by Ron Ripley
Which, Abel admitted to himself, is what has made this already so interesting.
His eyes returned to the hallway camera, and he watched as Subject A reached the front door and prepared to exit the Greeley House.
***
Peter Murphy was shaken. He didn’t want to admit it, but fear had settled in the pit of his stomach and twisted around with the ferocity of a snake caught by the tail.
Peter didn’t dare let go of his fear. He had a suspicion that if he didn’t keep a lid on it, he would run screaming from the strange house.
He took several deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself and failed.
Shaking, he gripped the cold doorknob and let himself out of the house.
Peter walked down the granite steps and came to a stop, looking up and down the small street. Old-fashioned lamps lined the cobblestones, and Peter could make out several other houses. All were dark.
The light from the street lamps flickered, and Peter found himself thinking of the old Christmas movies his grandparents had enjoyed watching.
He couldn’t see any electrical lines or hear any televisions or radios.
It’s like I’ve gone back in time, he thought dully. Peter forced his feet to move, taking cautious, nervous steps down the slim pathway from the front door to the street. His footfalls were loud in the unnatural stillness of the neighborhood, and he came to a sharp stop.
There are no cars, he thought, the panic rising in him again. Oh hell. Did I really go back in time? Is that even possible?
He shook his head at the thought, refusing to believe it.
“What were you doing in Master Greeley’s house?” a sharp voice demanded.
Peter let out a terrified shriek and jumped as he turned around, staggering backward.
The short fat woman stood on the path, the house he had left behind her.
In her thick right hand, she held a cleaver that was obscenely large. Moon and lamplight reflected in the polished metal, and for a horrified second, Peter imagined he could see the handle of the cleaver through her hand.
“Listen, lady,” Peter said hoarsely, “I’m really sorry. I don’t know how I ended up there. Really. You have to believe me.”
She took a step toward him, and Peter stepped back.
“You were trespassing,” she hissed. “In Master Greely’s house.”
“Okay,” Peter said, hating himself for the irrational fear that swept through him every time he looked at her. “Sure. I was. But it wasn’t my fault. I don’t know how I got up there, who put me in the bed, or anything.”
“You were in the bed,” she said, her eyes widening. “In the bed. In the bed?!”
Her porcine features twisted into a snarl and she swung the cleaver at him, moving exceptionally fast for a woman of her size.
Peter twisted away, but not far or quickly enough.
The cleaver caught him in the left shoulder, the blade biting deep into his arm and eliciting a shriek from him. He fell back as she jerked the cleaver free. Vomiting, he struck the hard stones of the road, and managed to roll and push himself up with his uninjured right arm.
Without looking behind him, Peter ran down the road and away from the woman with the cleaver.
***
Curious, Abel thought, making a notation in the composition notebook he kept beside him. Subject A is frightened. Much more than I would have thought. Of course, she is chasing him with a cleaver.
Abel chuckled at the thought, and selected various cameras, keeping an interested eye on Subject A’s flight down the street. The cameras were all equipped with night-vision capabilities, and through them, he was able to see the seriousness of Subject A’s injury. It would, if not treated, result in the man’s death.
Abel frowned.
It was an unfortunate possibility with the test, that unknown x-factor which could well and truly make the entire run worthless. There would be the ability to document at least some of Subject A’s interaction with Gillian Barre, but it wouldn’t have the results he had hoped for.
Ah well, Abel thought. The vagrancies of a test without a control group. All will not be lost, however. I shall find something to salvage from this. And perhaps he is stronger than he looks. Maybe he’ll make it to the fence before she catches him.
Abel smiled at the image, sipped his mineral water, and watched the events unfold.
Chapter 6: Alone with His Friends
Marcus sat in his easy chair, smoking his pipe and his book closed and half-forgotten on his lap. The blinds were drawn, and the world no longer seemed interested in him.
He smiled at the idea, exhaled a cloud of bluish tinted smoke toward the ceiling, and wondered what he would do in the morning.
Every day is Sunday, he remembered the statement made by one of the older veterans down at the VFW. Several years earlier, when Marcus was there to enjoy a few drinks, those men who were retired laughed and talked about their free time, and how every day was like Sunday.
Nothing to do, Marcus recalled them saying, and no one to do it for.
Marcus understood the second part well.
His small home was well kept, and he enjoyed his solitude. From his seat, Marcus could survey his domain.
Lilliputian as it is, he thought, chuckling. On the wall across from him was his television, a Zenith which was older than most of the kids at the high school he once taught at. A glance to the right showed the few photographs he kept on display for himself over the fireplace.
His family lay organized in neat, orderly rows. Old photographs in older frames. He could pick out his grandparents and parents. There was even a photograph of his great-grandparents on his mother’s side. Images of his father in uniform, and Marcus as well. Even a picture of Marcus at a firebase in Vietnam hung prominently over the mantle. His left arm was wrapped around his good friend, Jackson Antonio’s shoulders.
