Doc Mortis

by Barry Hutchison

  A small, fast-moving shape darted round a corner and slammed hard into my chest. I stumbled backwards, unbalanced. A scream of shock rose up inside me. I tried to keep it in, but it burst from my lips, just as the other occupant of the corridor let out a squeal of his own.

  The boy! It was the boy!

  ‘Hey, it’s OK, it’s OK,’ I said, almost laughing with relief. The boy was hunched over, but raised on to the balls of his feet, ready to make a run for it. He watched me closely, his little hands bunched into fists. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, stepping closer, ‘I’m not going to hurt— Oof!’

  One of his fists jabbed me hard in the groin and I immediately doubled over, clutching the injured area and trying my best not to throw up. ‘Jesus,’ I wheezed. A horrible mix of pain and nausea was spreading from my crotch to my stomach, making me wish I had never been born. ‘What’d you do that...’ I looked up, but the corridor before me was empty. ‘...for?’

  The kid was fast, I had to give him that. His punch hadn’t been hard, but he knew how to choose his targets. Even so, I couldn’t leave him wandering around the hospital on his own. I had to find him.

  Steadying myself against the wall, I straightened up, checked every part of me was still where it should be, and hobbled along the corridor until I came to another set of double doors.

  Pushing through the doors, I found myself inside a large, almost perfectly dark room. If the boy was in here, I’d never know it.

  A small lamp sat on a desk in the middle of the room, its head angled down so it cast only a small oval of light on to the desktop itself.

  From somewhere in the darkness I heard the soft burbling of liquid and the rhythmic breathing of some kind of machine. Wheeze, click, click, click. Wheeze, click, click, click. A mechanical pump of some kind, I guessed.

  My instincts were screaming at me to turn and run. Dark rooms were bad. Dark rooms with strange noises in them were worse. And I almost did run. I nearly turned on my heels and fled the room and whatever lay within it.

  But the sight of the envelope stopped me. It was one of those brown A4 ones, and had been propped up against the base of the lamp. It looked crisp and clean and out of place, which is the only reason I’d noticed it in the first place.

  I edged closer, carefully navigating my way through the darkness. I listened for any change in the room’s sounds – anything to suggest I wasn’t alone – but the bubbling and wheezing kept to the same rhythm and volume all the way over to the desk.

  There was nothing else on the desktop besides the lamp and the envelope. I picked the envelope up and examined it. On the front, someone had written the words “Open Me”.

  The flap covering the opening hadn’t been stuck down. I flicked it open and peered inside cautiously, in case a live scorpion or something was primed to come leaping out. There were no booby-traps lying in wait, though, just a rectangle of yellowing paper the same size as the envelope itself.

  My hands were shaking so hard I barely managed to pull the paper out. Two lines of ornate handwriting adorned this page. They read:

  PATIENT #3847

  Is Laughter Really the Best Medicine?

  I looked down at the bottom right corner of the page, where someone had written “P.T.O.”. Please turn over.

  The other side of the sheet had more writing on it. This writing was different to the rest. It was scratchy and spidery, and hard to make out. I angled the paper towards the light to make it easier to read. It didn’t say much, just:

  Look up.

  It was then that I realised the sounds – the hissing of air and the burbling of liquid – were coming from directly above the desk. Directly above me.

  I leaned back and peered into a darkness too thick and too dense to see through. Not shifting my gaze, I sat the note and the envelope back on the table, and slowly reached for the light.

  The lamp’s flexible arm gave a faint creak as I angled it upwards. The oval of light swept up the wall and across the dirty ceiling, revealing hundreds of narrow metal pipes. They came from all corners of the room, joining together here, splitting apart there. Each pipe ended in a metal box about the size of a thick hardback book. The boxes were attached to the ceiling, three or four pipes to each one.

  A clear plastic tube ran from the other side of each cube. Fifty or more of them snaked and coiled round each other, fluids of all colours pumping through them, like a living liquid rainbow.

