Horror Stories from Denmark Box set

by Rose, Willow

  One day Troels had told him to go into a big house by the ocean and wake up the couple living there. Troels gave Torben a gun to hold when he woke them up.

  "Tell them to take you to the ATM and withdraw ten thousand. Then tell them to sit down in the street and close their eyes while they count till one hundred ... no two hundred. I'll pick you up on the scooter and then we'll drive off."

  Torben hadn't even blinked. He had done as Troels told him to, but even if Troels was the smart one and in Torben's eyes knew everything he hadn't known that the house they were breaking in to belonged to the Director of the entire Danish Police force. She had - of course - an alarm system on the house that immediately went off and she had - of course - a gun that she pointed at Torben as soon as she came storming down the stairs. Not knowing what to do, Torben had fired a shot, but since he had never done anything like that before, he missed and blew down a lamp instead of hitting the Director of the police. The Director then shot Torben in the leg and arrested him. He was charged with assault and attempted murder.

  But Torben didn't mind. He was happy in here where every day was the same. His only wish was that Troels could be here with him, he thought now as he lay sleepless in his bed in the middle of the night staring at the locked door, when suddenly a set of eyes stared in through the window and glared right at him.

  For the first time since his arrival, Torben suddenly didn't feel so safe.

  10

  The man was peeking in when he realized someone was looking back. A set of eyes was staring at him from the bed. The boy was awake; he thought to himself and hurried up. The boy had seen him and now there was no turning back. The man put the key in the lock and turned it.

  Inside in the cell the boy was already out of his bed. He stormed towards the man and grabbed him around the shoulders trying to push him out, but the man didn't move. Even if the boy pushed and pushed, he couldn't move the man one single inch. The man grinned underneath his mask and began to walk, forcing the boy's feet to slip backwards. Soon the man had pressed the boy back into the cell and while the boy threw punches at his face and chest he closed the door behind him. The boy hit his fist into the man's nose but the man didn't even bother to move like he knew how to. This boy was so puny and skinny and his punches so weak he hardly felt them. For sixteen-year-old he was strong, the man would give him that, but compared to the man, he was nothing. It was like a mouse trying to knock down an elephant.

  The boy was panting and sweating with fear. The smell was intoxicating to the man. He reached out and grabbed the boy by the throat with only one hand and slammed him up against the wall. The push knocked the air out of the boy and he gasped for breath. The man held his throat tight and felt almost high thinking about the power he had in his fingers right now, the power to determine whether the boy should live or die. The man felt a shiver go through his body, a thrill of excitement sending electric impulses of pleasure through his entire body. He looked into the eyes of the boy and drank from his fear. Now the boy felt sorry, now he would wish he had never done the things that made him end up in here.

  A thief. A petty thief was all the boy was. The man knew his story very well. He had been known by the police for many years before he broke into the Director's house and tried to kill her. He had stolen cars, old lady's purses and robbed small stores. Taken what wasn't his, stolen it from honest, hardworking people who didn't know how to defend themselves. A guy like that was going to continue even after doing his time in here. Once released it wouldn't be more than a couple of months before he returned. The man knew it. It was always the same. It wasn't entirely the children's fault, the man never believed that. No, he blamed the parents of these young men. They never taught them properly, probably too busy with their own messes to even care. That was why the man thought of it as his job to make sure the youngsters understood; it was his job to discipline them.

  None of the kids he disciplined ever committed a crime again. Those were the hardcore facts. His methods were disputable, yes, but they had a high success rate, as high as they get. The numbers spoke for themselves. Some day the world would have to realize that he was right, some day he was going to make them all understand that the system was wrong. Weak and wrong. That it had to be changed. That was the man's biggest goal in life as well as stopping more people from getting hurt by these young criminals who didn't know right from wrong.

