Box of Terror 2 (another 4 book horror box set)

by Michael Bray

  FOUR

  "You signed it?" Keisha said, shaking her head. "This is why they should have let me come in with you."

  "Relax, I know what I'm doing. It's free unless they cure me."

  "And how much is it if they don't?"

  Chrissy hesitated, then looked away. Fifteen."

  "Fifteen hundred? Are you insane?"

  "No, fifteen grand."

  Keisha stopped walking and stared at her friend. "Please tell me you're joking."

  "No, I'm not, but look, it’s fine. If they don't cure me, I don't pay. It's in black and white."

  "Companies like that have clauses, get outs. What makes you think this will be any different?"

  "No, not this one. Here, take a look at the contract."

  Chrissy took it out of her bag and handed it to Keisha, who stopped in the middle of the street to look at it. "Alright, credit where it's due, they wrote it in plain English."

  "Look on page two," Chrissy said.

  Keisha turned the page.

  "See it there?"

  "Oh yeah, payment will only be due upon successful and total eradication of phobia."

  "Exactly."

  Keisha handed back the contract. "So all you have to do if you want out of this is tell them you're still afraid at the end of it all and you walk away without owing them a penny?"

  "Looks like it."

  "Well, I still don't think you should have signed it. I bet Shawn will be pissed about it too when you tell him."

  "Actually, I don't want him to find out."

  "You're not telling him? That's a hell of a fifteen grand secret."

  "It's not like that," Chrissy said. "I want it to be a surprise. I want to do the program then organize a trip to the Grand Canyon. I want to do this for him."

  Keisha smiled and shook her head. "That’s either romantic or insane, I'm not sure which, but I get it. He'll love that if you surprise him with it."

  "Exactly."

  "So when does the program start?"

  "I'm not sure. Reeves said he would be in touch to make arrangements. It sounds pretty exciting. If it works, it will change our lives."

  "Exactly. If it works."

  "They have a one hundred percent success rate."

  "So they say," Keisha said.

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "Well, if that’s true, that means all those people have paid fifteen grand for the privilege of having their phobias cured."

  "And?"

  "All I'm saying is that place we just came from didn't feel like a fifteen grand a client office building. It felt cheap and nasty."

  "They don't take the money up front. They do payment plans. Don't worry about this, Keisha. I know what I'm doing."

  "I hope so, if for nothing else but your bank balances sake."

  "Yeah, well, since you mentioned it, you can buy the coffees."

  "Ouch," Keisha said as the entered the coffee shop. "I walked right into that one."

  FIVE

  Almost two weeks had passed and Chrissy had heard nothing from Reeves. The initial excitement of the first few days had faded to the point where she had almost forgotten about the whole thing. The grind of daily life had taken over as it always did. She had, on a couple of occasions, tried to research Reeves and his company online, but nothing came up during the searches. He was an enigma, a dead end. She wondered if the whole thing had been a scam of some kind, or if the business had gone bust. It happened every day. Even those concerns were forgotten in the daily grind of work and making sure bills were paid and food put on the table.

  It was a Friday morning, and she had been up and out early to the shops to get milk and bread. She paused outside the house, staring at the door.

  It was ajar, and a smear of what looked to be blood was on the frame. She stood and stared, unable to comprehend what she was looking at. All around her, the world went on as normal. People walked the streets, cars drove by. She looked back at her front door, then at the blood on the frame. She set her bags down and pushed the door open. The hallways were a mess. Pot plants turned over, photographs knocked off the walls. There had been a struggle.

  Fear, like ice, grew inside her. She opened her mouth, wanting to speak or call out, but no words came. She looked at the destruction, then noticed the blood, a trail of it in bright spots leading towards the kitchen.

  "Shawn?" she called, her voice sounding alien and out of place in the place that was her home before she left that morning. Shawn had been getting up when she left and was going to make breakfast. She inhaled and could smell the unmistakable odour of burnt toast.

  "Shawn?" she said again.

  No reply came from the house. She stepped inside, knowing she was stupid to do so. She had become every horror movie cliché she had ever seen. She inched towards the kitchen door. As she passed the sitting room, she saw that it was untouched and how she had left it. That brought her no comfort, though. The burnt toast smell was stronger and told her that whatever had happened in the half hour she had been out of the house had been confined to the kitchen. She wanted to call out again but was too afraid now that she had crossed the threshold of the property. Outside, she could still see the normal world going on around her. Now, she was part of whatever had taken place in the house.

  She arrived at the threshold to the kitchen, too afraid to look, equally afraid not to. She looked inside the room, knowing what would be there but feeling no comfort for seeing it.

  Something had happened. The table was on its side, plates shattered on the floor, which was also covered with cereal and orange juice. Two slabs of black toast smouldered in the toaster, and the back door was open.

  There was also blood. Blood on the floor.

  Blood on the door handle. It was obvious to her that somebody had come to the house, perhaps had tried to force their way in when she went out and wrongly thinking the house was empty. A struggle had taken place between the intruder and Shawn, and now the house was empty. The hopeful part of her brain tried to tell her that Shawn had given chase to them after successfully fighting them off and injuring them, but his trainers were still in the hallway.

