Inner Horror

by L. A. Tafe

  “Oh the things he must have told her to make her do it. He is a real man. Such strength.” Told her? Back in my room I heard whispers telling me to drink. It was Oliver!

  Jezebeth sees my face change as I begin to understand. “That’s right, boy. Your Oliver is behind it all. Pulling the strings like a puppet master.” Oliver! I’ll fucking kill him! The rage builds so fast, power courses through my veins, strength returns to my battered body.

  Jezebeth smiles at me, seeing I am defeated, cherishing her moment of victory. “For you, my love.” Jezebeth says and pulls the trigger.

  Everything goes white. My ears ring, my entire head feels like its on fire; probably because it is.

  After the flames and the ringing in my ears stops, I can hear Jezebeth screaming like I’ve never heard anyone scream before. I smile at her. The gun is nowhere to be found, it disintegrated from the blast. The blast I caused with a simple thought. Exploding as Jezebeth pulled the trigger. I focus on the hatred and let it warm me from the inside out, numbing all of my pain, healing the scorched skin on my face.

  I stand up and dig out the two bullets with my fingers. The pain should be too much to bear but I don’t feel a thing. Blood pours from the two wounds as I dig the large chunks of metal out and toss them to the ground, the wounds healing right up.

  Jezebeth looks at me, only one of her lifeless eyes remains, the other eye is completely gone along with half of her face. The blast mangling her face, destroying any child like beauty she possessed.

  “You fucking bastard! What have you done too me!?” Jezebeth screams at me wildly, her hands pawing at her face in disbelief. “What’s the matter? Can’t see for yourself?” I retort, a smile spread across my face.

  My smile fades as I see the dolls charging me from all directions, their blood drenched knives raised. I can’t take them all on and I know it, I need to kill Jezebeth. Now.

  I sprint towards Jezebeth, my newfound strength giving me unbelievable speed. I catch her in the blink of an eye, tackling her to the ground, raining my fists down upon her mangled face. She claws at me with her good arm; the other is nearly severed at the shoulder, lying limp in the dirt.

  “Get him! Fucking kill him!” Jezebeth yells to her dolls as one jumps on my back, plunging its knife into my neck. I feel a twinge as the blade goes in, but no real pain. I turn on the doll, grabbing it by the neck, hurling it into the charging group of dolls just a few feet away.

  I feel Jezebeth trying to crabwalk out from under me, scraping at the ground in desperation with her only arm. I grab her by her leg and pull her back to me before she gets far.

  “KILL HIM GOD DAMNIT.” She yells at her dolls, terror in her voice, horror in her eyes. I put a hand around her neck, squeezing tight, enjoying the hell out of her fear. “Time to die.” I tell her, squeezing even tighter on her throat.

  Several dolls jump on my back, their little nails digging into my flesh to hold on while I try to buck them off. One of them drives a blade between my shoulder blades. But my numbness holds, driving away the pain, healing up the wounds as the blade is removed for another stab.

  As Jezebeth takes her last breath, a knife forces through the back of my neck, the tip of the blade coming through my throat. Severing my spine and my windpipe in one agonizing strike. My body goes limp, falling upon Jezebeth, my blood dripping slowly onto her corset.

  Jezebeth coughs violently, taking in heavy gasps till she catches her Breath.

  She begins to laugh as she pulls my head up to look at her. She is crying, not in happiness, but like she has just had a devastating loss.

  As Jezebeth breaks into sobs, I feel for the knife in my neck, feeling the cold steel buried within me. Focusing hard upon my spine and my windpipe. My vision begins to get blurry and a part of me wants to let go, stop fighting, give up and just die. But another part of me, the power and strength that bathes happily in the thought of Oliver’s death, won’t allow me to just die. It wants blood.

  Jezebeth whimpers and lays her hand on my jaw lovingly, pulling it open and closed as she speaks, “I love you, Jezebeth.”

  She breaks into another round of sobs and pulls me lips to hers.