And that night, Marcus thought, a dull sadness sweeping over him. He lowered his eyes from the photos. The round from an AK-47 tore through Jackson’s stomach, spread his intestines and a chunk of his spine all over the helicopter. I spent most of the night with the hose, using the water to wash my friend’s blood and guts out onto the tarmac.
Marcus sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose to keep the tears at bay and struggled with to retain his composure.
People asked, ‘Why didn’t you get married, Marcus? Something wrong with you?’ He relit his pipe. Yes, there’s something wrong. I’ve seen what we do to each other. Why bring a child into this world? And isn’t that why people get married in the first place?
With the smoke curling up from the bowl again, Marcus returned his attention to the television. Picking up the remote, he turned it on, found that Captain Blood with Errol Flynn was playing, and smiled.
He lost himself in the old pirate movie and shunted aside worries about the next morning.
Nothing to do, Marcus thought, and no one to do it for.
Chapter 7: Escape from the Village
The blood ran in warm rivulets down his arm, soaking the sleeve of his sweatshirt while the limb went uncomfortably numb.
Peter stumbled to a stop 100-feet away from the house, twisting around to make certain the crazed woman wasn’t following him.
Like before, she was gone.
A slow, rhythmic pain radiated out from his injury, and while Peter knew it needed to be tended to, he couldn’t bring himself to look at the wound.
He had worked construction since the summer of his 16th birthday, and he had seen a fair share of accidents. Peter didn’t have the stomach for them.
Shuddering, a cold sensation creeping over him, he reached his right hand up and pressed the palm against the wound. He let out a low, agonized moan as his own blood coated his hand and the pain multiplied with the pressure.
I can’t let go, he thought. I’ll bleed out. The injury’s bad. Got to find help.
He looked around at the houses near him, but all of them seemed to stare back. Dark windows, absent
of curtains or shades, had the appearance of dead eyes.
And while Peter couldn’t see anyone in them, he had the unpleasant sense that he was being watched.
“You were in his bed.”
Peter bit his lip to keep himself from screaming as he jerked around.
The woman was only a few feet away from him, out of striking range with the cleaver, but still too close for Peter’s liking. He whimpered and stepped back.
“What do you want?” he asked in a whine. “Come on! What do you want from me?!”
“You shouldn’t have been in the house,” the woman snapped. “You shouldn’t have been in his bed!”
Panicking, Peter let go of his injured arm and reached for his knife. As his hand fumbled for it, he remembered it wasn’t there.
His blood-slick fingers closed on his keys and he dug them out of his pocket. With an impotent roar, he threw them at the woman and watched with horror as they passed through her head.
They struck the cobblestones behind her with a loud clack.
“What are you?!” Peter screamed.
“The master’s cook,” the woman snarled, “and I will teach you not to sleep in his bed!”
Screaming, Peter turned and fled down the street, the woman close behind him.
He heard her mutter in a tone that told him she would kill him when she caught him, and Peter knew she could.
As he stumbled and ran and staggered along the road, he saw a glimmer of metal ahead.
A gate? He shook his head, but a few more steps confirmed that there was indeed a gate ahead of him. One set into a long, wrought iron fence that looked at least 30 feet tall. Every 40 feet, a watch-tower stood, and Peter was certain he could see figures in them.
Gate. Just the gate, he told himself, and he focused on that. Behind him, the woman’s voice rose, and he heard the cleaver cut through the air behind him.
A pair of towers flanked either side of the gate, and when Peter was within fifty feet of it, powerful spotlights burst into life and locked onto him.
The street suddenly ended, and Peter found himself on bare earth worn with use.
Behind him, the woman screamed furiously.
“Hey!” Peter shouted, an ecstatic sense of relief sweeping over him. “Hey!”
“Subject A,” a voice said over a microphone. There was no comfort in the words, only a cold, detached disinterest. “You will turn around and reenter the experiment.”
“What?” Peter asked, confused as he walked several more steps closer to the gate.
“Subject A, you will turn around and reenter the experiment,” the voice repeated. “Failure to do so will result in immediate efforts to return you to the facility.”
Peter stepped forward.
A dull-thump sounded, and a split-second later something crashed into his chest with all the force of a sledgehammer.
Gasping for breath, Peter weaved on his feet, then tried to move closer to the gate.
Another blow to the chest sent him back a step.
“Subject A,” the voice said, “turn around and reenter the experiment.”
Peter shook his head and instantly regretted the decision.
Blow after blow struck him. As he spun and twisted with the force of each one, further strikes hit him on the thighs and back. One hit the wound caused by the cleaver and caused him to let out a high-pitched squeal of agony.
He collapsed to the ground, breathing heavily. Peter rolled onto his uninjured side, and the blows stopped. He looked with dull eyes around him, and saw what he had been hit with.
Small bean bags, the type fired by police for crowd control.
I didn’t think bean bags could hurt, he thought, his head pounding.
He heard the rattle of chains, then the soft hiss of the gate being opened. Slowly, painfully, Peter craned his neck so he could see the gate.
A pair of figures approached him.
