The Clinic

by David Jester

  He saw Darren gesturing to him out of the corner of his eye, but he ignored his friend’s frantic waving. Malcolm lowered himself to his knees and scuttled under the glass panel in the door and along to the window. Behind him, Darren edged closer to the corridor on his right, it was dark down there, an ominous tunnel that led to an abyss, but it felt safer than where he was standing.

  Eddie looked less worried and didn’t seem to know what to do with himself as he watched Malcolm move to the window. He was intrigued, baffled, but something else lurked inside of him; it wasn’t apprehension or curiosity, he didn’t share either of his friends’ prevailing emotions. His was something else, something that seemed to be gripping him and taking control. He looked down the corridor to his left and saw something shift in the darkness, a shadowed figure that cut a hole in the blackness and filled it with gray before shifting back into the nothingness again.

  What the fuck was that?

  He didn’t know whether he should tell his friends, whether he should run away or whether he should follow the shape in the darkness.

  He looked to Darren who looked like he was already preparing to run and leave his so-called friends in the lurch.

  Fucking coward. He made him so angry, with his constant fucking jokes and now this. He was a liability, what the fuck were they doing still hanging around with him anyway?

  Darren saw Eddie scowling at him and flashed him a curious stare, Eddie grimaced and turned away. He thought he saw something else in the corridor to his left, something bigger, faster. It moved through the darkness at the back of the corridor and into a segment of light further on, closer to Eddie. It stopped at the borderline between the blackness and the buzzing white of the fluorescent lights. It stayed there as if watching Eddie, waiting for him to make a move, and then it disappeared again.

  Eddie wasn’t sure what he was looking at. He wasn’t entirely sure that what he had seen was real or just a trick of the light or his imagination. He dismissed it and turned back to Malcolm who was now crouching below the window.

  Malcolm positioned himself underneath the gap in the curtains. He peered upwards, through the window and through the gap, but he saw only the reflection of the room opposite. He stood up slowly and moved his face closer to the glass until the room came into view.

  He felt his breath catch in his throat, felt his heart stop and then start with a staccato flourish. “Holy fuck,” he whispered.

  The room was a blood bath, an abstract work of morbidity. The walls and ceiling, once a blank canvas of dull white, were splattered with viscous blood. The carpet had probably been cream or white and over the years it had turned gray, but in an instant it had been dyed red.

  The walls had been decorated with the odd painting and framed picture, and everything had been whipped with slashes of stark blood, obscuring whatever reality existed within those innocent framed worlds. It looked like an office or a conference room, a quiet place designed for a limited number of people to sit and talk, but that veil of quietude had been torn.

  A small square table took center stage in the room, surrounded by four chairs, three had been toppled and lay strewn across the floor. The fourth was occupied by a complacent looking man with a face like a rat. He was tall and skinny with a long, pointed expression that seemed to be melted on his head and an evil stare that was directed towards the other side of the room.

  Malcolm followed his beady eyes; he felt his heart stop and start again in his chest, felt the hairs on the back of his arms rise. A stocky man with a bald head was being held up against the back wall by a man wearing a white dressing gown that had been stained red.

  The attacker had his back to Malcolm but the victim was looking right at him, although Malcolm doubted he could see anything. His face was a bloodied pulp; he had been beaten beyond recognition. His eyes were swollen shut, his jaw and nose were broken and his skull looked like it had been fractured in several places. His rounded, bloodied face was shaped like a swollen football and it looked like it was about to burst.

  The attacker was strangling him, but stopped when his victim lost consciousness. He lowered him to the floor, slapped him violently until he came around, and then continued to strangle him. He had been stabbed and slashed, beaten, and broken, but he was still hanging onto his life and his attacker was doing his best to make sure he did. He wanted to prolong his suffering for as long as possible.