  The knife shatters and my spine and windpipe heal. Jezebeth stops kissing me for a moment, “I love you too, my-“

  Before she can finish, I lunge at her neck, biting into her as deep as I can. Her blood fills my mouth and I pull back from her neck, taking a chunk of flesh with me. The venom I thought of takes effect instantly. Spreading from the wound her body begins to wilt, decaying rapidly, rotting her organs from the outside in. In seconds all that is left of Jezebeth is a shriveled corpse.

  Still lying upon her, her bones break beneath my weight. I look into her eyes, now finally matching the body that they served. Jezebeth tries to speak, her words drawn out and too soft for me to hear. I put my ear to her mouth. Her words still faint but I can understand them, “We . . . we were meant to be together, s―.” Each word drawn out and hung upon, with her last word too soft to hear.

  I pull away from her and get to my feet. Jezebeth’s words swirl around in my head, meant to be? The look in her eyes, so inviting, so passionate. She really loves me. I look at her and remember all those years ago. This is the woman that raped you. The hate reignites inside me and without a second thought, “Payback is a bitch.” I stomp through her skull like there is nothing there, just a loud crack rings out as her skull disintegrates under my shoe and the rest of her body follows, turning to dust and fading into the fog.

  I look around me to see where the dolls are but find nothing but piles of crumbled porcelain. Won’t miss them one bit.

  I Walk over to the base of the spiral coaster slowly, the light of the bonfire casting my shadow across the tracks. I haven’t heard Dream Amy’s screams for quite some time, the chances of her being alive are slim to none and I know it.

  I look up, spotting the steam train whirling down the spiral tracks, just about to the bottom where I stand. As it draws closer it comes to screeching halt, stopping just before reaching me and it looks nothing like it used too.

  Most of the cab is intact but it has taken a beating by something. The entire thing is covered in white strands, some of it stained red with what must be blood and large gouges in the sides that could only be caused by something massive and powerful.

  The most horrific part of the display is the blood, thick and fresh, sprayed across the front of the steam train, all spreading from the source: Dream Amy.

  She is torn to shreds, Her body lying lifeless from a few remaining ropes that strap her in place. Her right arm has been ripped from the joint, along with chunks of flesh missing from entire body as if she was eaten alive. Her face is beaten and swollen so badly that it’s hard to recognize her. In her left hand is one of the iron pokers Jezebeth stabbed her with, now covered in a milky blue liquid. What the fuck is up there? I ask myself, looking up to the sky.

  Dream Amy suddenly takes in a panting gasp and begins to flail in her seat. She is screaming wildly, “Kill me!!! Just fucking kill me! Please oh, please! Oh fuck, just kill me! It hurts . . . it hurts so bad.” Her last words fade to strained whispers.

  Her screaming doesn’t startle me; I don’t care enough for it to startle me. I continue stare into the sky quizzically for another moment then look down at Amy, slowly, in no rush. My first thought is to oblige and kill her in one quick thought. But I want answers.

  “JEZEBETH!!! You bitch! Kill me! End it!” She pleads, must be blind from the beating her face took. I walk up to her, seizing her by the throat with one hand. “Jezebeth is gone my dear, just me.” I tell her, sounding as heartless as my nightmares. “Lance, oh Please help me! It hurts so bad!”

  “Did you enjoy hurting Amy? Do you think she deserved it?” nothing but malice in my voice. “What?” Dream Amy moans, any relief she felt now gone, replaced by terror, “You don’t understand! I . . .” her weak voice now to low to hear. I put a hand on her shoulder and numb her body, giving her eno
ugh relief to continue.

  “I just wanted to feel something. I didn’t mean for her to get hurt. I didn’t know what was happening. The whispers took hold of me and I couldn’t help myself. One moment I was so happy and the next I . . . I wanted to kill her. The whispers wanted me to hurt her. I didn’t have a choice! I didn’t mean to!” I take my hand away and I can see in her face, what’s left of it anyway, the pain flooding through her again.

  “Please . . . please heal me.” Dream Amy begs. But I have no intention of healing her. “She never would have been hurt if you hadn’t taken over. It is still your fault.” I tell her, tightening my grip on her neck.

