***
After running tests and finding nothing untoward physiologically, the doctors put Scott’s red-tinged weeping down to something more psychological. He was prescribed further rest and limited visitations from family – at least until his anxiety abated. It wasn’t long before Scott received another visit from Dr. Cale.
“The nurses here said you were calling out in your sleep – did you have a nightmare?”
Scott sat up higher in bed and squirmed beneath the sheets. “It was… just a dream,” he said.
Cale nodded. “Dreams are a way for the mind to deal with a trauma, to repair itself. Did you want to tell me about the dream?”
The room felt smaller, like there was no more air left. He shook his head no.
“I’d… just like to be left alone.”
Cale folded her hands in her lap. “I understand you’re afraid, Scott – I only want to help you. So you can go home.”
“If I go home the police will want to arrest me.”
The psychologist frowned. “Why?”
Scott bit his lip, desperate to stay silent, but his fears were too strong. “They don’t believe my story – about the man in the mask.”
“The one you say killed Clea?”
“He did kill her! The only reason I got away was that I killed him. He made me do it!”
“He made you kill him?”
Scott clutched the sheets until his fingers burned. “Yes! If you go out into the woods you’ll find that cabin. Have the police found it? Have they found Clea’s body?”
“I believe they’re still looking.”
Scott tossed aside the sheets and climbed out of bed. The tiled floor was like ice against his burning skin. His right hand ached and he pulled at the bandages.
“Is your hand still painful, Scott?”
Scott hid his hand. “It’s fine. The bandages itch is all. Why haven’t they found her?”
He felt Dr. Cale at his back.
“When you’re well you might be in a better position to advise the officers,” she said. “Until then, you really ought to rest. You’re obviously not yourself.”
She put a hand on his shoulder and steered him back to the bed. He pulled the blanket up over himself, suddenly cold again. His right hand was numb. The doctor sat on the end of the bed and studied him.
“The man you killed, you said he wore a mask. Can you tell me about it?”
Scott rolled over and stared at the blank wall, trying not to think about his face, but when he blinked, it was there to chastise him.
“It was all white, like bone,” he said. “but like it was asleep.”
“Or dead?”
Cale’s assumption made him turn to look at her.
“Yes, like he was already dead.”
“Very strange,” Dr. Cale said, her eyes narrowed in thought.
“What is?”
“There were a series of murders around here about twenty years ago. I remember reading up on the case because at the time one of our senior psychologists was consulted by the police. A witness reported seeing a man in a field wearing a white mask just moments before one of the victims was found.”
Scott sat up again, mesmerised. “Are you serious? This guy had killed before?”
“It’s possible, but I’m going to have to look into it further and speak to the police.”
Dr. Cale moved away and Scott grabbed her sleeve.
“No, don’t talk to them, please.”
Cale’s expression softened. “It’s okay, Scott,” she said. “It’ll help you once the police know the truth.”
“You believe me… that I didn’t kill Clea?”
“Of course. You’re the victim, nothing more.”
***
Detective Michaels was the first to see Scott once visiting hours opened at 10am, and when Dr. Cale appeared at the officer’s side, the teen felt even more terrified.
“You can’t talk to me without a lawyer present,” he said, climbing out of bed to distance himself from the unwanted situation.
Michaels’ demeanour was solemn. There was no hint of suspicion this time. Dr. Cale carried the same expression. Scott knew something was wrong.
“What’s happened?” he said.
“Mr. Bridgman please, perhaps you should hop back in bed,” the detective said.
Scott looked to Cale who encouraged him to comply. “Scott, Detective Michaels has something to tell you.”
The sheets were cold when Scott slipped back between them. “It’s about Clea isn’t it?”
Detective Michaels slipped his hands into his trench-coat and heaved a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry Mr. Bridgman, but we found Clea Stephens’ body late last night.”
Scott’s words caught in his throat. He wanted to sob, from the utter relief. Eventually he asked the question that so desperately wanted release.
“Did you find... him?”
Michaels nodded. “Yes, his body was there with Miss Stephens. The evidence seems to concur with your version of events. You have to understand that every avenue had to be explored.”
Scott’s relief broke out as a smile, and he had to work hard to stifle it. He noticed the detective frown.
“I’m sorry,” Scott said. “You just can’t realise how relieved I am.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Michaels said. “I’m very sorry for your loss and the trauma you experienced, Mr. Bridgman. You can rest assured that we’ll find out who this man was. It’s possible that he’s killed before.” He glanced to Dr. Cale. “The good doctor here thinks that you might have brought a serial killer’s long and terrible career to an end.”
Dr. Cale nodded. “As I told Detective Michaels earlier,” she said, “I managed to go back through our files and I discovered that one of our patients, who escaped in 1986, committed similar killings in the city.”
Scott swallowed. “You think that the man I killed might be the same one?”
“We won’t know until we run the dead man’s dental and fingerprint records against the records at the psychiatric hospital. But there’s no need for you to concern yourself with that, Mr. Bridgman. You concentrate on getting home and then we’ll be in touch about getting you to come into the station to make an official statement.”
