Ten Open Graves: A Collection of Supernatural Horror

by David Wood

  “Shit, better not say that to Kinkaid,” he thought, “or god only knows how much Thorazine she'll shoot me with.”

  The assistant's computer let out a low gong noise, barely audible from across the room. She turned from whatever she was working on, and read the computer screen. Trey stared at her in anticipation. She nodded to herself and then raised her eyes to his. “She's ready for you,” she said.

  Trey stood and walked from the chair to the door. “Thank you, Vivian.” He opened the door and entered Kinkaid's office.

  Kinkaid sat at her workstation, typing into the computer. “Have a seat, Trey,” she said without looking up.

  Trey shrugged and sat on the expensive and comfortable leather couch. Not for the first time, Trey marveled at her sense of taste and wondered if she had a fetish for Corinthian cowhide.

  “There,” she whispered to herself and struck the return key. She turned in her computer chair to look at him. “You look like shit,” she said with a grin.

  “I'm sure I do,” Trey said with a chuckle. “Carolyn dropped me off. I'm--” He swallowed hard. “I, um, wanted to be alone with you.”

  She nodded at him and grabbed her leather portfolio. “I understand.” She wrote something down on one of the pages. “So talk to me. What happened?”

  Trey sighed. “You already think I'm crazy, right?”

  “Trey,” she said, her smile growing reproachful. “I hate that word.” Trey blinked at her. “I prefer bat-shit insane,” she said, her smile reappearing.

  He laughed. “Okay, okay.” He paused. “I'm seeing things.”

  He told her about the ice cream van. About how he'd vapor-locked on the way home from Alan's school. He told her about the decals. The thing inside the van. And the thing in his bed.

  “Nothing else last night?” Trey shook his head. “Or this morning?”

  “No, nothing else.” He and Carolyn had made love for an hour before bed. After her tender ministrations, he'd fallen asleep easily and without dreams. He'd awakened that morning with a start, wondering if he'd find the thing next to him again. Instead, he found himself spooning against her, his free hand draped across her belly.

  “Woke up without a problem. Walked Alan to school. Came back home. Now I'm here.”

  She nodded and wrote something else down on her pad. “You had a psychotic episode four years ago.”

  Trey paused for a moment, looking up at the ceiling. He tried to count months and then nodded. “Yeah, something like that, I guess.”

  “Was this like that?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “I saw someone then. Someone who wasn't there. Carolyn found me on the deck having an impassioned conversation with them.”

  “You don't remember whom?”

  “Not really,” Trey said.

  Kinkaid flipped through the notebook. Trey knew she'd had to make a special notebook just for him. Over the years, that little portfolio had had dozens of pads in it. He wondered if every patient of hers went through them like Pez, or if it was just his case.

  “I, um, reacquainted myself this morning,” she said softly. She found the page she wanted and looked down at it. “You don't remember who?”

  “Did I say who?”

  She blinked at him. “No, Trey. You didn't.” She tapped the end of the pen against the leather portfolio. “You don't remember at all?”

  “I can't--” He paused and took a deep breath. “When I try and remember back that far, it's like, well, like thinking through glue. I used to know this.”

  “But you still remember your first episode? The one in college?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Trey whispered. “Yeah, I remember that one all too clearly.”

  His first psychotic break. First real one. He'd walked into the dorm cafeteria and found himself in a circus. The people around him juggled their food, their faces painted with makeup. Rabbits danced on the trays behind the sneeze guards. He had laughed and laughed right up until they called the health center to come pick him up.

  Her pen scratched against the notebook. “So your long-term memory is still okay,” she said to herself. “Was this delusion like that one?”

  Trey shrugged. He shifted his legs, his jeans rubbing together. “I. Don't. Know. I, well, I didn't enjoy this one, that's for sure.”

  Kinkaid pushed her glasses up on her nose. Her fiery red hair was still in its tight bun. It was early enough that it hadn't begun to free itself. Trey knew from experience that as the day wound on, more and more hair would struggle loose from the bobby pins.