  Malcolm felt angry. He felt his blood boil, felt a desire to break down the door and help the helpless man, but at the same time he felt sick to his stomach because of what he was seeing. He tasted bile crawling up his throat, the bitterness on the back of his tongue.

  Darren had edged into the corridor and his view of Malcolm was now obscured. Eddie glanced across at him, gave him a contemptuous glare and then began to edge closer to the room, keen to see what Malcolm was seeing, keen to see what had shocked his friend into silence, what had caused his eyes to open wide, his pupils to dilate, his skin to turn an angry red and then a sickly white.

  As he peered through the window, struggling to blink, breathe, or comprehend, Malcolm felt like he was playing a graphic computer game or watching a violent film; he was looking through a lens, witnessing this carnage through the eyes of someone else. It didn’t feel real, it couldn’t be real. But it was real, and when the man in the chair turned around and saw Malcolm peering through the corner of the window, when his rat-like face lit up with an expression of sadistic glee, Malcolm realized just how real it was. He peeled his face away from the window and turned to Eddie, who was trying to peer over his shoulder and see what Malcolm had seen, and Darren, who was doing his best not to see anything.

  They saw the fear spread over Malcolm’s face, shared in his apprehension and terror and then, as he opened his mouth, they heard the door open and heard the screams from within, right before they heard their friend’s warning:

  “Run!”

  20

  Malcolm saw his friends quickly run off, one going down one corridor, the other going down another. He thought about following one of them, they needed to stay together, but before he could decide which, Rat Face and the one with the crimson dressing gown appeared in the doorway and blocked his view. He paused, stuck rigid for a moment, staring into two sets of eyes that seemed both dead to the world and alive with an evil he had never encountered before.

  Rat Face looked at Malcolm with a hunger, he had watched his friend destroy someone, had sat back and been the spectator to the show of carnage, and now he wanted his turn. The door leading into the corridor threw open and Malcolm saw Little and Large burst into the corridor. For a moment, there were four of them and Malcolm was vastly outnumbered, but then the one in the crimson dressing gown turned around abruptly, grunted at them and thrust out his hands, pointing down to the two darkened corridors where Darren and Eddie had fled. They nodded in recognition, took a moment to decide who should go where, and then set off after the escaping teenagers.

  Crimson turned back to Malcolm, moved a step closer, ahead of Rat Face and his bloodthirsty eyes.

  Malcolm had only seen his back before, had only seen his bloodstained clothes and fierce hands as they gripped and squeezed the life out of the tortured man who had been left to die inside the room, but now he saw his face in all its sickly glory. He had prominent cheek bones that sat sharply on his face, arrowing down to a thin chin adorned with a collage of messy stubble. His forehead was square, thick, and stuck out from a hairline which seemed to shy away from the rest of his face.

  He grinned at Malcolm, exposing a row of teeth that were yellowed and rotting between blood and chunks of flesh. His cheeks dimpled as he smiled, small contours of innocence typically reserved for mischievous youngsters.

  “You want to play as well?” His voice sounded thirsty.

  For a moment Malcolm couldn’t turn away, like a passing motorist drawn to a car crash. He wasn’t thinking, wasn’t acting, wasn’t preparing, his world had stopped, slipped into the abyss for sever
al valuable moments. When the thoughts finally started again, kicking into action like the engine from an old motorbike, he turned on his heel and bolted down the corridor, going as fast as his legs would take him.

  Darren ran on sweaty feet that slapped hard against the floor, echoing a noise around the dark hallways that would announce his impending arrival to everyone nearby. He needed to slow down, but he didn’t know who was chasing him; he needed to stop and fight but he feared for his life.

  He saw the hallways fill with light behind him, heard the clicks from the light switches and the static buzz from the fluorescence as they exploded into life and spilled their ghostly glow onto the sterile floors. The man chasing him was snapping on the lights as he went, as Darren looked back, struggling to keep his legs pumping, he saw that the darkness was vanishing and the light was advancing.