  The man pressed his fingers into the boy's throat and fought the urge to just finish him off. High from the power trip he loosened his grip and threw the boy on the bed. The boy was coughing, struggling to breathe, struggling to get up. The man felt his heart beating faster and faster from the rush of excitement. He was breathing heavily as he watched the boy catch his breath and try to cry.

  "Please ..." he said. "Please don't hurt me."

  The man leaned over the boy's body and whispered in his ear. "I'm sorry, but I can't grant your wish."

  Then he lifted his fist and slammed it into the boy's face. Blood spurted out of the nose and onto the yellow wall behind him. Then he threw a series of punches into the boy's face, breathing excitedly at the sound of the nose and the jaw breaking.

  The boy was still conscious but only barely when the man pulled up the briefcase and opened it. This time he went for the pliers. The boy writhed and tossed, when he felt the man grab his hand. The man was breathing heavily while he stuffed the boy's mouth with a pair of socks to drown out the screams. He wanted him to be awake while he received his punishment, he wanted him to watch as he took the pliers and cut off the fingers one by one.

  11

  Brian woke to the sound of turmoil in the hallway. Voices, steps, then more voices, upset voices, commanding voices, but no screaming. Brian jumped up from the bed and went to the door. He paused for a second and thought about not looking, but his curiosity got the better of him. What he saw caused everything inside of him to turn. All the guards were gathered across the hall, where a door to one cell was left open. Brian felt sick to his stomach, mostly in fear, but also in disgust, from all the blood that was rushing out of the cell, like a red unstoppable river.

  "Torben," he muttered under his breath and put his hand on the window. What had happened to him? What had those bastards done?

  Tears pressed behind Brian’s eyes as he hit his fist against the thick door again and again until his knuckles bled, then he sunk to the floor helplessly. Torben hadn't deserved this. What had he ever done to them? To anybody? While Brian waited for hours for the door to be opened he speculated like a madman, plotting revenge.

  Gunnar was already at their table when Brian arrived for breakfast. He wasn't hungry so he went directly to him and sat down.

  "This will not be tolerated," he said. "How is he?"

  Gunnar lifted his head and stared at Brian, directly into the eyes, something he seldom did. Brian sank in the chair. He felt the lump in his throat grow, it was ready to explode. Gunnar shook his head.

  "Dead?" Brian whispered with a shivering voice.

  Gunnar didn't have to answer. His eyes told him everything. Brian fought the tears and clenched his fists under the table. He felt his nails penetrate the skin in his palms.

  "Who? How?" he stuttered.

  "Bled to death, rumors say. He was beaten badly, then had all of his fingers cut off. Bled to death in his bed." Gunnar was speaking fast like he wanted to get it over with, as if getting the words across his lips was so painful it had to be done fast, like ripping off a Band Aid.

  Brian bit his lip hard to not cry. He was breathing heavily while the anger rose. He scowled at the guys from the East Wing. They were smiling, laughing about something. Brian felt like jumping them and rearranging their faces, even killing them right here and now, but restrained himself. This was neither the time nor the place. Revenge wasn't something to rush, a quick reaction meant mistakes. It had to be planned in detail to be perfect. Perfection was Brian's trademark. He never made any mistakes, never acted premature or hastily. Plus they woul
d be prepared now; they were expecting him to strike back for this. He needed to act when they weren't anticipating it. It had to be like a lightning strike, no one saw it coming and no one was the same afterwards.

  "When will Johnny be out of ISO?" Brian asked Gunnar.

  Gunnar shrugged. "Rumors say he got a couple of days more, but you never know with Warden Damhaug. He is known to do what he damn well pleases."

  "We could use Johnny now, but we'll just have to wait. Waiting is good. Gives us time to think. Think and plan."

  "Damn it!" Gunnar said and hit his fist on the table, causing the plates to rattle.

  Brian stared into Gunnar's eyes and saw a vulnerability he hadn't seen before. He had cared about Torben, more than he had ever wanted to admit. Brian had too. Torben was the good one, stupid as shit, yes, but good. Wasn't a bad bone in his entire body. He just wanted to make people happy, that's all. There really wasn't much more to him than that.

