Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror

by Bray, Michael

  Dark Corners

  Twelve Tales of Terror

  Michael Bray

  Dark Hall Press

  A Division of New Street Communications, LLC

  Wickford, RI

  Copyright 2012 by Michael Bray

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Except for brief quotations for review purposes, no part of this work may be reproduced in any form without the permission of Dark Hall Press, a Division of New Street Communications, LLC.

  Published 2012

  Dark Hall Press

  darkhallpress.com

  A Division of New Street Communications, LLC

  Wickford, RI

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Stories:

  Observation Room 5

  No Rest for the Wicked

  The Prank

  Yurple's Last Day

  Tina

  That Gnawing Feeling

  No. 5 Sycamore Street

  The Box

  Every Little Helps

  A Strange Affair

  Victor

  The Last Man

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Dedication

  For my wife Vikki, my daughter Abi, my sisters Ann-Marie, Carol, Debbie & Pauline and my mother Mavis. This labor of love is also dedicated to my father Michael, who always encouraged me to embrace my creativity.

  Acknowledgments

  Huge thanks to all of my family and friends who have supported this project from start to finish, and have generally tolerated my often incessant ramblings about the book. Also to William Renehan at Dark Hall Press for having belief and faith in the manuscript and for his tireless work to bring it to press. And last but by no means least, to Robert Belsten and all the staff over at Emblesten.com for creating and hosting the www.dark-corners.co.uk website.

  OBSERVATION ROOM 5

  January 14th

  I’m in isolation. The doctors aren’t sure what I was injected with, so they’re not taking any chances. I’m scared, really scared, but I won’t give up hope that I can come through this. I’ve always been a survivor and this will be no different. I found this pen and notepad by the side of my bed and figured I might as well log everything that happens, if for no other reason than to keep myself occupied. My name is James Robinson and I work in the city for an insurance brokerage firm. I’m making my way up the ladder, and although it’s slow going, I’m getting there. I still remember the words of my father, the only advice of any worth he ever bestowed upon me.

  'There’s a lot of money out there in the world, James. Just make sure you get your share of it,' he said around the hand rolled cigarette that was always wedged between his teeth. Those words stuck with me—almost as much as the drunken beatings and crushing put downs he dealt out liberally. But that’s another story. Besides, I had the last laugh; he died of liver failure when I was fifteen. Tough-titty, Pops.

  I don’t like this room I’m in. It’s too sterile, too white. I’ll describe it for you from where I lie, propped up in this hospital bed with its itchy sheets. It’s around twelve feet square with no windows, and other than the bed and small table beside it, no furniture. There’s an ugly faded painting on the wall of a vineyard basking in the glow of a summer’s day. Artistically it’s awful, but I suppose it serves as something to look at in the absence of a real view. I also have a small private bathroom and have been told to bottle my piss if I need to go, as they want to test it. There is a TV, although you won’t catch me watching it. No time for tuning out to shitty quiz shows and the like; I need to keep active and not become depressed despite what happened. They keep the door locked of course (otherwise it wouldn’t be called isolation) and keep an eye on me from the small security camera mounted in the corner. I can see the small red light blinking as it watches my every move. Fuck it. I won’t have to put up with this for too long. They’ll find a way to help me and then I can get back to my normal life.

  Sorry, I had to stop writing for a while, as a doctor came in to visit me (why I’m apologizing I don’t know). He was wearing one of those white full body suits with the hood and clear plastic visor. It all seemed a bit dramatic to me and I don’t mind telling you that it caused me a little alarm. He asked how I was feeling, waiting for my response with his stupid fucking pen and clipboard. I told him I felt fine apart from the dryness in my throat, which is starting to feel like somebody installed a roll of tiny carpet inside whilst I wasn’t looking. In fact, I feel pretty good all things considered. I didn’t like the way that doctor looked at me; the way I imagined he looked at patients when he was about to bear bad news. I’m sorry, it's terminal. I suggest we turn off life support. Days rather than weeks. Nothing more we can do. Standard bread and butter of the job for a sour faced prick like him. I told him I was hungry though, and as he scurried off he promised to have one of the nurses bring me some food. I hope it’s not the standard hospital fare. I could really use a decent meal... I suppose now would be a good time to explain what happened. I should warn you though, it’s a pretty fucked up story.

  I only live six blocks from the office where I work, and most days I walk there by cutting through the park. However on this particular morning, I had failed to set my alarm clock and was forced to take the subway rather than my usual park route. I was sure I would make it if I caught the eight thirty-five train. Now I must admit, I hate trains—the thought of being closed in with so many people makes me feel sick. I don’t like to be touched, especially by the great unwashed. It’s nothing personal; I just don’t like my space to be invaded. But if it meant I would avoid being late for work, then I was prepared to make the sacrifice.