He didn’t know if they were men or women. They were genderless beneath the black uniforms and body armor they wore. Each had on a helmet with a polarized face shield, and in their gloved hands, each of them carried a shotgun with a drum-magazine attached to it.
The figure on his left slung the shotgun, removed a large hook from a belt loop, and hooked it through Peter’s belt.
“Please,” he whispered. “Please.”
Neither of the figures responded, and a moment later Peter was being dragged back toward the cobblestones.
Weakly, he struggled against it, but the other figure merely swung the barrel of the shotgun down to point at Peter’s chest, and his efforts ceased immediately.
The figure who had dragged Peter bent down, released the hook, and the pair withdrew, leaving him alone on the cold stones.
Weeping, Peter rolled onto his back and stared up at the night sky.
***
The heart monitor app on Abel’s Apple watch alerted him that his heart rate had increased, and Abel smiled at the reminder.
Of course, it’s sped up, he thought, magnifying the image of Subject A. This is the apex of the event. The climax, if I should be so vulgar.
Abel licked his lips in anticipation and waited to see what Subject A would do next.
Chapter 8: Alternate Exits
Peter sat up, his body a pulsating mass of alternating pain and numbness. He felt dizzy and off balance as he looked around, and he had the dim thought that the sensation was due to blood loss.
He couldn’t see the cleaver-wielding woman anywhere.
Is she a woman? The question rolled around Peter’s head as he managed to get to his feet, moaning as the pain in his left arm flared up. Is she a hallucination?
He shook his head in answer to his own question.
The cleaver was real.
Of that, Peter had no doubt. The evidence was painfully obvious.
Is she a ghost? The idea made him chuckle. She can’t be a ghost. Ghosts can’t hurt people. Something else happened. Something else. That’s all.
He nodded to himself as he stumbled clumsily first to the left, then to the right, and he continued the weaving pattern back towards the house he had been chased from.
I’m going back, Peter decided. I’m getting back into that bed. This is a dream. A bad dream. Possibly the worst I’ve ever had. When I’m in bed, I’ll wake up. I’ll be awake in my own bed. The girl from the bar will be there. It will have been a good night. A great night. No more bad dreams.
None.
Peter turned up the narrow walkway that led to the granite steps of the house. The door which he had fled through remained open, and when he crossed the threshold, Peter heard the rattle and clatter of dishes in the kitchen.
But he didn’t worry about them.
He was no longer concerned with the woman and her cleaver.
Just a dream, he reminded himself.
His progress up the stairs was slow and unsteady. Dream or not, he didn’t want to let go of his injured arm, and so he couldn’t steady himself by holding onto the banister.
I don’t need to worry, he thought, reaching the second-floor hallway. The bed is down there. Home, real home is in that room.
The floorboards creaked beneath his feet; his boots nearly caught on the old runner.
Peter kept his balance, stumbling once into the left wall and letting out a muffled shriek as his injured arm struck the horsehair plaster. A bloody smear remained behind as he staggered back to the center of the hallway.
Beneath him, the clatter in the kitchen ceased, and he had a momentary spike of fear around the idea that the woman would be coming after him.
She won’t, Peter thought. He didn’t hear any footsteps. Because this is a dream.
He returned to the bedroom, where all the items and possessions were his, even though he was in a strange room.
Peter didn’t bother getting undressed. The sooner he was asleep, the sooner he would be awake.
He lay down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. It was old, and instead of consisting o
f more plaster, it was covered with intricately decorated squares of tin.
Peter smiled at it.
His grandmother’s kitchen had had a ceiling similar to the one above him.
He closed his eyes and tried to remember the different tricks he had used as a boy to fall back asleep after a nightmare.
They’ll work, he thought, get me back to sleep here. So I can wake up.
His heart rate slowed, steadied, and while his body still ached, and blood seeped from his arm and between the fingers of his right hand, Peter felt restful. He smiled in the sure knowledge that he would soon be awake.
“This,” the woman with the cleaver said, “is the master’s bed.”
Peter’s eyes snapped open, and he saw, with horrifying clarity, the woman standing over him. The cleaver was clenched in her right hand, and before he could utter a single word, she raised it up and brought the blade crashing down.
***
Abel Worthe watched the cleaver split Subject A’s skull open, the man’s eyes rolling back into his head. Subject A’s body twitched and jiggled like a dead cockroach with electricity running through it.
Gillian worked the blade free, turned away and left the room.
Subject A died a few seconds later, his last, shuddering breath audible on the room’s microphone pick-ups.
I wonder why he went back to the house, Abel mused. He wrote a little in his notebook, shook his head and said aloud, “Curious. Marvelously so.”
He felt it a shame that he couldn’t have questioned Subject A prior to his death, but Abel knew it would disrupt the flow of information. In fact, it could contaminate the entire process for Gillian’s first encounter.
Abel pressed the earpiece that hung over his left ear and waited for the response.
It came a heartbeat later.
“Sir?” David McNamara asked.
“David,” Abel said, “would you be so kind as to have the power shut down to the Greeley House.”