  “Oliver!” She chokes, “It was Oliver!” She swings at me with the poker weakly, just barely piercing my skin, going into my arm almost an inch. With my spare arm I pull it out and look into Dream Amy’s only eye, not sure if she can see me or not. “Scream.” I command her, “Scream like you made her scream.”

  The hate inside me engulfs me as she screams. I bury the iron rod into her forehead, just above her eyes. “Goodnight, Dream Amy.” She turns to dust in an instant. I laugh to myself as I close my eyes to wake up. Goodnight.

  CHAPTER TEN.

  I wake up with my head in a daze and a pulsing headache, with nothing but a clouded idea of what happened the night before. As I sit up in a bed that isn’t my own and look around the room a very simple thought runs through my head. Where the fuck am I?

  I roll over onto my back with a grumble, still in my clothes from the day before, rubbing my temples trying to relieve my headache just a little. What happened last night? I try as hard as I can but can’t figure out how I got here, the memory is just out of my grasp. I remember my dream with absolute clarity. But how did I get there? When did I fall asleep?

  I sit up in bed and look around the room, my pounding headache intensifying as I do. I lay back down to try to negate some of the pain, just getting a glimpse of my surroundings. Its obvious I am in a motel room, not the dirtiest one around but probably one of the cheaper ones. Textured walls, one bed, a LCD TV in a hutch on the wall opposite the bed. Why am I here? I know there is a reason but cant remember it. I roll over, moving myself to the foot of the bed putting me feet to the ground, taking a good look at my surroundings trying to clear my head. “Well. Better get up.” I say out loud to myself, standing up and searching for my duffle bag.

  I find my duffle bag in the corner of the room, looking like it was tossed there carelessly before I flopped into the bed. With a quick turn of my stomach I run off to the bathroom, puking in the toilet till the urge to continue subsides. Pulling my head out of the toilet and going to the sink, am I hungover?

  I wash up and wipe my face off with the shirt I just took off, probably cleaner than the rags in this motel. In the mirror I notice a few thin scratches down my cheek and a few on my arms. After inspecting the scratches I take a look again at my face. My head is no longer completely bald, now covered by a thin layer of hair that has grown back, giving me just a little cleaner of a look. I take a look at the grotesque stitched up gouge on my forehead and shake my head in disgust before walking out of the bathroom. Lancifer sure made a mess of me.

  I hunt down some cash and my keys on the way out of my room, still trying to remember the night before. I drive a few blocks till I find a small diner, pulling into the parking lot and walking in the front door. The place is clean with just a few tables and some bar stools, a flat screen mounted behind the bar with the news on.

  The place is pretty quite with only a few people sitting at the bar, no doubt the regulars that come in most days around this time. What time is it anyway?

  I grab a seat at one of the corner boots, sitting with my back against a wall so I can see the flat screen. A reporter is on the screen talking about how bad the jellyfish are at the local beaches; it makes for good background noise for my thoughts. At this point, Just to be in a place with other people, real people, helps me think.

  “What can I get you?” the waitress asks, older woman with a rough voice and a way about her she must have picked up after the years of waitressing, the type that no longer carries around an order pad but keeps orders in her head.

  “Can I get some iced tea?” my headache stabs at my temples as if it disagreed with my decision. “Actually can I get some coffee with that too?” I add. “Sure thing, hon.” She replies, leaving me to my headache and my thoughts.

  I think about the night before, trying harder and harder to remember everything that happened. Lets see, got arrested, got yelled at, got into a fight with dad, got kicked out of home, then . . .? The more I think about it the more I shake my head and laugh. What a fucking day. Hell. What a week!

  Through the window I watch the cars go rushing past, the sun making the pavement seem to waver in the distance. Shit it’s hot already. What time is it? I dig around in my pockets for my phone, pulling it out and pausing for a second. Part of me uneasy about what I might find when I open it. I flick it open, letting out a breath as I see the dark screen. Great. Phones dead.

