A Bribe For The Ferryman

by D R Cartwright

  It was nothing she had ever expected to see, and a scream of horror lodged in her throat.

  Blood had been sprayed up the walls, across the floor and on the ceiling. The mattress and sheet were covered in it, saturated, and a huge bloodied mound sat in the centre of it all. Claudia assumed it was what remained of Gerald, but he had been massacred. Raising her hands to her mouth, she stepped into the room, aware of Kevin and his curses behind her.

  “What in god’s name . . .?” he mumbled.

  “Gerald?” Claudia called, as if somehow she would get a reply. She stepped further into the room, wanting to see, needing to see her husband lying on the bed.

  The horrific realisation dawned on her as she stepped closer.

  Chunks of his flesh had been ripped off. His stomach had huge gapping holes in the blubber, holes that had bled and wept, and the huge bulging lumps that made his thighs were no more. His arms had been ripped to shreds, his hands still strangely intact. His whole body was a mass of shredded flesh, and every inch of skin that he had left was coated with blood, even his face that lay on his pillow, his eyes staring at the ceiling and his mouth gaping. Maggots withered in some of the wounds, their white bodies turning pink with blood.

  Claudia gave a shriek, followed by a sob as she stepped up beside the bed. It was as if something had eaten him.

  The movement was faster than Claudia had expected. At first she thought it to be the animal that had made a meal of him jumping up from the other side of the body, but as those familiar, fat fingers curled around her wrist, she knew what it was. A scream of horror erupted from her lungs as she leapt back, but the grip on her was too strong.

  It was Gerald. He was still alive.

  As she glared at him she saw his eyes glowing with madness and rage, staring right in her direction. His teeth, a brilliant white beneath streaks of blood, were gritted together in a snarl. She wept as she pulled on her wrist, trying to pull her hand free from his bloody grasp, but he was too strong.

  Kevin lunged in to help, yelling as he tried to pry the fat fingers away, but neither his strength combined with Claudia’s was enough to remove them. As Claudia continued to pull, her foot slipped in a pool of blood and she found herself hurtling to the floor, her wrist still being held. She cried as she looked up, and saw through horrified tears as Gerald’s other hand gripped Kevin’s throat and pulled him down. He fell directly on top of Gerald and a shrill scream pierced through the room. His body trembled, his legs kicking out, and then he was still.

  Gasping and filled with disbelieving shock, Claudia struggled to her feet again. Her scream was loud and echoed within the boundaries of the house as she saw Kevin. His throat was no longer there. Blood hissed and flowed where his neck had been ripped out. His eyes, his gorgeous eyes that Claudia had loved so much, stared blankly up at the ceiling, and with one shove of Gerald’s other arm, the man’s body slipped to the floor in a dead heap.

  Claudia screamed and screamed, feeling unable to stop. What was happening? What in God’s name was happening? She turned to look at Gerald’s hungry eyes and saw the fresh blood that dripped from his mouth. She felt sickened to the core as she realised that he had bitten Kevin’s throat out, and she wept with terror and grief as she tried pulling at her wrist again.

  “I’m glad you come back to me, darling,” Gerald said, his voice gurgled.

  Claudia wanted to ask how he was still alive with so many wounds and so much blood loss, but all that come out was a terrified whine.

  “I told you that I’d find you and kill you both, but you didn’t believe me. I’d thought that after eighteen years of being together, you would have known never to under-estimate me.”

  “Gerald,” Claudia sobbed, feeling the pull on her wrist increase. She could see his white teeth growing closer and closer.

  “And I do have to say, my sweet,” he continued, a huge grin growing on his bloodied face, “that I may have been over-weight, but there was plenty of me to go around, and I tasted good!”

  She sobbed, unsure what terrified her more; the fact that she was being pulled closer and closer towards her husband’s bloodied teeth, or the fact that he had eaten his own flesh to keep himself from starving. A scream bellowed out as she felt those teeth sink into her soft flesh…

  They Say I Killed A

  Man

  They say I killed a man. I don’t remember that.

  They say it had been a vicious, brutal murder, committed in cold blood, but I don’t recall it. I do remember the blood though. I see it in my dreams at night. It’s on my hands, over my dress, and in my hair. So much blood. It’s everywhere.

  They say I killed my stepfather. Now that I can believe. After everything he made me do and everything he did to me, I wouldn’t be surprised if I had killed him. He thought he was invincible. I had apparently proven him wrong – but I don’t remember doing it. They say the evidence at the scene was indisputable. It had been me who murdered him, but I’m sure I’d remember doing something like that. Butchering a person isn’t the sort of thing someone would forget. And I’m only small. I don’t believe I’m physically capable of committing such a crime. How could I?

  They also say there is something wrong with me – something psychological. The fact that I can’t remember what happened that night strengthens their theory. They whisper behind me, but I know what they’re saying. They believe there is something wrong in my head. Something is making me forget. They think the events leading up to the murder were so horrific that my mind has blocked it out, like it’s decided to believe it never happened. They mentioned a name for this – in fact they’ve mentioned many names – but I can’t remember them either. This is the reason why I am here in this institute. It’s full of people who can’t remember, who refuse to remember, or who make up their own tales in fear of remembering.

  I don’t like it. The atmosphere isn’t right. It keeps me awake at night and it makes the screams echo.

  They question me on a regular basis. They ask me about my past. They make me talk about my relationship with my stepfather, and they make me speak of what he done to me. Each time they do, I relive what I went through time after time. I can feel the tight bindings on my wrists and ankles all over again. I remember the prickling feeling in my fingertips, and the cold draft over my naked body. It makes me cry.

