Horror Thriller Box Set 1

by Amy Cross

  Sitting alone, I stare at the tissue paper and decide I probably don't want to cry. I've had long enough to prepare myself for this moment, and in a strange way I feel relieved. There's definitely a weird feeling in my stomach, as if I'm nervous about something, but basically I feel that crying would be a waste of time. My eyes feel a little heavy for a moment, but the sensation soon passes. There's something else, though; I feel as if maybe, if I turn around, my mother will be there, watching me. I pause, trying to decide whether I should turn and look, and finally I can't help myself. As I look around, however, the feeling evaporates and I'm left sitting all alone.

  Epilogue

  Today

  "So?" my father asks as I get into the car. "How'd it go?"

  "Fine," I reply, strapping myself into the safety buckle. Now that my shift is over and the sun is coming up, I feel like I'm in some kind of trance.

  "Fine?" He stares at me, clearly waiting for me to give him some more details. "Come on, Juliet, don't keep me in suspense. What happened? Did you do a good job? Did you get on with the people? Did you make friends?"

  "Yeah," I say, deciding I definitely don't want to tell him everything that happened. He'd only tell me I'm being stupid, so I figure there's no point giving him the opportunity. "It was pretty much how you'd expect," I add. "I just spent the night checking on patients and going to look for them if they wandered out of their rooms."

  "And you've got another shift tonight?"

  "Yeah," I say, taking a deep breath. "Actually, they want me almost every night. They..." I pause for a moment, before glancing out the window and seeing Crestview in the early morning light. It's the first time I've really seen the place properly, and I guess it doesn't look quite so fearsome. "I'm gonna be working most nights from now on," I continue. "I figure the pay's good, and it's not the worst job in the world. It's totally doable."

  "That's brilliant," he says, leaning over and giving me a hug. "I'm proud of you, Juliet." I flinch, knowing what he's going to say next. "Your Mom would be proud of you too. You know that, right?"

  "Yeah," I say quietly as I pull away from the hug. After everything that's happened over the past few hours, the last thing I want to do is have my father launch into one of his long stories about how proud my Mom would be. I guess he thinks it makes me feel better, but it doesn't. It really, really doesn't.

  "It's hard to believe you're finally in gainful employment," he continues. "I feel like you've really grown up today, Juliet. It took a while, but I always knew you could do it."

  "That's great," I say quietly.

  "Aren't you proud of yourself?" he asks. "Doesn't it feel good to do an honest night's work for an honest paycheck?"

  "You know," I say, turning to him, "I'm really exhausted and I have to be back here in about fourteen hours for my next shift, so is it okay if we just get home? I really need to sleep."

  "Sure," he says, starting the car. "You know, I was actually going to offer to take you for breakfast at that diner you like. Interested? It's on me."

  "No thanks," I reply, staring out at Crestview. "I'm tired."

  "You don't want maple syrup?" he asks. "I'll pay. All you have to do is choose whatever you want from the menu."

  "Not right now," I say, turning to him. "I'm not a big fan of breakfast."

  "Okay," he replies, finally getting the hint. "Another time, maybe."

  I don't even bother to reply. As the car pulls away, I can't help but keep staring back at the building. Whatever happened during the night, it felt strange but also new, and I want to experience it again; the next time, though, I'm going to be better prepared. I feel as if there's something in that abandoned ward that made sense to me, and that seems even now to be calling me to come back so I can experience it again and again. I can't explain the feeling, but I feel as if there's something waiting in there for me.

  Eventually the building goes out of view, and I turn to look at the road ahead. In some strange way, I feel like something has woken up inside my head. It's almost as if there are things I've been keeping hidden from myself for a long, long time, and finally the events of the past night have stirred them and brought them to the surface. In a way, I guess that's why I'm not worried about going back to Crestview: I know that whatever was in that abandoned ward, it was mostly just a manifestation of my own thoughts. I'm not scared of going back; I'm excited.