  "We'll get them," Brian said. "We'll get them soon enough."

  12

  Johnny couldn't stand being in isolation. It drove him nuts, not having a TV, not being able to smoke a cigarette, but most of all the damn silence was about to make him mad. In the beginning he had tried to keep it away by making enough noise on his own, by singing, reciting nursery rhymes that he remembered from his childhood or even do some basic math, addition and subtraction in his mind. Anything to keep the thoughts away, to force the solitude away. The solitude that he was so incredibly afraid off and the thoughts he was scared would drive him mad eventually if he didn't keep them out. The isolation cell was smaller than the others he had been in, nothing but a bed, a sink and a toilet in the corner. Food was delivered through a hatch in the door, without a word, without a face behind it. Johnny soon lost time and space and as always slept with one eye open.

  To exercise Johnny walked back and forth in the small room, while singing some of his favorite songs. But no matter how hard he worked for it, he couldn't keep the thoughts out. They kept coming back, haunting him, forcing him to face the past he had spent so many years forgetting. When he reached the third day Johnny gave up the fight. He let the pictures overwhelm him and then he broke down and cried. Cried for himself, cried for his baby brother.

  It was a familiar story. Two brothers growing up with a drunken father who occasionally beat up their mother. A living room packed with drunks every afternoon when they came home from school, some of them partying all night, entering the boy's rooms at night and touching them, doing things to them they knew was wrong even if it had been going on for all of their lives. It was pretty much the same for all in a place like this, Johnny knew that and therefore he didn't feel sorry for himself. It wasn't about what happened in the past, it was about moving on, putting the past behind him. His brother hadn't been able to do that.

  Once the teenage years came and the abuse from strangers accelerated, he started doing drugs that their father provided for them, what Johnny later realized was offered in order to sedate them enough to not resist, since they were now getting stronger and harder to hold down. The younger brother lost it one day - only eleven years old - and ran to the living room, all high on something when he saw his father receive money from his drunken friends. Johnny had run after him to try and stop him from getting himself in trouble and he saw it too. That was when they had realized that their father hadn't just been too drunk to see what was going on, it hadn't happened by accident, all those men night after night. Not only did he know about it, he was the one setting it up. He was the one selling their bodies to those awful smelling men. Angry that they had seen him, the father had run after them with a knife and cut Christian severely, and that was when Johnny had enough. He threw himself at the father and used the only tool that was always at hand - his teeth.

  Now - sitting in the dark room waiting for someone to open the door like he had done so many times as a child, scared of what would enter, it brought back all those memories that Johnny hadn't wanted to think about ever since he and his brother had stormed out of the house that night and into the road while their father’s screams filled the night behind them. Not even when he had to sell his body to strangers in the street for money or food, had he allowed himself to think about it or feel sorry for himself. He had done what he could to help his baby brother and keep them alive. Unfortunately he never managed to get Christian off the drugs. When they were living in the streets of Copenhagen, pulling tricks behind the Central Station his addiction got worse and worse and soon he got himself into debt, Johnny couldn't pay. So they stole a car and drove out of town and ended in Karrebaeksminde where they lived in an abandoned house for months, living off the money they stole from purses and picking pockets. It was easier out here in the country; in the big city people were more careful with their belongings. Out here in the small city most people didn't even lock the doors to their houses, so Johnny could walk right in and look for cash or anything of value to sell. Christian got off the drugs momentarily and for a little while everything seemed to brighten for them, until Johnny got careless and was caught robbing a gas station and arrested. He got four months, but when he was released Christian had joined up with the wrong group of people. He was back on drugs and built up a new debt that he couldn't pay. He was beaten half to death one day and Johnny found him at the harbor, between stacks of trash and had to take him to the hospital. After that Johnny thought Christian would stay off the drugs. His parole officer helped Johnny get a job at the harbor, helping the fishermen out by shoveling fish-guts and he was able to get them a small apartment. He got Christian a job as well and soon he hoped the baby brother would get his act together. But Christian went out one night without a word and got high and soon he stopped showing up at work and was fired. Johnny didn't see him for months until one day when he came to his door and told him that he had stabbed a guy and the police were after him. Johnny never got the entire story, but he gave his brother all his money and helped him steal a car. Then he told him to get the hell out of there.