  The subway entrance is only half a block away from where I live, and as I hurried down the steps, I felt a quiver of unease in my stomach. As I had feared, the subway car was already filling up with people. I tried to keep a neutral look on my face as I squeezed in, but all I could think about was my churning guts, and I had to concentrate all of my efforts to stop myself from being sick. You may think me odd, and maybe even a little obsessive, but just think about it for a minute. How many people are breathing their germs on you? How many people have gripped the metal rail after wiping their nose? Germs. Infections. Shit like that was rife, especially with so many people crammed together, sniffing and coughing. Initially I found a relatively spacious area (no seats of course—there never were any left, even that early on a morning) but as more and more people streamed onto the train, I found myself pushed further into the corner.

  If not for choosing that exact moment to look through into the car next to me, I wouldn’t be here writing this now. I saw that it too was full, apart from the seat nearest the door. I craned my neck to see why nobody had snatched such a rare opportunity to sit whilst they travelled to work and immediately saw the reason. There was an old hobo slouched in the corner. Although that car was jammed to capacity, nobody would take up the spare seat, keeping their distance as if the old fuck carried some kind of plague. (Maybe he did, but I won’t think about that yet) Baffled by their stupidity, I jostled my way through the people next to me and made for the empty seat. There was plenty of distance between him and myself to sit without touching him, and that’s exactly what I did. You might call me a hypocrite, and that’s your right. However to me, sitting next to that filthy old bastard was far more acceptable than being wedged shoulder to shoulder with all those dirty, sniffling, germ-carrying people. The other passengers looked at me as if I was crazy, but I didn’t care. I was the one with the seat and not breathing in their diseases. Not that the old bastard didn’t smell. There w
as a distinct air of over ripe cheese and the yeasty stench of hops. Although everyone else was doing their best to ignore him, I couldn’t help but stare, fascinated and disgusted at the same time. How could a person let themselves go like that? He was the typical homeless cliché; long scraggly hair and beard that looked like it had once been black, but was now mostly grey and matted together. He had leathery, sun damaged skin from what looked like a lifetime of living on the streets. His clothes were old and tattered and the toe of one shoe was missing, revealing the stub of a filthy and overgrown toenail (he didn’t appear to be wearing socks). Clutched tightly to his chest were two things: a three-quarters empty bottle of cheap red wine, and a cardboard sign. Despite my disgust I wondered what it said, but whatever writing there was he had concealed by his arms. I don’t know if he felt my eyes on him, or if by sitting in his space I had stirred him from his snooze, but he woke up, looking at me with glassy, half-sunken, three sheets to the wind eyes. I suppose you could almost feel sorry for him, if he wasn’t such an obvious waste of space.

  The old prick might have gone back to sleep, but instead his eyes lit up and he straightened in his seat, sending a fresh wave of that disgusting cheese and booze smell towards me. I glanced around and noted how I, like him, had become invisible to the other passengers.

  “Can I tell ya somethin’, young fella?” the hobo had slurred, looking blankly in my direction.

  Now here is something else about me that you probably should know, if you haven’t guessed it already that is. I’m a prick, and I don’t mind saying it. You probably suspected as much anyway, but I don’t really care what you think. The point is that you might have ignored him, or looked away, or maybe even stood and took your chances with the other sardines crammed into the rest of the subway car. But not me. I’m James fucking Robinson, and I don’t get intimidated by anyone—least of all an old, stinking, alcoholic bum. I told him to go ahead and talk, get it off his chest. He leaned forward and grinned, showing a mouth that was more gums than teeth.

  “It’s the end of times you know, sonny.”

  His breath made me queasy, but I had a point to make and forced myself not to flinch or show my disgust. Not just to him, but to the other people on the train who were now watching secretively. I don’t know if the old bastard noticed, but I did. I’m good at noticing shit like that—the little details that most people miss. I told the old guy in no uncertain terms how I felt about it. I told him that it was people like him that were dragging down society, and that he would be better off dead. That one got me a few disapproving glances from the observers, but I didn’t care. I turned the tables, acting as if they were as invisible to me as I was to them. I always spoke my mind and if someone didn’t like it, tough luck. To his credit, the old man didn’t seem to mind and laughed it off.

  “I used to be like you, sonny. All dressed up in my suit and tie. I bet you have one of those big apartments in the city too, don’t ya?”

  This wasn’t part of the plan, and certainly not what I had expected. This old guy was sharper than he looked and I was more aware of the people who were now watching intently, waiting to see what would happen. Maybe he was just getting his second or third wind, or perhaps he was fuelled by the attention, but he suddenly seemed bigger, somehow more powerful. I’ll admit it— I felt a little intimidated.

  “Oh I see it alright, boy. You live there in that big place, all decked out with luxury items, but you’re alone, ain’t ya? I can see how lonely you are.”

  I didn’t like this, and was about to tell him to go fuck himself when he leaned close, unbearably so, and whispered to me.

  “We are all going to the same place.”

  I genuinely thought he had meant to the same station on the subway when he flipped the cardboard sign around and showed me the words.