  But I know what they’re doing.

  They think they’re clever. They think if they make me talk about my past, it might unlock something in my head and I’ll remember the events of that night. But the questions they’re asking me are the same ones I’ve been asking myself for the last six months. They’re demanding answers that I don’t have. They want to know what happened, what drove me to murder that man, but I don’t know. I don’t remember.

  And I don’t think I’ll ever remember because I don’t believe I did it. My visitor made me realise that. He told me that he was there on that night. He says that I asked him for his help, and that now I owe him.

  He comes to me in my cell some nights after all the lights have gone out. I sit on my bed and wait as the surrounding cells plunge into darkness, listening to the screams. I can only imagine what the other women are going through. The night brings dreams, and dreams cause remembering. The women here don’t like remembering. Some scream and cry all night long, and I rock myself to sleep to the sound of their song. They echo. They always do.

  I remember the first time he came, and how terrified I was. My cell seemed darker that night and I was drowsy with medication. I hadn’t been sleeping properly, and my days were filled with bad tempers that needed to be calmed. The tablets I was forced to take were what the doctors ordered. And sometimes when I refused to take them they would inject me and make me sleep. Often I’ve woken and found myself strapped to my bed.

  That night I was scared, but too drugged to fight. The man was big, much bigger than my stepfather ever was, and he picked me up and hit me. He said I deserved it. He said I had caused my stepfather’s death and that
I needed to be punished. He done things to me, just like my stepfather had, and I had sobbed.

  It was that night he told me he had been in the house on the night of my stepfather’s death. He said I had called him and that I had pleaded for his help. I was angry with my stepfather, angry and hurt by what he was doing to me. I wanted him to stop, but he wouldn’t. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to make him suffer for the pain and torture he was putting me through, but I wasn’t strong enough. I could never over-power him. This was what I needed help with, and this is what my visitor had done for me.

  Now he says I owe him. I owe him a lot. He says that because I wanted it, I’ve been a bad girl and I need punishing. He is ridding me of my sins. But, despite how horrific and peculiar his touch is, and how it hurts, he says that it will end. If I’m good and accept my punishment then eventually I will have served my sentence and be free. That was five months ago.

  When he turned to leave that night, I asked him who he was. I had been beaten black and blue, raped, and was feeling drained and exhausted, but my damaged and drugged mind was still capable of asking the question. If it were to be a regular thing, this punishment, then I wanted to know the name of my assailant. I had known the name of my stepfather.

  He said he was `the Devil`.

  I didn’t see him leave. He just merged in with the shadow and disappeared.

  The next day I was treated for my wounds, and my medication dosage was upped. They believed I had tried to kill myself. As I began to heal, more questions were thrown my way. I told them what I knew, that the Devil had paid me a visit, that he confessed to murdering my stepfather for me and now I must pay for his troubles.

  The dosage was increased even more. It made me violent and it made me sleepy. Again and again the Devil came to me at night and done things, and still no one believed me. It frustrates me and I’m angry. At night I squeeze myself into the corner of my cell, listening to the screams and waiting for the lights to go out, wondering if the Devil is coming. I prey that he isn’t. Some nights I get my wish, but as morning comes round I have gained little sleep. This leaves me tired for the rest of the day, and it is on these days that I find myself lashing out at others. These are the days I wake to find myself bound to my bed in solitary.

  No one believes me. I speak freely to anyone who wants to listen, hoping that someone would offer help. But the people who need to listen, and who aren’t incapacitated with their own torturous memories, just scribble notes down on paper and re-evaluate my disorder.

  They’re not going to help me.

  It makes sense that the Devil killed my stepfather. I had wanted it to happen so much. Maybe he heard and came, knowing a bargain could be made. I don’t know why I agreed though. I can’t see myself wanting to agree to this kind of punishment. The death of my stepfather should have been an end to all this, not the continuation of another. I can’t remember anything from that night, but I must have agreed to something. He wouldn’t keep coming back if I hadn’t, therefore I have no choice but to accept it and prey that my sentence comes to an end soon.

  The dosage I have been given tonight was fairly high. It has been a bad day, although I can’t remember why. I’m so drowsy I’m lying on my bed instead of sitting in my corner. I haven’t moved from where the carers abandoned me. The injection bruised my arm and I can still feel it throbbing. I refuse to sleep, and even as the lights go out I stare into the darkness of my cell. A woman screams into the shadows and I shake with anticipation. I know he’s coming tonight.

  I hear the jangling of keys and watch as the door in front of me opens. I want to cry out, I want to scream for help, but my body is limp and lifeless. I see in the dim light that the Devil is wearing a white pair of trousers and top, and a pair of white trainers. I wonder to myself why he feels the need to take on the appearance of a carer when no one else can see him, and why he needs the keys to enter my cell?

  Why?

  But these questions are forced to the back of my mind as he closes the door and slopes towards me in the darkness.

  I have to accept my punishment. I’ve been a bad girl.

  I only wish I could remember exactly what I’m being punished for.

  Author Bio

  A writer, an artist, reader, blogger, wife, owner of a Persian cat and having to deal with being blonde both in hair colour and in mentality, how does Dawn find time to do what she does?

  She doesn't know the answer to this question, but does know that she manages to fit it all in - some how. When she's not writing, she's drawing. When she's not drawing, she's reading – and when she’s not doing any of the above she’s holding down a full time job.

  The one question all writers hear is 'where do you get your inspiration'. With the things Dawn often churns out, from horror, fantasy and thriller to name but a few, it's a question best not asked, and it's no wonder her husband prefers to sleep with one eye open.