“Yeah, sure. Thanks.”
Michaels left Scott alone with his thoughts and, for a moment, he forgot Dr. Cale was in the room until she touched his arm.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Scott, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s ok... I’m okay. I think.”
“This is a lot of information for you to process, I’m sure, but this is good news for your recovery. It’s over.”
Scott chuckled nervously. “Yeah...”
Cale’s expression turned serious again. “Now I won’t keep you, I just wanted to ask you one more thing.”
“What?”
“The wound on your right hand – you said you received it in a struggle with the killer?”
“Yeah. Why?”
Cale crossed her clipboard folder across her chest. “Well the patient who escaped in 1986 had one on his right hand as well, but his was self-inflicted.”
Scott felt his heart thrum with trepidation. “He did?”
“Yes, in his interview files he told doctors that he believed something was inside his right hand trying to escape. That he was infected with evil. Every day he drew occult symbols on the walls of his cell, but no one ever worked out what it all meant.”
Scott’s right hand ached and he clutched it. Cale noticed and offered him a reassuring smile.
“It’s nothing to worry about, Scott. You’ll be going home before you know it.”
***
The day passed in waves of sleep and brief periods of wakefulness, but for once, Scott was glad for the lack of dreams.
After lunch, Scott took a nurse’s advice and went for a walk around the hospital. He strolled through the cream coloured halls of the general admissions ward and took the elevator up to the top flo
or to get some fresh air. For the first time since the incident he felt safe, that he would be able to move on. His hand didn’t even hurt. He still felt grief for Clea’s death, and dreaded the inevitability of having to contact her family but, inside, he was glad to have survived.
He’d been enjoying the views of the city so much that he lost track of time. Realising it was closing in on two o’clock he quickly walked back down the staircase and made a bee-line for the elevator. Two orderlies inside greeted him with a brief smile before returning to their conversation.
“You finished your shifts in the morgue yet?” one said to the other.
“Nah, not till next weekend,” he said. “Still, it was interesting today – they brought in that serial killer.”
“No shit, the one who offed that girl in the woods?”
“Yeah.”
Scott stood frozen, simultaneously appalled and fascinated. He decided to ride the rest of the conversation with them.
“Did you get a look at the freak?”
“No, but I’m gonna try tonight when everyone’s gone.”
“That is awesome.”
The elevator pinged at the basement. The orderly from the morgue moved past Scott as the doors opened.
“Well this is me – see ya Chavez.”
“See you.”
The doors closed and Scott silently waited while the elevator went down another floor to the sub-basement parking lot. The other orderly exited and left Scott alone to ponder whether he could possibly sneak into the mortuary to get one last look at the son-of-a-bitch who killed his girlfriend.
***
The main autopsy room was devoid of the living when Scott opened the door to the mortuary.
The stainless-steel latch-doors shone in the overhead lights and Scott wondered behind which one the psychopath rested. He needed to see him one more time, to try and understand why he killed Clea – and more importantly, how he’d passed on his infection. Scott’s hand flared as he looked at the left wall and then the right, silently playing eenie-meanie-miney-mo in his head. Determined to act fast and avoid being detected, he reached out with his right hand to open the nearest door.
His right palm suddenly burned cold just before he turned the latch.
Frowning, Scott passed his hand over the next latch and the one after, and each time his palm froze like ice. Was this his body mimicking a metal detector? He turned to the left wall and a thread of heat flickered in his hand. He was getting warmer. He tried the first latch and the heat was so fierce he almost buckled at the knees. He wrenched the door open and gasped at the corpse covered with a white sheet.
“You bastard,” Scott muttered.
He slid the draw out as silently as he could, trying to stifle the searing twinge in his palm. The sheet sat over the body, tiny flecks of old blood showing through the fabric. Scott felt the urge to pull the sheet back and, before he could stop himself, his right hand performed the action.
The killer’s mask glared back at Scott. The eye wound he had inflicted provided a cavernous glimpse into the madman’s brain. In the harsh light Scott could see the mask was forged with the skin of the man’s face. The two were one.
Scott’s right hand whipped over the killer’s face of its own accord, the knife whipping out of his palm like a cobra. Scott bit his tongue to silence a scream, drawing blood. He tried to hold back his right hand with his left, but the blade had a purpose which nothing could stop. The knife worked effortlessly, slicing into the killer’s face, around the edge of the mask with surgical precision. Scott heaved for breath as his right hand went about its task. He looked to the mortuary door, almost willing someone to come and stop him, but this dark work was always going to be performed in secret.
The blade slipped back into Scott’s palm and the hand clenched its fingers around the mask to pull it free with a loud sucking sound. The right hand then moved to press the mask to Scott’s face.
Scott let out a cry and tried to back away from his right hand. The inside of the mask was slick with coagulated blood. He stumbled into a tray of surgical utensils and fell to the floor, but still the hand hovered over him. His entire right arm was beyond his control, like a phantom limb. The mask came closer, smearing across Scott’s cheek. The smell of the killer’s blood pressed in, flooding his nostrils. He tried to get to his feet, but the right hand struck him across the face with the bone-like mask, knocking him to the floor. Stars burst behind his eyes and he slumped onto his back.