  “Excuse me?” I ask a man sitting at the bar. “Do you have the time?” I add as he turns to look at me. “It’s a little after one,” the man grumbles, looking me up and down, lingering on my shaved head and piercings. “Thanks” I reply, looking away quickly.

  The waitress comes back with my coffee and iced tea, taking my order before she returns to the kitchen. The coffee peps me up a little while the tea cools me down. Both seem to be taking some of the edge off of my headache, but just the edge. I think half the reason I can’t remember the night before is because I can’t focus through the pulsing pain.

  I stare at the TV trying to remember the night before, the flashing images on the screen barely in focus as I think. Got home, fought it out with dad, packed up my shit, and . . . and . . . I found a bottle of whiskey. Explains the headache. I shift in my seat, pushing harder to remember what happened after I found the bottle. So I had a drink and then blacked out? No. Can’t be it.

  On the news they begin talking about a story they covered earlier in the day, a man murdered in his bed while his wife watched. The words of the reporter go in one ear and out the other without a second thought.

  “Need some more to drink?” Drink . . . I had several, didn’t I? “Hon?” the waitress asks, breaking my train of thought. “No. I'm fine,” I say curtly. “Food should be out in a second.” The waitress says, returning behind the bar. Immediately I dive back into my thoughts.

  I kept drinking after my first sip. One swig after another . . . till the bottle was gone! No wonder I was hammered, I finished a fifth in half an hour!

  “According to the victims wife, their seventeen year old son came into their bedroom in the middle of the night and suffocated the victim, waking the victim’s wife in the process.” The reporter goes on in the background; I only pick up bits and pieces. It’s always the son. I say to myself between my thoughts of the night before.

  Okay, why did I drink so much? I think it over till I reach the answer, the terrible answer. The whispers. Dream Amy mentioned them! I took another drink and another. I kept telling myself to do it but it wasn’t me. It was Whispers! It was Oliver!

  The answer fills me with a mix of rage and dread, never knowing when he will be in my ear again. What will he make me do next time? I am startled a plate being plopped down on the table in front of me with a loud clink. “There ya go, love.” the waitress says absently. I look up at her to thank her but she is paying no attention to me. Instead her head is calked towards the flat screen, intently watching with the remote in her hand turning up the volume. I glance to the TV, noticing that most of the diner is watching the screen as well.

  “We have just received a photo of the son, it should be on your screen in just a moment.” the reporter says. The screen blanks out for a second then a new screen with a photo of me in it pops up. Oh fuck.

  The photo isn’t old, taken at our during Christmas dinner just this last year. I'm wearing a button
up shirt with my hair actually gelled and fixed up for once. This can’t be real.

  I franticly look around the diner to look for any sign of Lancifer or Oliver. Must be a dream. It has to be! But there is no sign of either of my hellish nightmares. I look back at the TV, panic beginning to boil within me. The screen turns back to the reporter and now I can see where he is. Just thirty feet behind him is a normal home in the Newport suburbs, yellow shutters, a navy blue door, and some tire marks etched into the driveway. That’s my house. Holy shit. That is MY house!

  Everyone in the diner looks back at me. Even with my head shaved they know the person in the photo was me. I need to get out of here. I try to stand up but my legs won’t obey me. The waitress stares at me, still standing next to my table, terror in her eyes. She slowly backs away from me as I finally gain the nerve to stand up. I stare at everyone around the diner, all of them with their own feelings behind their eyes, disgust, contempt, anger, fear.

  The chef bursts out of the swinging doors behind the bar, a thick bat in has hand. “Get the fuck out of my diner!” The chef yells, bringing his bat up ready to start swinging. The waitress jumps out of her skin at the sound of her bosses command, the coffee pot she was holding falls from her hand and smashes upon the floor loudly. I urge my legs to move and they listen, moving quickly towards the door, slipping just slightly on the spilt coffee. I yank the door open and sprint to my car, feeling like the chef is right behind me with the bat ready to take my head off. The chef chases me out the front door and stops, hollering at me as he waves the bat in the air. “You better run you sick fuck!” I speed out of the parking lot without looking back.