  The other ends of the tubes were attached to two large bags, made of either thick plastic or some kind of clear rubber, I couldn’t tell which. Half of the tubes went to one bag, half to the other. Within the bags, the multi-coloured liquids mixed and mingled to form new colours – a dark, brooding brown in one bag, a watery green in the other.

  Just a single tube emerged from the other side of each bag, before being lost in the shadows. With one final groan of stretching springs, I bent the head of the lamp all the way back, following their route.

  The lamp’s glare reflected off a shiny satin material. It was purple, with green polka dots all over it. Two thin cuts had been made in the material, into which the plastic tubes had been inserted.

  I moved the light left and right, trying to figure out what I was looking at. The material seemed to be wrapped round something lumpy and largely shapeless. I squinted through the gloom, trying to see more clearly.

  The glow from the lamp flickered, then settled again. I creaked the head of it round slowly, searching for the edge of the material. If I could work out where it started and ended, maybe I could figure out what it was.

  That was when I saw it.

  That was when I saw the hand.

  It poked from the end of one polka-dotted sleeve, palm open, chalky-white fingers hanging down like the legs of an albino spider. A leather strap had been pulled tight across the wrist, attaching it to a metal frame that hung just below the ceiling.

  My throat went tight, stifling a scream before it could start. Trembling, I swept the light back along what I now knew to be an arm, and up and over a shoulder until it picked out a bright red shock of curly hair.

  I hesitated then. It wasn’t too late to run. To drop the light. To get away. I could leave this room, go back the way I’d come, find Ward 13, get home. I didn’t have to be there. I didn’t have to look.

  But I did.

  The face, like the hand, was as white as snow, but with a swirl of red round the lips. The mouth was drawn back into a twisted mockery of a smile, the cheeks stretched almost to the point of splitting.

  A single black tear had been painted on one of his cheeks. Beside it, his nose was a ball of soft, spongy red foam.

  The clown’s bloodshot eyes were wide open. They swam in their sockets, before finally settling on me.

  He made a strangled, gargling sound, as if something was stuck in his throat. I glanced down and saw that his neck was swollen, the muscles standing out like knotted ropes. His chest, too, seemed enlarged. It pushed outwards, stretching the satin shirt, threatening to make the top pompom button pop off.

  Another sound came from within him, like the hissing of a bike tyre slowly losing pressure. The fixed grin on his face pulled higher as he fought to speak.

  Two words, that was all he said. Two words that I knew would haunt me for ever. Two words I’d give anything not to have heard. Two words, spoken in a voice that had suffered all it could.

  ‘Help meeeee.’

  Chapter Seven

  FACES IN THE FOG

  The lamp slipped from my hands and crashed to the floor. The bulb shattered and blackness rushed to fill the void. Even in the dark, I could still see the clown’s eyes. No matter which direction I turned, they were still there. Staring. Pleading.

  ‘Help meeeee!’

  His voice was a low wheeze, as if it were taking all the air in his body just to push out the words.

  ‘Help meeeee!’

  I grabbed a handful of my hair in each hand, pulling it tight, hoping the pain would distract me from the
horror dangling above. It didn’t. My own voice cracked and became a whisper. ‘I... can’t. I don’t know how to... What can I do?’

  A sound that was somewhere between a sob and a howl came at me through the darkness, anguished and angry and every other emotion in between.

  ‘Killll meeeeee!’

  ‘What? N-no!’ I cried, louder than I’d meant to. ‘I... I’ll get you down. I’ll h-help you, but I can’t... I can’t... do that.’

  My trembling hands reached out, searching for the lamp. I’d heard the glass break, but maybe – somehow – it was still working. Maybe, if I found it, the lamp would magically be fixed again.

  I found it by my feet, picked it up, clicked the switch. Nothing. I clicked it again, back and forth, a dozen times or more, as if I could will it to spring back into life.

  Eventually, I let it fall back to the floor, cursing myself for having dropped it in the first place. I stood in the dark, unable to hear anything but the burbling, clicking and wheezing from up above me.