  “Trey? I'm talking about the feeling surrounding the delusion. Was this as real or more real than the first one.”

  “Much more. I actually felt breath. I smelled. I--” His voice trailed off. He struggled to find the words. “I felt it. Cold. Stone. Bone. It was real,” he said.

  She frowned. “Do you still think it was real?”

  Trey shook his head. “The bed wasn't torn to ribbons. I didn't have any marks on my skin.” Other than the ones Carolyn put there last night, he thought to himself. “So it couldn't have been real.”

  “What about the ice cream van?”

  “If I accept,” he said after a moment, “that last night was a delusion, then I guess I have to convince myself the ice cream van was too. One can't be real without the other.”

  “Well,” Kinkaid replied, “I wouldn't go that far. In this case, however, I agree with you.”

  A tingle of fear crawled up his spine. “What do you mean 'in this case?'“ he asked.

  She tapped the pen against the notebook again. “Minds like yours are very susceptible to suggestion. Yes?” He nodded. “So if you see something on television or in a movie, especially if it really fires up that right brain of yours, then your brain may try and recreate it later. Do you watch horror movies?”

  Trey shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  “They feel too real to me. I just-- I don't enjoy being frightened.”

  Kinkaid chuckled. “Okay, what about science fiction?”

  “I don't watch many movies or much television,” Trey admitted.

  “Right. But you do read?” He nodded. “And you read non-fiction and technical books, right?” He nodded again. “Why?”

  Trey shrugged. “I don't know. Something about the logic in them calms me, I guess.”

  “Sure. This is sort of what I mean. You drown your right brain in facts, figures, and history. Scientific concepts and even philosophy take the right brain to visualize, but the left brain to analyze. You always talk about your brain being loosely wired.”

  “Yeah, I think of it as a malfunctioning motherboard. It's got some blown capacitors.”

  She waved a hand. “Whatever. The wires that hold the right brain from overtaking the left are a bit frayed in places. Every once in a while, something fires in your right brain that your left can't make sense of, or stop. You experience hallucinations. You suffer from delusions that things are real that aren't even there.” She paused, watching the realization on his face.

  “So my brain is taking in the real world, but putting...visitors in it?”

  “Yes, and no. What I'm saying is that your brain processes informa- tion out of sequence sometimes. So when you see something you don't necessarily understand, your right brain captures the information and then will reprocess it later. Sometimes they come out as waking dreams.”

  Trey nodded to himself and stared down at the floor. “So what do we do about it?”

  “We change your meds, Trey.”

  He shook his head.

  “I know you hate the drugs. And it took us a long time to find something that didn't make you impotent or sick. But we're just going to have to hunt down something else.”

  “Fuck,” he muttered. “The last time we did this, I could barely function for three months.”

  “I know,” Kinkaid said softly. “This is not an exact science, Trey. Never was.” She looked at her watch. “What time is your wife coming back?”


  “About twenty minutes or so.”

  “Good. I want to spend a little time researching something. Then I'll come give you your scrip, okay?”

  Trey nodded and stood. “I should--”

  “You should call me immediately if you have another...episode. And I mean immediately. You're going to have to wean yourself from your current medication while you switch over to the new stuff.”

  “So take less of the former and more of the newer?”

  “Right,” she said with a smile. “Until you get to a low enough dosage to just stop the old stuff.” She rose from her seat and offered her hand. He shook it. “We'll figure it out, Trey. Go wait for me and I'll be there in a few minutes.”

  “Thanks, Doc.” He returned her smile and walked into the waiting room.

  Chapter 17

  Trey sat in front of the computer. The monitor was filled with lines of code. His Pidgin IM icon blinked to let him know he had new messages. He ignored it. The code on the screen, the email client with its 15 new messages, and the IM notifications barely crossed his consciousness.

  The house was empty again.