  Book 2: Death Watch

  Prologue

  An old man wanders across the grass carrying a bunch of flowers. He walks unsteadily, as if he's scared of falling, but eventually he stops next to a small headstone. With great difficulty, he gets down on his knees and removes some old flowers from a small pot next to the grave, before replacing them with the new bunch. He bows his head and closes his eyes, and he remains in this position for several minutes, as if he's in private communion with the spirit of whoever is buried in that plot. Probably his wife.

  Sitting on a bench in the corner of the cemetery, I watch as the man eventually gets to his feet and starts walking away. He hasn't noticed me. I guess he's just focused on the matter at hand. What's weird, though, is that there was something strangely powerful about the moment I just witnessed. The emotion and longing were almost palpable, and I felt genuinely affected as I watched him. Was he praying? I have no idea. Whatever he was doing, though, it looked like he was moved deeply by the whole experience. As he reaches the gate and heads out of the cemetery, I can't see his face at all, but I'd like to think he has tears in his eyes; I'd like to think that he's genuinely grieving for whoever he lost.

  Why can't I be like that?

  I've been sitting close to my mother's grave for the past half hour. I come here a couple of times a year, not out of duty, but because I feel I should keep trying to cry. After all, just a few feet away, there's a small patch of ground in which my mother's ashes have been buried. There's no headstone, since this is apparently some kind of special 'lawn of remembrance' or whatever, but her ashes are here nonetheless: five paces from the eastern wall, and eight paces from the bench. I keep thinking that if I come here enough times, I'll have some kind of spiritual awakening or emotional release. All that happens, though, is that I feel faintly ridiculous, although sometimes I also get this slightly nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach. There's definitely some kind of visceral, physical reaction, but it's not the kind of emotional release that I see when other people are mourning someone. It's more like my body is misfiring.

  "Bye," I say eventually, standing up and walking across the grass. As I reach the spot where the ashes are buried, I glance around to make sure I'm alone, and then I briefly kneel down and kiss the patch of grass directly above my mother's box. I get to my feet and walk away; I don't know why I just did that, except that I guess I was hoping to somehow kick-start some kind of emotional reaction. Really, though, I just feel kind of silly. If my mother could see me right now, she'd tell me to stop wasting my time and start getting on with my life. She'd probably also wonder why I've never really cried for her.

  As I'm heading toward the gate, I pass the headstone with the old man's new bunch of flowers. I stop for a moment, and to my surprise I see that the grave is not for some old woman, but for a baby who died in the 1970s. I stare at the inscription and find myself wondering if that old man lost a child almost fifty years ago, and still comes to the cemetery to pay his respects. How can someone have an emotional connection to a baby who died such a long time ago, yet I struggle to feel anything at all when I sit by my mother's grave? After all, whereas the baby died in 1975, my mother died just eleven years ago, so surely my feelings should be fresher and more real? I want to cry about my mother, and I want to be able to show people that I care, but the tears remain bottled up behind my eyes. Turning and walking to the gate, I realize that this trip to the cemetery has been a complete failure.

  Just like all the other times.

  Chapter One

  Today

  "If she dies in the night," Mr. Taylor says, fix
ing me with a determined stare as we stand in the darkened bedroom, "you do not touch her, do you understand? Not a finger. You don't even close her eyes. You know those scenes in movies where someone dies and someone else leans over and closes their eyes for them? We don't do that. In fact, state regulations specifically prohibit you from doing any such thing; in fact, state regulation interprets such an action as a form of assault. You just note the time of death in the logbook, inform Lizzie that the patient has passed, and wait for the regular staff to arrive in the morning. Okay?"

  "Okay," I say, taking a deep breath. We're standing on either side of Ruth Brown's bed. Ninety-one years old, she's on the verge of death. For almost a week now, she's been unconscious, slipping closer and closer to the final moment, but she stubbornly refuses to die. Her skin is pallid and her closed eyes have sunk deeper into the sockets, but her chest is still slowly rising and falling. It's as if some deep part of her soul is clinging to life, although I can't imagine why she'd bother: apparently she has no family left, and she just spends all day and all night in bed like this, unable to communicate. She's little more than a husk; the rest of her body has given up, but her heart stubbornly refuses to stop pumping blood to her organs, so technically she's still alive.

