don’t know,” the woman said quietly, “William, my husband and I were travelling through here when they stopped us,” she began crying softly at the mention of her spouse.

“What did they do?” Julian asked, looking at her torn clothing and fearing the answer.

“They flagged us down with flares. One of the men said that there had been an accident up ahead so we pulled over. They were as nice as pie at first, chatting away all friendly enough. One of them, a big bastard, just kept staring at me; he was starting to give me the right creeps. Then some bloke who seemed to be in charge called William over; he went, and then they killed him.” A great sob wrenched free from her chest, “They just shot him through the head at close range. So much blood, so much blood,” she sobbed.

“But aren’t they the police or something?” Julian asked incredulously.

“They’re bastards, every last one of them,” she spat.

“How did you get away?”