  Kinkaid had called the pharmacy for him, placing the prescription order. By the time Carolyn drove him to it, the scrip was ready. He and Carolyn had barely spoken until they reached the pick-up window.

  Once the pharmacist handed over the small bag with the new meds and Carolyn had closed the window, she turned to him. “We'll find it again, you know. We'll find something that works”

  Trey looked at her. “I don't want to go back to the hospital.” He swallowed hard. “But I will. If I can't-- If I can't get over this.”

  She reached over, placed her hand atop his. “We're not going to let that happen.”

  He smiled at her. “You must be as crazy as I am,” he said softly.

  “I--” A car behind them leaned on its horn, causing them both to jump. Carolyn flushed crimson, turned around and waved at the driver behind them. The driver responded with the middle finger salute and Carolyn laughed. “Okay, let's get you home.”

  Trey re-adjusted himself in his seat. New meds. Empty house. Alan was at school. He couldn't focus. He took a deep breath and drank from his warm can of soda.

  Kinkaid had tried to put his mind at ease. Carolyn tried to do the same.

  Trey stared at the pharmacy bag on the desk. He ripped it open, read the side effect clauses with some disinterest, and then popped the child-proof cap. Ninety small, yellow hexagons stared back at him.

  He took his normal meds three times a day. In an hour or so, he'd skip his normal med, and swallow a hexagon. “It'll be a few days before the meds really start doing their job,” Kinkaid had said. Yeah, Trey was well aware of that. Psych meds always took a while to hit the system. Up to thirty days in many cases. But Kinkaid seemed to think he'd start to feel the effects sooner. Trey doubted it.

  The ghoul. That thing in his bed. Trey shuddered. “Christ, how the fuck am I supposed to sleep again?” Carolyn's naked body flashed in his mind. He smiled. “Oh yeah,” he thought, “that worked.” Trey tittered to himself and opened the IM window.

  There were at least a dozen messages from Bangalore. They were pissed about his code refactor. Trey sighed. He wasn't going to respond to them. He'd increased the performance and already written more test cases than they'd dreamed of. In short, he was kicking their ass. He wondered how long it would be before Isometrics Inc. just dumped the Indian outsourcing firm altogether and hired him full time.

  He closed the chat windows, changed his status to “away from desk,” and opened his email client. A couple of spam messages had managed to get past the filter. Sighing, he selected them and sent them to data heaven. Then he found an email from Dick. The subject line said “Ice Cream Van.”

  He frowned. Dick normally sent him jokes and images from 4chan. In fact, Trey couldn't remember ever having received a serious email from his neighbor.

  Trey opened it. The email had only a single line of text in it. “Want to have lunch?” He stared at the email for a moment, considering. Dick would want to talk about the incident. He'd want to know how Trey was doing. But Trey knew what Dick would really be asking: are you crazy?

  Trey clicked the reply button. “Not today. Maybe later in the week.” He clicked send.

  Five hours until he'd meet Alan at school. Five hours. Trey yawned. The new meds. They were already throwing off his schedule. Trey cursed and stood from his chair. He put the linux box to sleep and raised his hands toward the ceiling, feeling the tension in his back release as his spine popped.

  A nap. He'd need that. He was already well ahead on his work assignment-- he could afford a little time for himself. Besides, the meds would more than likely keep him up all night anyway. Trey yawned again and walked to the couch. He lay down, closed his eyes, and was asleep a moment later.

  Chapter 18

  “Scooby-dooby-doo, where are you?” a phantom voice growls into song. “We got some work to do now.” There is no light here, only the damp, the cold, the stench of shit and piss and fear. “Scooby-dooby-doo--”

  A whimper in the dark. A child's last reserve of sound from a strained and broken throat. Syllables mouthed, but not heard. There is nothing left to give voice to them. The constant cries for Mommy still echo in the child's mind, but they are so far away.

  There is no sleep here--only the continual nightmare of the dark, the scratching sounds outside the door, and the fear that when the door once again opens and fills the space with light, the bad man will be there again. Green eyes staring down with malice and confusion.