  "Drive all the way to Germany if you have to," he said, knowing prison would kill the brother, knowing being alone with his thoughts would drive him insane in a matter of hours.

  Now - sitting on the hard bed in his small cell, Johnny could only hope - and pray - that his brother was still alive and that he himself would be after doing his time in this hellhole.

  13

  Gunnar cleaned himself up and brushed his teeth, getting ready for bed. The doors were locked at ten. He was sad for the first time in many years. He was sad to have lost Torben, who had been his best friend ever since he arrived at the juvenile prison six months ago. Brian was a friend too, but not like Torben.

  Gunnar sighed and walked back to his cell, feeling a mixture of anger and helplessness. He knew Torben didn't deserve what happened to him, he had done nothing to those guys from the East Wing, and he never did anything to bother anyone, unless someone told him to, of course. But he didn't do drugs so he couldn't have owed them, and he didn't sell it either. No matter how hard he tried Gunnar couldn't - by the love of God - see why it was Torben who had to be killed. Was it to scare Brian? To let him know they were coming for him? Were they just moving in on them or trying to get Brian to give over the control of the West Wing? Was there something Brian had kept from Gunnar? Had they given Brian a warning earlier, or was this the warning?

  Gunnar didn't understand. But most of all he didn't like the emotions he felt because of Torben's death. Gunnar didn't have a story like the others. He didn't have an abusive father or a drunk for mother. No, his childhood had been happy and stable, with a mom and dad who loved each other - until he turned nine.

  He remembered it very well, even if he rarely thought of it anymore, simply because it made him sad and he didn't care much for feeling sad. Gunnar knew that everyone was responsible for their own happiness, and even if he never was very happy, he made sure he wasn't very sad either.

  His mother had suffered from a deep depression fr
om that horrible day and hadn't been able to snap out of it again. The day - when he last remembered his mother being happy, was a Saturday in April. Spring had arrived, it was Easter and Gunnar was off from school for a whole week. His parents had taken off as well and they had rented a summer-cabin on Enoe, the island outside of Karrebaeksminde where they lived in an apartment. They didn't have much, but they had enough to be happy. Gunnar remembered his mother decided they were going to go for a walk on the beach after lunch. They were going to eat outside even if the breeze still was chilly, with a sweater on it felt nice to sit outside and be in the sun again after months and months of darkness and playing inside. Gunnar studied a caterpillar while his mother prepared lunch for all of them. The smell of fried eggs still made him sick to this day and he still couldn't stand the taste of rye bread. Gunnar remembered the caterpillar crawling across the tiles outside and he picked it up and let it crawl across his hand and arm. He still sometimes felt that tickling sensation of the caterpillar crawling on him. His mother’s voice telling his dad to go to the grocery store and pick up a few things, still haunted him at night in his dreams.

  If he closed his eyes, Gunnar could often replay a video in his mind of his father getting into the Toyota and waving as he drove off with a big smile, making grimaces at Gunnar making him laugh like a small child, which he at that point didn't feel like he was anymore, not until about half an hour later.

  The sound of the tires screeching, his mother coming out, looking worried, concerned, almost panicking. Then the screaming, his mother running down the street, Gunnar running after her, yelling "What's wrong, Mom? What's wrong?"

  The sound of his own voice echoed still in Gunnar's head now when the guards yelled that the doors were closing and he was yet again locked up with his own solitude and now his new companion, the sadness.