Forgotten Fears

by Bray, Michael

  “I don’t think I’ll need this now. Not after today. I want you to keep it.”

  “I can’t accept this, please Sylvia, you’re worrying me here.”

  “Don’t think any less of me will you?” Sylvia asked, her bottom lip trembling. Cindy grabbed her friend’s hands, ignoring their dry, ancient feel.

  “You saved the lives of a lot of people today, I... we, owe you more than we could ever repay.”

  Sylvia smiled and stood. “Today will be a day we will never forget, but I know now what I need to do.”

  “Sylvia, what’s going on?”

  Sylvia’s lip trembled, and she lowered her gaze.

  “Goodbye, Cindy.”

  She walked away, and in her shock, Cindy didn’t follow. Her mind was in turmoil, and she couldn’t seem to make sense of anything. She had intended to go home, but with a well-stocked bar on hand, Drinking seemed like a better idea. She was there two hours later when the news reports started to broadcast on TV. Suddenly, Sylvia’s words made sense, and as Cindy ran for the toilet to throw up, she finally understood the magnitude of what had happened. As she wiped the mucus from her mouth and looked at herself in the mirror through eyes streaked with makeup, Sylvia was in a motel room five miles from the airport. She had used her belt for a noose, and although she hoped it would be quick, she had suffered and kicked as life stubbornly tried to hang on.

  Cindy returned to her table in the employees lounge, and along with the large crowd that had appeared, watched as events unfolded. People put her pale expression down to the terrifying images on the television screens, but she knew different. She held Sylvia’s crucifix and rubbed it gently as she watched the reports on the news go from bad to worse. She was certain that the black-eyed man was onboard one of the planes. Sylvia’s words raced around her brain, and she had to stifle a horrified giggle.

  “I made it worse. He told me, told me that he was going to get right back on another plane. And this time, he would make sure it was bad, and that whatever happened, was my fault.”

  “What have we done,” Cindy said to herself as she glanced down at the newspaper, knowing that today was a day that nobody would ever forget.

  It was Tuesday, September the 11th, 2001.

  THE BIRTHDAY

  [This one is another story from the Funhouse sessions and has bene kicking around in some form of another for a while. I like the idea of the amount of psychological drama the human brain can endure and how it might cope with it. Although this is a pretty bleak and harrowing story, I wanted to include it here as part of this collection as it was previously only available in the kindle only Feast of Fear omnibus. Like the other stories from this line, they’ve had a bit of a polish to improve on their initial raw nature. ]

  WHY DID IT continue to mock him? Why did it laugh the way it did? What did he ever do to deserve the disappointed gaze or the shake of the head? The Boy tried to ignore it, but even when he looked away he could feel it staring at him, eyes burning into the back of his head.

  He shuffled further into the corner, cross-legged and filthy as he stared at the line where the walls of the room met.

  If he concentrated hard enough he could ignore the filth of the bare brick, he could see beyond the mildew stench of the black mould which grew and festered and spread across the walls to other, less painful places. He could even ignore the ghostly memories associated with this room, the one that had become his prison since the day his father had decided to lock him in and hadn’t let him out since. At first, he was just sent there as punishment, and only for a few hours. Over time, the spells became longer, until eventually they stopped letting him out at all.

  He remembered his father’s cruel words, drunken, foul mouthed tirades about learning respect, about how he was being shut away for his own good. Despite it all— if he concentrated hard enough— he could break beyond those four walls, and in his mind could see other places. He saw great rolling fields of green or vast beaches of soft, golden sand. More importantly, he could see solitude. Peace. He could see freedom. There were, of course, things that he could not ignore. The room was cold, and his coverless and filthy mattress which he slept on was clammy with damp against his body, which itself was covered in sores and infected scabs. He couldn’t ignore the constant pain which ravaged his emaciated frame, or the perpetual pain and hunger which plagued him during his walking hours. It wasn’t always like this. He was once a decent if average looking boy with strong features and sharp blue eyes. Not anymore.

  He was now an Auschwitz cliché, skin and bones mostly, his once bright eyes were now dull and set deep into his horror mask face. He hated the way he looked, hated what he had become. Then of course, there was him.

  He couldn’t be ignored. Not for long anyway. He was always there. Always watching always waiting for an opportunity to open his damn mouth.

  The boy glared at him, and opened how own mouth so he could, at least, get the first word in, but his parched, dry lips cracked, releasing only a murmur. Even if he could shout, the boy knew nobody would hear. The house was empty during the day and would remain so until his father returned, usually late. That was the way it had been for as long as he could remember.

  The Boy tried to think back to when he was last outside of this windowless room? When did he last see daylight? When did he last feel the warmth of the sun on his skin, which had long lost its youthful vitality and was now covered in lesions and bruises? They were the questions to which he had no answer.

  He thought of his father, and tried to imagine what kind of mood he might be in when he returned with his stepmother, the two of them bad for each other, both too volatile, both too stubborn. They would engage in arguments fuelled by drink and drugs and they would go on into the night, smashing furniture and breaking things until they tired of attacking each other and had the urge to really hit something.