  “Scooby-dooby-doo--” The constant droning growl cuts off and the child's breath catches in his throat. Scratch. Scritch, scratch. The child shuffles back in the dark until he hits the wall. He can feel the slick texture of his own shit as it slides against his skin.

  He has to get away from the door, because the bad man--

  Scritch. Click. The boy tries to scream, but nothing comes out but a hiss of air.

  Creak. Metal sliding. Click. A vertical sliver of light that stings his eyes. The scream finally finds vocal cords and the world explodes as the sliver detonates into light.

  Chapter 19

  The daylight coming through the windows had softened. Afternoon was giving way to the winter darkness as the sun descended toward the horizon. Trey opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. His phone alarm bonged three times. He glanced at it. It was 1630.

  “Oh, fuck,” he said in a sleep choked whimper.

  He jumped up from the couch, grabbing the phone as he headed to the stairs.

  “Alan?” he called up the staircase.

  No response.

  His heart skipped a beat and then became a thrash metal rhythm. He was late. An hour late to walk Alan home.

  “ALAN!” he yelled.

  No response save for the house heater.

  Trey scooped up his keys from the credenza and ran to the front door. His hand struggled with the dead-bolt and he cursed. His fingers finally managed to unclench enough to swivel it open. He opened the front door, stepped out, and locked it behind him.

  A mile. A mile to make it to the school. Trey didn't bother looking at the small children playing in their yards. He didn't see Dick sitting in a chair on his patio reading a book. He didn't notice the concerned look on other adults' faces as his legs pumped him forward through the block and to the T leading to the main road. He didn't realize he was talking to himself either.

  “Alan,” he said with each chuffing breath. “Alan.”

  In the distance, he heard the ice cream van's music. A pang of fear rippled up his spine, leaving him shaking despite the burning in his lungs and legs. Sweat poured off him, staining his sweatshirt and further chilling him in the cold air. He pumped harder, each step pounding into the concrete.

  He reached the cross-roads. He could either run through the vacant lots and take the back way to the school, or run through the path he and Alan always took.

&
nbsp; “Have to get there,” he mumbled through ragged breaths.

  He headed for the lots, running as fast as he possibly could.

  Alan. Alan would be standing in the playground, leaning against a tree with his backpack on the ground. He'd be kicking at a pinecone, or maybe playing with a stick. Alan would have his pack open, running through his homework, and wondering where Daddy was.

  Or maybe the ice cream man had been there. Maybe the ice cream man had seen him, alone and waiting. Vulnerable. The adults and other children would be long gone, heading home for dinner, homework, and evening activities.

  Alan would have no more of that. Alan would be in the ice cream van, his broken, eviscerated body stuffed into one of the refrigerator cases. Huge hunks of meat would already be missing from his bloodless body. The thing in the driver seat would laugh, chewing on a piece of fat from his baby boy. Or maybe picking gristles of flesh from between its teeth with a severed finger.

  Trey ran through the vacant lot, his shoes sinking into the dirt with each step, brambles ripping at his jeans. He was completely oblivious to the scratches and tears and the trickles of blood seeping through the denim. He could see the side of the school now. He knew he should slow down. His heart hammered in his chest so hard, he heard nothing else.

  The school. He could see the school. Another 50 yards and the play- ground would be in view.

  Without thinking he turned and ran a diagonal path past the last house near the school. He nearly tripped over a four-year old playing in the yard, but kept going; he hadn't even seen the small child.

  The playground was just ahead. He could just make out the wooden jungle gym. Another 25 yards and he'd be able to see the entire playground. He ran across the street, not noticing the squeal of tires or the high pitched honk of a car. His feet stumbled over the curb, but he managed to keep his balance. Suddenly, the entire playground came into view.

  “No,” Trey said as he slowed his pace and finally stopped. “No,” he said again, tears appearing at the corners of his eyes.