  His heart fought to leave his chest and his limbs surged with a trembling rush of adrenaline; a shaky, powerful feeling that suggested they were capable of running faster and harder than they had ever run before, but equally capable of just giving up.

  He heard laughter, a high-pitched cackle that cut through his bones and gripped tightly on his heart. It was an eager laugh, an excited laugh.

  He sped past closed doors; past dark windows that looked into what he hoped were empty rooms. He turned corner after corner, shooting worried glances over his shoulder as he went. He had never been so scared for his life. He had never been so sure that his life was about to end.

  With breathless spurts, his voice gasping out of tired lungs, he begged whatever god or cosmic force would listen, promised them that he would believe if they just let him live. He would stop robbing; he would stop being a mischievous little prick. He would even stop taking the piss out of Eddie. None of it was true, but it seemed that somebody or something was listening to him.

  He could no longer see ahead of him; the light had stopped gaining on him and the corridor was now shrouded in an impenetrable blackness. He shot a worried glance over his shoulder and saw that the blackness extended down the full stretch of the corridor and around the corner of the next, whoever was chasing him had stopped.

  He felt a stab of relief in his chest, felt a pressure lift off his mind, then he felt the full force of a wooden door as he ran straight into it.

  Mulllch. Mulllch.

  Arrrrrrrhhhh.

  The noise was the first thing that greeted him.

  The door had been ajar and the force of his running was enough to propel him inside. It was as dark inside as it has been in the hallway and, beyond the merry assortment of stars that danced in the corner of his vision, he couldn’t see anything.

  But he could definitely hear something, and it didn’t sound friendly.

  Mulllch. Mulllch.

  Arrrrrrrhhhh.

  It was a sloppy, wet sound, like a dog chewing on something soft or the passionate kiss of two toothless seniors; followed by a heavy, wheezing, gurgling asthmatic breath. He jumped to his feet, hoping the noise was an amalgamation of his fear and the fall, but when he climbed to his feet, stared into the darkness, and tried to get a picture of where he was, he heard it again.

  Mulllch. Mulllch.

  Arrrrrrrhhhh.

  It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and every muscle in his body froze.

  It grew in frequency, each note different to the last, each lick or slurp heavier or softer.

  Mulllch. Mulllch.

  Mulllch. Mulllch.

  Arrrrrrrhhhh.

  It paused for a moment and when it did he thought he saw something light up in the middle of the room. It looked like an orb, like the spectral spots of light that ghost-hunting shows make such a fuss about, but it was gone as soon as it appeared and the noise continued.

  Mulllch. Mulllch.

  Arrrrrrrhhhh.

  It was coming from in front of him; it definitely wasn’t part of his imagination or his fear. He reached out his hand until he felt his fingers brush the light switch. He paused, held his breath, and asked himself if it was a good idea, if he really wanted to face what was in the room. He knew it couldn’t be human, he also knew it couldn’t be hostile; if it was, the light wouldn’t make a difference, it would have heard him or felt him when he fell into the room.

  He met the explosion of light with trepidation and felt a wave of dread and horror as soon as his eyes adjusted to what had been making the noise. He knew that what he saw would be the precursor to every nightmare for the rest of his life, if his life extended beyond the reaches of this small, dark and macabre room.

  A man was sitting in a chair a few feet ahead of him. His hands were tied behind his back, his head, lolled to one side, was aimed at Darren. His throat had been slit but he was still alive, struggling to talk, to express himself in his final moments, as the blood seeped aggressively from a large opening in his neck.

  He had been wearing white, but his clothes were now a collage of crimson, stained with his own dwindling life. His feet were untethered and splayed out uselessly at the bottom of the chair; his body was slouched and spent, his face was beaten, bruised, and bloodied beyond recognition. Darren couldn’t tell if the man he was looking at was eighteen or fifty.

  Mulllch. Mulllch.