  She should call the police; she knew that but didn't know what she would say to them.

  It was then that her phone rang. She squealed, her heart almost leaping up to the back of her throat.

  Shawn. It had to be him.

  She scrambled for her phone, pulling it out of her jeans. The caller I.D wasn't one she recognized. Whoever was calling it wasn't her husband.

  Maybe someone is with him. Maybe he's caught the intruders and called the police.

  She said it to herself and hoped it was true, but wasn't convinced.

  She pressed the green answer button and held the phone to her ear. "Hello?"

  "Good morning Mrs. Sandoval, I hope all is well. Apologies for the delay coming back to you, but we have been backed up with clients. I'm sure you understand."

  "Mr. Reeves?" she said as nausea swept over her. She was frightened and unsure what to do.

  "The very same," Reeves said, his own voice happy and full of energy.

  "Now isn't a good time, Mr. Reeves," she said, unsure how to even begin to explain what had happened.

  "Oh, I do apologize if I've caught you at an inconvenient time."

  "I... I can’t talk right now."

  "Are you okay, Mrs. Sandoval? You sound upset."

  "I'm fine," she heard herself say. She could feel the blood thundering in her temples.

  Police.

  Call the police.

  Call the police.

  She repeated it over in her head but still didn't move.

  "Are you still there, Mrs. Sandoval?"

  "No. Yes, I'm sorry Mr. Reeves, I didn't hear you."

  "I thought not. What I was saying to you is that you shouldn't worry. Shawn is safe and with us."

  Her heart, which had been in her throat, took an express elevator to her stomach. She was sure she must have misheard him, o
r that her brain had merged the two events together.

  "Are you there, Mrs. Sandoval?" Reeves asked.

  "I... I'm sorry, I thought you said...."

  "Your husband, Shawn. I said he's with us. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

  "I... I ...." Words would not come. Her mind was unable to process the information. "I don't understand."

  "This happens," Reeves said. He was still warm and friendly as if he didn't have a care in the world. "Allow me to explain. Earlier this morning, just after you went out to the shops, two of my colleagues forced entry to your house and, on my instruction, took your husband Shawn, and brought him to my present location."

  "What is... I don't...." She couldn't take it in. None of it made any rational sense to her at all. "There's blood," she said as if it made everything clear.

  "Yes, there is. A necessary if unpleasant part of the process, unfortunately. Can I rightly assume you are standing in or near your kitchen, surveying the mess left behind?"

  She nodded, then realizing he couldn't hear a nod, managed to say yes.

  "Very good. Please go to your microwave oven and open the door if you will," Reeves said.

  She looked at it and knew she couldn't do it. It would mean entering the room, walking into where it had happened.

  "I can't do that," she said, numb and confused.

  "I strongly advise you to do as I ask, Mrs. Sandoval. This is all part of your healing process."

  "But you said, I don't, I mean..."

  "The microwave please, Mrs. Sandoval," Reeves said, still calm.

  She shuffled across the room, vaguely aware of the glass breaking and breakfast cereal crunching underfoot as she walked towards the microwave. She stood in front of it, the frosted glass hiding whatever was inside it.

  "Are you there, Mrs. Sandoval?" Reeves asked.

  "I am. I'm here," she said, her voice cracking.

  "Good. Open the door, please."

  "I can’t."

  "You can and you will."

  "What's in there? What have you done?"

  "Something to deter you from calling the police and to show you that we are serious."

  "Serious about what?" she screamed.

  "Your treatment."

  "I don't understand," she said, breaking down and starting to cry. It was impossible to see or breathe. Even the act of standing was difficult due to the tremble in her legs.

  "Open the door and all will become clear," Reeves said, as happy and light as ever. It was as if they were discussing the weather or the latest events in the news.

  She reached out, hand shaking towards the microwave door.

  "Prepare yourself, Mrs. Sandoval," Reeves said. "I'm afraid what you are about to see might cause some distress. It would be in your interests not to scream"

  She pressed the button and the door opened. Screaming was what she wanted to do, but she swallowed it back, instead breathing in great gasps and murmuring to herself.

  Inside, the microwave was filled with blood. On the turntable in the centre, Shawn's severed hand had been positioned in such a way to hold a note. The corners of the paper were bloody. His wedding ring shone through the blood.

  "Do you see the note, Mrs. Sandoval?" Reeves said.

  She couldn't answer him. All she could do was stare. Her brain was filled with static, her stomach a hot ball of the purest, most concentrated fear she had ever experienced.

  "The note, Mrs. Sandoval. Do you see it?"

  "Y...Yes."

  "Take it please."

  "I can’t reach in there, please, I can’t...."

  "If you don't, I'm afraid we will have to hurt your husband some more. We've patched up his wounds, so it would be a shame to cause him more distress. As you can imagine, he is quite confused about this whole situation."

  "No, don't hurt him. I'll do it," she said.

  She reached into the microwave and plucked the note from Shawn's severed hand.

  "I have it, I took it. Please don't hurt him," she pleaded.

  "I need you to tell me what it says. Proof you did as I asked. I'm sure you understand."