  "Repeat it back to me," Mr. Taylor says, his voice quiet and respectful, and barely audible over the hum of the heart monitor. "If she dies in the night, what do you do?"

  "Don't touch her," I reply, reciting my orders like an idiot. "Just write the time of death in the logbook and wait until the nurses come in the morning. And tell Lizzie."

  "Good," he says. "You're not a qualified medical professional, Juliet, so if you even touch one of the residents after they're dead, you could be opening us up to a massive lawsuit. In the past year, Crestview Retirement Home has been the subject of six separate legal claims, five of them over minor procedural errors, and we can't afford any more. As the manager, it's my ass on the line, so I need to know that you can follow a simple instruction and keep your hands off the dead people."

  "I think I can manage that," I say, feeling as if he's being completely patronizing. Seriously, he only had to tell me once, and explain that I'm not allowed to touch the woman once she's dead, but it's like he thinks I'm either too dumb to understand what he's saying, or too irresponsible to bother sticking to the rules. Besides, even if I touched her, who'd know? It's not like there's a gallery of observers in the corner of the room. As far as I can tell, this whole place isn't even big on closed-circuit security cameras. "So," I ask after a moment, "do you think she will die tonight?"

  "Probably," he replies, not sounding as if he cares too much either way. "Then again, we thought she'd die last night too. And the night before that. And the night before that. She's one of those tenacious ones who refuse to let go. She just stays in bed like this, with her eyes closed, using up electricity and consuming nursing resources. It's a tragedy, really." He sighs. "Fortunately, her insurance is paying for top quality nursing care, so it's a tenable situation." He pauses for a moment. "Actually, we have good profit margins on her. I don't really mind if she clings to life for a few more nights."

  I narrow my eyes to get a better look at her. "Can she hear us?"

  "No," he replies.

  "Are you sure?"

  "No," he admits, "but there's nothing to suggest she can hear a damn thing."

  "But she might," I point out.

  "She might," he says with a sigh, before leaning down. "Ruth," he shouts, "can you hear me?" He waits for a few seconds. "There. I guess not."

  "But should I read to her?" I ask. "Just in case?"

  "No," he says. "That's another of those things that people do in films, but which aren't necessary in real life. Well... I guess you can if you want, but you'll just be wasting your breath. She's as close to death as anyone I've ever seen. Your job, as I've told you already, is just to sit here and keep an eye on her. We have a legal responsibility to be aware of the time of death, so you have to note that down. But like I said, the actual post-mortem preparation has to wait until morning when the qualified nursing technicians arrive. In the meantime, just sit in here, read or listen to music or whatever, and keep an eye on her breathing. When she stops, check that she's dead and then go to the office and record the details."

  I stare at him for a moment. "How do I check she's dead if I can't touch her?"

  "Put your hand next to her lips and nose, and see if you can feel anything."

  "Can't I feel for her pulse or something?"

  "You can't touch her," he reminds me, starting to sound a little irritated. "I've told you over and over again, you can't touch her once she's dead. Juliet, have you been listening to me at all?"

  "Sorry," I say. "I'll make sure I don't touch her once she's dead."

  "Okay," he replies, even though he's clearly a little doubtful. Since I started working here a week ago, I've already learned that Mr. Taylor is a jumpy, officious boss, but tonight he's being positively paranoid. He walks to the door and steps out into the corridor, before turning back to me. "You've really got a pretty easy job, Juliet. Just sit and read, and don't touch her once she's dead. Don't complicate things. This is a big test for you. If you can manage to do this job properly, you'll start getting more responsibilities." He pauses for a moment. "Goodnight."

  Once he's closed the door, I turn to look down at Ruth Brown. She's so still and calm, it's weird to think that I'm going to be spending the whole night in here with her. It's kind of creepy, but at the same time I figure I can handle it. All I need to do is sit in the corner, read my book, listen to music on my headphones, and keep an eye on her breathing. Walking over to the chair, I start going through my bag, pulling out the little stash of candy I've brought for the night. After a moment, I realize I've got my back to the bed, and I turn to look at Ruth Brown's face.