  After every struggled sentence that bled out of his throat, he paused for a long and deep breath that rattled in through the gap in his neck and bubbled the blood that seeped down his torso like spilled food from a messy meal.

  Arrrrrrrhhhh.

  As Darren stood there watching, he saw his eyes open wider, saw his bloodied expression change to tell Darren something that his broken voice couldn’t express. He creased his forehead and moved his head backwards, the cut in his throat opening like the gleeful grin of a sadistic clown.

  Darren felt his heart kick against his chest and his stomach fought to find a way out of his throat. He shook his head slowly and creased his face into something resembling sympathy. There was nothing he could do for the man; he knew that he couldn’t help him no matter how much he pleaded.

  “I’m sorry,” Darren said softly, his words nothing more than a whisper.

  The man realized that Darren wasn’t reacting and began to kick his feet and gesture more frantically. His throat was opening and closing as he rocked his head back and forth, the wound gushing and seeping as it sealed and opened. Darren shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut, and repeated himself.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He reached out and snapped off the light with the back of his hand. The room fell into an instant blackness, Darren breathed softly, happy that the image of the dying man was out of his head.

  Arrrrrrrhhhh.

  In the darkness Darren listened to his breathing, the words had stopped, he couldn’t even try to express himself anymore. He was dying, holding onto the final seconds of life. There was nothing Darren could do to help him and he knew that the sooner he lost his struggle, the better.

  He took a step backwards, out of the room and back into the dark corridor that now seemed so welcoming. He stopped when his heels knocked against something.

  He thrust out his hand to check where the door was, where the wall was. The door was wide open on one side with the wall on the other; he knew there shouldn’t be anything behind him. He took another step backwards, lifting his feet high, and brought them down on top of the object he had bumped into.

  He was standing on someone’s foot.

  He moved backwards with a timid step and bumped into something hot and heavy, something human.

  The warbles continued from the throat of the dying man and Darren realized that he hadn’t been trying to ask for help. He had been trying to warn Darren that his attacker was standing behind him.

  Arrrrrrrhhhh.

  He turned towards the wall, began slapping it with his palms until he hit the switch and room burst into light. He turned around, ready to greet his foe and to make his escape.

  A red headed beast with a bloodied mouth and a crooked smile stood in f
ront of him. Darren could see his own reflection in his glistening eyes, the same reflective orbs he had seen dancing around in the darkness earlier. He could smell the rotting flesh and metallic blood on his clothes and on his breath.

  “Fuck.”

  21

  Eddie got a good jump on his chaser, he was a fast runner and he never looked back. He kept his attention in front of him, kept his eyes on the empty corridors that flickered with occasional light from above. The hallways seemed endless, flanked by matching doors, and covered in darkness.

  He had the feeling he was running in circles, doing laps around the building, and would end up back where he started. He didn’t want that to happen, didn’t want to bump into the psychopaths who had instigated all of that screaming. He bolted through one of the doors. It led to a cold, empty staircase.

  He ran up the small flight of stairs, listening his footsteps echo loudly as they slapped against the hard flooring. He climbed two small flights and came to a doorway, inset with a square of glass which looked out onto another blackened hallway. He ignored it and climbed another two flights. There was a window at the top that looked out over the garden, bleached with moonlight and appearing ominous in the silent night. The window was too small to climb out of and there was nothing below but a sheer drop. He continued upwards, to what he assumed to be the third and top floor of the building.

  A door greeted him at the top; it was light in the hallway beyond, a flickering, maddening light that refused to expose anything for long. He crept through the door, cringed when it squeaked on the hinges, and then paused, aiming an ear back to the staircase.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

  The voice was raspy, harsh, and followed by the loud and abrupt sound of a slamming door. Eddie continued to listen; he heard heavy breathing, and then the sound of footsteps climbing the stairs. He hadn’t been entirely sure that someone was following him, but now he was and now he knew that they were still on his tail, just a few dozen steps behind him.