  Maybe having no light was a blessing. It meant I couldn’t see the clown, or the pain that covered his face more thoroughly than the paint ever could. So much pain he’d rather die than endure it a moment longer. He wanted me to kill him, but I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t. But I could help him, though. I had to help him.

  ‘I’m going to get you down,’ I said. My voice sounded shrill and childish. ‘You’re going to be OK.’

  He gave a strangled cry. I tried not to hear it. Feeling my way to the desk, I clambered up on top of it. The clown was too high for me to reach from the floor, but if I stood on the desk I’d be able to get to him and... and...

  Well, I’d concentrate on getting to him first. Then I could figure out what to do next.

  The desk wasn’t well put together. It lurched violently to the left as I climbed on to it. I held my arms out to the side to steady myself as I slowly straightened up. The desk wobbled beneath my feet, and I felt like I was balancing on a surfboard.

  Now I was higher, I could smell him. He stank of candy floss and toffee apples and stale, salted popcorn. I was also now close enough to hear the swishing of liquid through the tubes, and close enough to hear every groan and whimper the clown made.

  Suddenly, everything seemed too big. Too much for me to deal with. Back home, back in the real world, I’d had Ameena helping me, urging me on. Nothing seemed impossible with her around, but here, now, I was on my own and I was out of my depth. Way, way out.

  The table began to shake even more and my eyes began to sting. I didn’t feel the tears until they tickled my cheeks and trickled from my chin.

  ‘P-p-please.’ The clown’s voice was barely a whisper, but there was no mistaking the tone. He was pleading. Begging. ‘Kill... me.’

  I sniffed noisily and wiped my nose on my sleeve. Reaching up, I felt for one of the tubes. ‘I’m getting you down,’ I told him, forcing the words through my tightened throat. ‘I’m getting you down and we’re getting out of here. What’s your name?’

  What I thought was a reply turned out to be just another whimper.

  ‘Your name,’ I repeated encouragingly, ‘tell me your name.’

  ‘W-W-Wobbleb-bottom.’

  For just a fraction of a second I paused. ‘Right. OK.’ I said. ‘Um... It’s a good name.’

  ‘Killl meee!’

  ‘Oh, come on, it’s not that bad,’ I said, joking to hold back the tears. ‘I’ve heard worse names. Can’t remember any of them right this minute, but I’ve definitely—’

  The back of my hand bumped against the tube and the clown gave a sharp squeal of pain.

  ‘Sorry, I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’ I babbled, pulling my hand away. Even while the words were forming in my throat, four red bulbs flickered into life with a dull clunk, casting an eerie crimson glow across the room.

  I pulled back when I realised how close I was to the clown. His face was hanging down just a few centimetres from mine. I could see every pore of Wobblebottom’s white skin, every track his tears had taken through the make-up. His teeth were a rotten marble of yellow and brown, with dried blood filling the lines between them.

  His eyes sparkled, wet with tears. Beneath the moist, shimmering surface, though, they looked empty, like there was nothing there. They were the eyes of a dead man, with nothing worthwhile left within.

  I turned my gaze away. The red lights dimmed and brightened again. They weren’t flickering, though. It was a regular rhythm, dim and brighten, dim and brighten, stretching shadows back and forth across the floor.

  ‘The lights,’ I said, feeling too scared and too guilty to look at the clown and address him directly. ‘Why are they doing that?’

  Something wet rattled in Wobblebottom’s throat. He muttered something too low and garbled to make out. I had no choice but to turn back and face the horror of him.

  As the light dipped and rose, I saw that his expression had changed. Something was different. His eyes no longer looked dead.

  They looked afraid.

  ‘What does it mean?’ I asked, my voice shaking.

  The clown wheezed and spluttered again. His eyes crept sideways until they were fixed on mine.

  ‘What is it?’ My voice was an urgent whisper now. ‘The lights. Do they mean something?’

  He nodded slowly.

  ‘What? What does it mean?’

  The answer came in a hiss, soft and matter-of-fact. ‘They’re coming.’

  Terror dropped like a lead ball into my gut. ‘Who? Who’s coming? What do you mean?’