  Fighting the panic, she unfolded the note. The page was blank apart from an address scrawled across the middle of the paper.

  "An address. There's an address on it," she said, sure she was going to be sick.

  "Good. Very good. I have high hopes for you completing the program, Mrs. Sandoval."

  "I don't understand..."

  "One hour. Be at that location and you shall be instructed further. Tell nobody of your intentions today."

  "But I..."

  "Don't be late or your husband loses an eye. One hour."

  The line disconnected. Chrissy lowered the phone, then looked around the room. She was still stunned and had no idea what to do.

  SIX

  The address on the note was taking her out into the country. She had left the city behind, and with each move closer to her destination the fear in her grew. The car sat-nav told her she was nearing her destination, which looked to be the middle of nowhere. Green fields surrounded the dirt road the car now jostled down. The area looked like it once housed an industrial plant, the buildings dilapidated shells collapsed in and forgotten. The sky was slate gray, and rain was in the air. She was about to consider that she had come to the wrong place when she saw Reeves. He was standing by his car, an S class Mercedes. His coat flapped against his legs. He waited there, hands folded in front of him, watching for her. She pulled the car up next to his and got out. The wind was picking up, and whistling as it blew between the shells of the surrounding buildings.

  Reeves checked his watch. "Just in time. You only had three minutes to spare."

  Chrissy stood by her car, fighting the urge to run with each passing second.

  "Are you alright?" Reeves asked, still as pleasant as ever. "You look pale."

  "Where's Shawn?" she asked, unable to keep the tremor out of her voice.

  "Ah, she speaks!" Reeves said, widening his grin. "For a second there I thought I would be fighting against the silent treatment. Don't worry, though, this is normal. The initial shock is the worst part of it.

  "I don't understand any of this, why did you take my husband?"

  Reeves thrust his hands into his pockets. "I thought you might have figured it out by now, Mrs. Sandoval."

  She looked at him, too afraid to speak.

  "This is all part of the program to rid you of your fear," Reeves said.

  "I don't understand. I don't understand any of this. You took his hand...."

  "Which has been dressed and patched up. Please, walk with me, Mrs. Sandoval. I assure you, I mean you no harm. Please, this way."

  "I'll call the police unless you let him go."

  "No, you won’t."

  "You don't know that."

  "Yes, I do, Mrs Sandoval. I've been doing this a long time. If you were going to call them, you would have done so already. Please, follow me."

  Reeves walked away out of sight around the back of the building. Knowing he was right and she couldn't possibly call the police, she followed, matching pace with him as he walked.

  "None of this has anything to do with my fear of heights. I...please don't do this."

  "It has everything to do with it. I promised to help you." Reeves said.

  "Then I change my mind. I want out."

  Reeves stopped and looked at her. "You assured me you were committed. That you were certain."

  "I didn't know you were going to do this. This...whatever this is. I'll even pay you, just give me Shawn back."

  "No," Reeves said as he started walking again.

  "What do you mean? You can’t do this. This is insane."

  "I believe you can be cured, Mrs. Sandoval. That’s why we offered you a place on this program."

  "By kidnapping and disfiguring my husband?" she screamed.

  Reeves smiled. "It's not quite as dramatic as you imply. It's a simple case of motivation. People are difficult creatu
res to get out of their seats and make move, Mrs. Sandoval. Without a reason, it’s hard to motivate. Look at today for example. If I had called you and asked you to come out here to meet me today without the motivation of reuniting with your husband, would you have come or would you have made an excuse? It's too far, it’s inconvenient, any one of another hundred excuses of which I've heard before. This way I can ensure the maximum use of my incredibly valuable time is made."

  "You won’t get away with it. I'll call the police, this is illegal."

  She said it with the intent to shake Reeves, but all he did was smile. "And tell them what? That instead of calling them straight away, you left the house, came out here to meet me and see what I had to say even after finding your husband's severed hand in the microwave? I'm sure they would love to hear that."

  "I made a mistake. I should have done it straight away, but I wasn't thinking. They will understand."

  "Perhaps they would," Reeves agreed. “Either way, it's too late now."

  There was a green van ahead of them. A huge hulk of a man stood beside it. Black jeans and jacket, sunglasses covering his eyes despite the dull day.

  "Ah, here we are," Reeves said. He walked to the van and stood beside the man. "At last, we are ready to begin."

  Chrissy stood, unsure what to say or do.

  "Do you remember in my office when we were talking about the brain and how phobias were simply a case of bad programming?"

  She nodded. She did remember. That was a lifetime ago, though. That was when she still thought Reeves was a nice man. When she still thought he was a small, harmless businessman trying to help people. That was before she knew he was a monster. A polite, well-spoken monster.

  "Motivation and reprogramming. The very basis of our reason for being here."

  "This doesn't make any sense," she said, determined not to break down and show weakness in front of Reeves.

  "It makes perfect sense," Reeves said. He turned to the muscular man by the van and held out his hand. The man took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Reeves, who in turn handed it to Chrissy.

  "What's this?" she asked.

  "That, Mrs. Sandoval, is your motivation."