  "Sorry," I mutter, feeling as if I've been a little rude. After all, Ruth Brown might look as if she's already dead, but she's still alive somewhere in that ancient body, and who knows if she can hear me? Sometimes I feel as if the staff here are pretty dismissive of the residents, and I don't want to fall into the same trap. Pulling the chair closer to the bed, I take a seat and place my book and phone on the nearby table. "So are you sure you can't hear me?" I ask.

  Silence. She doesn't respond. Looking at her weathered, wrinkled face, it's hard to believe that a human being can deteriorate to such an extreme point. I mean, I know we all get old, barring accidents, but I can't help thinking it takes a particularly tough life to end up looking so dog-eared. She seems so dry and barren, as if all the moisture is gone from her body.

  "I'm just gonna listen to some music," I say. "I've got headphones, so it won't bother you." I pause, wondering if there's anything else I should say. "If you want anything, just..." I let my voice trail off as I realize that it's pointless talking to her. Even in the unlikely event that she can actually hear me, there's no way she can ever reply. Sticking my headphones in my ears and grabbing my phone, I start listening to a bunch of old 90s metal bands while I pick up the book and start reading. Although the whole situation feels pretty weird at first, eventually I get lost in the novel and times flies by, until suddenly I realize I haven't checked on Ruth Brown for more than an hour.

  "Sorry," I mutter, taking the headphones out and putting the book down. Unsurprisingly, she looks exactly the same as before. Checking my watch, I see that it's almost midnight, so I get back to reading and after about an hour, I take another look at her. This continues for a few hours, until eventually I forget about her for a while. Tilting the book down, I glance back over at Ruth Brown and see that, once again, she hasn't moved. After a moment, I move my chair a little closer and stare at her face, half-expecting her to suddenly turn and look at me. She looks so calm and peaceful, as if she's already started the process of dying.

  After a moment, I feel as if I'm being watched. The feeling grows, but at first I refuse to look up. Eventually, however, the feeling becomes almost overw
helming, and finally I look over at the doorway. A shiver runs up my spine as I see that Jennifer Mathis is staring at me.

  Chapter Two

  Eleven years ago

  She's in there. Hidden inside the long wooden box, my mother's body is slowly rotting. She probably looks pretty normal right now, since she's only been dead for a week, so there hasn't been much chance for the really gruesome stuff to start happening. But under the surface, all her meat and blood will have started to break down, ready for the maggots to start chewing her up once they get her underground. The sides of the coffin look strong and sturdy, but I know the maggots will find their way in somehow, and then they'll start burrowing into her skin, getting fatter and fatter as they chew their way to her heart. After a while, they'll be all over her, squirming in and out of her mouth and eyes, making her body their home. In a way, I'd quite like to be able to watch, except... she's my mother, so I shouldn't.

  "Hey, Juliet," says a gentle female voice behind me. I turn to find that the funeral home director has come over to me, probably concerned by how long I've been standing here. "It's Juliet, isn't it? How are you doing?"

  "I'm okay," I say, still staring at the coffin. It's on the other side of the room, and I haven't dared get too close yet. It's not that I think anything horrible will definitely happen; it's just that I can't absolutely rule it out.

  "I've been speaking to your Dad," she continues. "He told me you've been very, very brave, and that everyone's very proud of you."

  I don't say anything. People keep telling me how good I'm being, but I don't really know what they mean. I'm just doing what I have to do each day, mostly because people tell me where to stand, what to do, how to look and what to say. I don't feel like I'm being good at all. Not at all. I'm just being obedient and trying to keep out of trouble.

  "I was wondering," the woman continues, "if you'd like to come through to the office and meet my cat? His name's Gizmo and he lives here. He's very friendly, but he doesn't like to get out of the fruit bowl very much." She grins, as if this is the funniest thing in the world.