  That was when they would come. He would hear the heavy footsteps as they climbed the creaking steps to the attic where he was forced to live out his existence. He would wait, feeling the nausea build as they arrived. The door would unlock and they would come, stinking of booze, slurring cruel insults as they fell upon him. Sometimes they would just use fists or feet, but sometimes they would bring things. A screwdriver. A chain, a lighter. Sometimes even hot water which they would pour over him, laughing all the while. One time they used a cheese grater on his back and arms. The Boy had learned to accept it, to adapt to the situation. For if he complained or expressed his pain then they wouldn’t feed him, and even rancid meat and mould covered bread was better than nothing at all.

  And so, he had learned to take it, to relax his body and close off his mind, to close his eyes and blot out their drunken insults and their kicks and punches and drift away to those secret places in his head. The beaches, the rolling fields, the places that they could never take from him and never find him.

  He thought that today might have been his birthday, although he couldn’t be certain. Time had lost its meaning some time ago.

  How old was he? How old would he be?

  Seventeen?

  No. Eighteen. He was eighteen. The same age as him. The one who always stared, the one who laughed at him. The one he couldn’t ignore.

  The boy used to have a name a long time ago. Nobody called him it now. But he remembered it; he said it out loud sometimes if only to remind himself he was still a human being.

  Steven.

  Easy to say. He did so now, the word sounding strange, deafening in the silence of this windowless room with its single bare light bulb. His stomach growled and grumbled, but he ignored it. He knew there would be no food. Not until after the beating when either through guilt or to preserve his pitiful existence until the next one they would give him something. Never fresh, never cooked, but edible. He had learned to ignore the taste of things, to fight back the reflexive retch as he ate.

  This was his life. This was his existence.

  He was tired, his eyes growing heavy. He wanted to sl
eep, and even though that filthy stinking mattress was far from appealing, it was all he had. But he knew that to get to it he would have to face him. Him and his mocking, him and his laughing.

  He peered over his shoulder, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t be there but of course there he was. Watching waiting. That smile, that twisted smile on his face as it always was. Why did he never sleep? Why did he have to watch all the time?

  “What do you want from me?” Steven asked over his shoulder.

  But as often was the case, he didn’t answer. He just watched and grinned. How he hated that grin. He hated it almost as much as the crazy look in his eyes.

  “I’m not afraid of you.” Steven croaked, ignoring the pain of his cracked lips.

  “Yes, you are.”

  This was rare. He wanted to talk. He usually just stared. And laughed. And waited. But not today. Today he seemed to have something to say.

  They used to talk a lot, in the beginning, back when they still shared the hope of escape, of freedom. But their conversations led them to realise quite quickly that they had little in common apart from a similar stubborn streak, and their relationship quickly deteriorated into one of silence brought on by the utter hopelessness of their situation.

  Part of it was triggered by a sizeable amount of bitterness on Steven’s part. Over the years he had grown weaker, his body and mind drained.

  Yet him…he seemed the same, thinner now, of course, victim of the same undernourishment, but he seemed to be in overall better physical condition. He also seemed to avoid the majority of the beatings, and on those occasions where they were together when it happened, he simply laughed all the way through.

  How Steven hated that laugh. It was a humourless sound, and to be free of it would be enough to perhaps let him tolerate his life as it was, but he wasn’t so lucky. There was to be no respite.

  Frustrated, Steven turned back to the wall. He had no intention of talking to him. It never ended well and he had neither the will nor the strength to engage in another battle. He wouldn’t rise to it. He would sit here in his space and keep quiet.

  “Hey, birthday boy. Come over here. I want to talk to you.”

  He tried to ignore it, the sneering goading tone in his voice.

  Steven scratched at his matted, lice infested hair. “Go away. I’m not talking to you.”

  “Hey come on, don’t be like that. We used to be friends remember?”

  He did remember, back at the beginning, before things got bad. “That was a long time ago,” He muttered.

  “I want us to be friends again. I have a birthday present for you.”

  Steven’s heart increased in tempo. So it was his birthday. He couldn’t remember the last present he received. Steven shuffled around to face him and saw that for once he wasn’t smiling, wasn’t laughing, and wasn’t staring. He looked…sad.

  “You can come closer, I won’t bite. Come on, Steven. Let’s be friends again.”

  He was curious, he couldn’t deny that. Slowly, cautiously he shuffled forward coming to rest on his knees just out of his reach. Just in case.

  “I’m not coming any closer!” Steven said, ready to lurch away at the first sudden movement.

  That’s okay, I understand. Look, I want to say sorry for how I’ve treated you over the years. Both of us together in this room… well, it makes life hard.”

  Steven shook his head. “You made my life hard. I never did anything to you, but you hurt me. You let them hurt me. And even when I hadn’t done anything you still let them beat me, always watching always with that smile on your face.”