The mask was placed over his face like a curtain of darkness, and Scott slipped into a new hell.
***
The man who was Scott Bridgman opened his eyes and saw the hospital security guard standing before him.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” the guard said.
The knife pierced through the flesh of the killer’s right hand, but there was no pain, only ecstasy. He had become him.
The security guard raised his gun. “Put the weapon down!”
The killer spoke, his voice hollow inside the mask.
“You have to kill me.”
JOEY’S GROVE
Roy C. Booth & R. Thomas Riley
JOEY Welch darted through the door into the night’s comforting chill, hot tears burning. When Joey reached the perimeter of the trees, he heard the kitchen door creak open and his mother’s voice, breaking out in desperation to reach her son.
A gruffer voice bellowed from inside the house causing Joey to stumble as his body rebelled instinctively. He halted just inside the tree line, protected by their all concealing dense shadows. His mother was now silhouetted in the splash of light spilling from the kitchen, her features indistinguishable from this distance. From the posture of her shoulders, he could tell she was concerned and upset.
He thought about going back until his father appeared behind his mother, blotting out the woman’s small, frail form, flinging threats into the darkness, promising terrible things.
Joey decided to stay right where he was.
Joey had come home from school again with a black eye and a bloodied nose. This time, the other boys jumped him after freshman/sophomore Phys Ed. Again. And this time they all took turns pummeling him. Joey had glimpsed Coach Philips standing in the doorway, calculated appraisal on his face, watching the hazing. He did this, Joey realized with dread. Coach Phillips allowed the beating to continue for a few more minutes longer than usual, only breaking it up just as Joey felt he couldn’t take it anymore.
Even the bus driver grimaced seeing Joey’s condition on the ride home. Joey saw them all, their reactions, their sighs, and shrugs of “well, boys will be boys” when they realized somebody might be seeing their empathy. Like many others before, the driver looked at him with guilt-ridden eyes, and just like the many others before, he didn’t do a darn thing to come to his aid.
Nobody ever did.
The other boys stared at him the whole drive, whispering and occasionally pointing at Joey, glad they were not him. Joey did his best to disappear into his seat and ignore the stares, counting the streets and mailboxes until his stop.
Finally, he limped the endless two blocks home and tried to sneak into the house, but to no avail. Normally, his mother was in the kitchen preparing dinner, but today she’d been in the living room on the phone trying to find out when it was her turn to bake the next Bundt cake for church Sunday coffee hour. She gasped at Joey’s disheveled state as he slunk past in the hallway.
He’d lied, of course, said he’d fallen at school during football practice, but she believed none of it. She shook her head and sighed, cleaned Joey up best she could, and immediately called the school. Joey sat in silent embarrassment as she raved and demanded answers. It was bad enough having his mother stand up for him, but he dreaded his father getting home even more.
As usual he’d taken one look at Joey and sighed deeply with disgust. His father asked how many boys there had been. He asked why they decided to beat him up. He asked why Joey didn't fight back, all the whil
e his mother fawned over him and got “the look” from Joey’s father. Despite the countless times this inquisition took place, there never was an answer good enough for his father. Joey doubted there ever would be.
Joey was small for his age, a great disappointment to his former all-state all-star quarterback father who’d had the even greater misfortune to blow out his knee his junior year at the University of Georgia during his fifth start of the season against hated Alabama.
Joey wasn’t good at any sports nor, truthfully, did he have any interest in them. His father was fond of saying he wished he’d had a daughter, rather than a son. That always cut Joey to the quick. He’d introduce Joey to his poker buddies as his little slut; even offer them a turn with him. They'd laugh it off as they dealt another hand, but Joey always saw the glint of lust in their eyes before they masked it with another Budweiser bottle. Especially from Mr. Meeks, the local goat farmer; him, in particular.
If anything, Joey just wanted to be left alone. Period. He was much happier that way. He didn’t need friends. Books were his escape, fantasy his solace. His father would never understand that. He thought his son a freak and saw it no other way. He’d tried to toughen Joey up, failing miserably. He snorted and poked fun each time Joey’s shirt slipped up enough to reveal a deep scar from one such adventure. His mother said she’d had enough that night, but her threats of anything and everything fell short as Joey crept into bed with his mother’s best attempt at sutures and a fistful of ibuprofen.
Nowadays, his father merely avoided him, unless it was to creep into his room at night half-drunk while his mother was away at Aunt June’s or at some overnight church event.
Joey supposed he was lucky since his father never “touched” him, as they had always warned about in elementary school. But the weight of his father’s shadow lying over him was as heavy as anybody. Joey could never come close enough to making himself invisible enough in his twin bed.
He wondered if his father suspected his secret. Was that the root of the hate? The disgust? The names the boys used in the locker room hurt more than the actual blows. Words echoed long after they had been screamed, uttered or even thought, and Joey could hear them all. This was a small town, and any type of difference, real or imagined, wasn’t tolerated well at all.
Morbid Metamorphosis Page 2