  “This is where we are all headed, sonny. And ain’t nuthin’ you can do to stop it.”

  What came next is still confusing, as it all happened so fast. I remember glancing down to the sign, reading the words crudely scrawled on the cardboard with black marker pen.

  End of the Road

  Simple. To the point. I’d had enough of his shit by then and I didn’t want to be caught up in some bullshit end of the world debate, so turned away from him. I clearly heard someone shout “LOOK OUT,” and immediately I felt it—a small sharp pain in my neck. I thought he had pinched me, trying to grab at me, but I could tell by the faces of the other passengers that it was something worse. Their expressions were haunted, and for the first time in years, I felt genuinely afraid. Some of the passengers moved to restrain him as I pulled away. Now standing, I saw myself in the opaque reflection of the window—it was then I realised what had everyone so upset. The fucker had stuck me with a syringe, which was still hanging out of my neck. In a panic I reached up and yanked it free, holding it in my hands and not quite able to believe what had happened. It’s funny that as filthy and grimy as he was, the needle looked perfectly clean and sterile. The chamber was empty apart from a few lingering drops of bluish liquid. I whirled on him and screamed, more in rage than anything else. That was the worst, hearing him cackle as they restrained him.

  “End of the road, sonny! End of the road!”

  God only knows what he stuck me with. I keep thinking of all the fucked up diseases in the world; Hepatitis, Ebola, HIV. The words keep spinning around my head, but I’m determined to be ok. After all, I don’t feel ill—which can only be a good thing. I’m tired of writing for now. I’m going to kick back and wait for the doctor to come and give me the all clear. I’m sure it will be soon.

  January 15th

  They kept me overnight for observation. As requested, I pissed in a cup for them, which they took away for whatever tests they do. They also took some more blood. That’s the thing with doctors. No matter what ailment you have they always want blood and piss. I asked about going home and what they thought was wrong with me, but I couldn’t get a straight answer. I’m sure the doctors know something they aren’t telling me. I can see it in their faces. The way they shoot each other short, panicked glances. The man in charge is a guy called Fredericks. He’s the one who seems to be hiding the most. Earlier this morning he came in to do a routine examination. There was a look in his eyes I didn’t quite like. He looked afraid. On the other hand, maybe it’s just my overstressed brain reading too much into it.

  I will beat this.

  Fredericks asked me again how I was feeling. I told him that other than the itching needle mark and the stiffness from their shitty beds, I felt fine. My own questions went unanswered, whilst they went on asking theirs. The best they can give me is that it’s “ too early to tell” what’s wrong. Fucking clueless idiots. Why am I even telling you all this? I’m tired and need to get some sleep. I need to let my body fight whatever poison is in me until the incompetent staff get their shit together.

  January 15th (continued)

  It’s now just after eleven o’ clock in the evening, and I’m still here. I tried to eat earlier, pasta and meatballs, but could only manage a few bites before I was sick. I’m growing more worried about the situation now. Something is wrong; I can feel it in my bones. Fredericks made a brief visit, and although he did a better job to hide it, I could still see that scared expression on his face. I demanded an update and he said my blood work should be back in the morning. I’ll be making an official complaint about this, that’s for sure. I think I’ll try to get some sleep and hope for good news tomorrow. I hope that fucking hobo suffers a slow and painful death.

  Sunday

  Rough night’s sleep last night—dreamed of little soldiers in my blood fighting off whatever infection is in there. I have a headache, and even though I feel hungry, I still can’t eat. As I glance up from this paper, I can see my breakfast cereal still untouched. I looked at myself in the mirror today and realized why Fredericks looked so concerned. I look like shit. My skin is pale and waxy, my eyes ringed and dark. I think the puncture wound on my neck is infec
ted. Its edges are red and itch madly. I think it’s starting to spread. If they can’t give me a straight answer today then I’m going home. I can’t stand this place any longer.

  Sunday (pm)

  Told Fredericks of my intention to leave and he said I should reconsider, as they have discovered some irregularities with my blood. I pressed him for more information, but as always he clammed up and wouldn’t tell me. Still can’t eat. No food now since Friday, although the gnawing in my belly tells me I’m hungry. Also, my hair is starting to fall out. I run my hands through it and it comes away in great black clumps.

  What the fuck is happening to me?

  Monday

  I’m trapped here. I demanded to leave and Fredericks told me that he wasn’t authorised to allow it. I told him he had no right to keep me here and he responded by promising to speak to his superior. Fuck him. I still feel like shit—the headache is worse and I can feel myself growing weaker. I’m so hungry, but even though they brought me a decent breakfast (toast and boiled eggs), I couldn’t eat it. I tried to force it down, but I couldn’t swallow without being sick. The old fuck on the train jabbed me with something potent all right. I’m tired, so very tired of all of this. I need to get out of here. I need to get well. Fredericks tells me they are going to try and get an IV drip in tomorrow to feed me that way.