  ‘Killlll meeee.’

  I looked to the door I’d entered through earlier. The bubbling and hissing in the room was loud, but there was another sound now from beyond the door – a sound I’d heard before. A high-pitched squeak, like the turning of a rusty wheel. It was faint, but steadily becoming louder.

  ‘Who’s coming?’

  ‘Killll meee, p-please!’

  Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Did I hear the footsteps now too?

  ‘No!’ I snapped. ‘Who is it? Who’s coming?’

  ‘Killll meeee.’

  Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. And footsteps. Definitely footsteps. At least one set, maybe two.

  ‘Stop saying that!’ I cried, reaching up and taking hold of one of the tubes. ‘I’m getting you down. You’re coming with—’

  A small vent on the ceiling by the clown’s head slid open and a blast of warm air hit me in the face. I coughed as a thick green smoke billowed out from within the vent. It burned my eyes and swirled into my airways, turning them raw and painful.

  The shock of it knocked me backwards. The table toppled to the right as I went left. By the time I crashed down on to the floor, the room was already lost in a haze of dark-green mist.

  More tears sprang to my eyes, diluting the pain, but blurring my vision. I couldn’t even see the clown now, but I could still hear his wheezing and groaning and his low, desperate sobs.

  I heard a single squeak. It was muffled by the mist, but it was close. Close enough to be there with me in the room. I stood up, one shaky foot, then the other, and looked to where the sound had come from.

  The fog was still spewing from the vent, choking the dull red glow of the bulbs, but I could just make out their silhouettes. There were two of them, both tall and thin. They were human-shaped, but they didn’t move like real people. Each movement was awkward and jerky, like a bad stop-motion animation. Their heads and arms twitched and convulsed as they shuffled on skeletal legs towards me.

  ‘Stay b-back,’ I warned, but the smoke had tightened my throat so much that even I barely heard the words emerge.

  The closest of the figures raised one hand to the level of his head. Even in silhouette there was no mistaking the object it held between its fingers. It was a syringe. A syringe with a long needle attached.

  ‘Keep away!’ I croaked, stumbling backwards. ‘Keep away or—’

  A bee sting to the side of my neck silenced me. It pierced my skin and pricked the
muscle just below my ear. I felt the side of my face tingle and my brain become jelly. The last thing I saw before the world went dark was the third figure.

  And the hypodermic needle in its hand.

  More figures loomed at me through the darkness, their faces impossibly twisted and deformed. They coiled round my wrists, pinning them to my sides. Their weight went to my ankles, binding them together. They made no sound as they held me there, trapped and helpless.

  The clown hung above me, arms and legs spread in an X shape. His body glowed brightly, shining like a star against the black void above him. His fixed grin stretched further as he spoke.

  ‘Kyle,’ he said, but the voice wasn’t his. I tried to kick and struggle against the weights pinning me down, but my body didn’t respond. I tried to shout, to scream at him to shut up, but all that emerged was a slurred mess of half-formed vowels.

  Mum’s voice. He was speaking in Mum’s voice.

  ‘You did this to me, Kyle. This is all your fault. All of it.’

  ‘N-no,’ I managed.

  ‘You let them hurt me.’ The clown’s face had changed now too. Mum stared back at me from behind the greasepaint. ‘And they’re never going to stop hurting me, Kyle. They’ll never, ever stop.’

  There was a crack as my mum tore one painted hand free of the strap that secured it to the ceiling. ‘You let them hurt me,’ she said again, pulling her other hand free. ‘And now I’m going to hurt you.’

  And with that she dropped from the ceiling, teeth bared, fingers curved like claws as she plunged towards me.

  My eyes opened and Mum faded with the dream.

  Row after row of damp polystyrene tiles rolled by, scarcely visible in the flickering half-dark.

  Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

  The slow turning of rusty wheels was right below me now. My brain itched. It was the only thing in my whole body I could feel. I tried to turn my head, but my view remained fixed on the spot above me. My eyes were open, but I couldn’t move them. I could only watch the tiles slide slowly by. Squeak, squeak, squeak.