  No reaction.

  Steven suspected that he didn’t like to hear the truth. Well, so what. He had a right to say it. It was his birthday after all.

  “Look, I can’t change the past. I know I was shitty to you, especially when the two of us should have stuck together during this….whatever this is. But that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m giving you the gift you have always wanted.

  “I don’t want anything from you,” Steven said, thinking about those places in his mind where he always escaped to.”

  “You’ll want this one. Believe me.”

  “Oh yeah? What is it?”

  He leaned close, causing Steven to take a compensatory shuffle back. “I’m leaving this place. I’m leaving you alone.”

  Steven gasped, his heart speeding up slightly at the thought. Peace, at last, freedom from the laughing, and the staring. That was the worst. The way he just…observed.

  “Are you really leaving?” Steven asked.

  He smiled then, not his ‘lion about to eat its prey’ smile, but one of sadness. He looked theatrically around the room, then pulled out a seven-inch glass shard from behind his back. It had a handle made from a tightly wound strip of his filthy T. shirt.

  Steven shuffled back, eyes wide and afraid. “What the hell is that for?”

  “You and I both know that we will never get out of here,” He said. Eying Steven cautiously. “I for one can’t take anymore, so I’m getting out. My way.”

  “Suicide??” Steven blurted as he recoiled in horror. “You can’t! Don’t you see? They’ll think I did it! They’ll think I killed you!”

  He seemed to consider this, and then his face lit up with inspiration. “Then why don’t you come with me? This is no life Steven, locked in this room in shit caked rags waiting for them to come back then pray that they don’t decide to beat you.”

  “I can’t take my own life, I won’t let them win!” Steven replied, shaking his head.

  “They won a long time ago and we both know it. Let’s take away their power. We can go together. Here.”

  He held out his hand, offering him the makeshift knife.

  “I won’t do it” And yet, he found himself reaching out and taking the blade anyway. He looked at it in wonder.

  “All you have to do is cut your wrists. It shouldn’t hurt too badly. As for me, I’m making sure. I’m going to cut across the throat. No way am I letting them get me to the hospital in time just so they can kill me later their way. No thanks.” he said with a smile, his mouth full of yellowed leaners.

  Steven went to answer and then froze.

  Of course.

  This was another one of his ploys. The laughing and the staring hadn’t worked. He had tried it from the beginning, and for a time, Steven had been his equal. He lost count of the hours they would spend staring at each other back then, each trying to intimidate the other, neither willing to back down. Eventually, Steven had tired of the games, tired of the grinning, of the staring. He decided not to play anymore, preferring instead to sit in the corner and imagine the open spaces, to imagine freedom. And so, it seemed that his great nemesis had come up with this ‘suicide’ idea instead. He had to admit, it was clever. Very clever, but he was clever too, and could play the game as well as anyone. Let’s see how his grin happy roommate dealt with this little bombshell.

  “Ok, let’s do it. But I don’t know what to do.” Steven said, watching carefully for a reaction.

  “Are you kidding me? Just cut one wrist then the other and pass the knife over to me before you bleed out. Come on, work with me here.”

  Steven put the blade to his wrist and then with a smile held it out in his outstretched hand. “You first.”

  Steven saw a flicker of uncertainty flash in his eyes then, perhaps realising that his plan had backfired, but not enough to revert back to that maddening laugh, that damn stare.

  “Okay,” he said calmly, taking the blade back gently by the handle. “Are you sure you don’t want to go first? I’m cutting my throat remember? There will be a lot of blood. I don’t want it to put you off.”

  “I’ll be fine, besides we might not bleed as much as you might think; neither of us is exactly fat are we? I mean look at me, I’m just skin and bone and you’re not much different.”

  Steven was playing the game, playing it well. He waited for the response.

  “Well it’s y
our call, but if you really want me to go first, I will. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “I won’t” Steven said, holding his gaze.

  “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “Yep.”

  “Positive?”

  “You sound scared.”

  “Hey, I’m just checking you’re not going to throw up and then wimp out. But whatever, you had fair warning. You might want to turn away, though. This is likely to be messy”

  “No, it’s fine. You spent long enough over the years watching me, now it’s my turn to watch you. Go right ahead.” Steven managed a smile as he said it, careful not to give away that he had discovered the plan.

  With a sigh, he adjusted his grip on the makeshift handle and lifted it with a shaking hand to his throat. Without the smile and stare, he looked just like Steven. A scared boy with no way out.

  He stilled his trembling hand. “Happy birthday Steven.”

  He cut.

  The initial shock that his staring smiling nemesis had actually gone through with it turned to confusion at the pain which engulfed Steven’s body. The carotid artery severed, he pitched forward, his face slamming into the glass of the large and ornate mirror sending a large splintering crack across its surface right up to the top corner which was already missing a long thin section. Steven slid to the floor and slumped to his side, his vision fading as he looked at his own reflection. Still staring. Still smiling.

  Happy birthday.

  FACES

  [This story is actually the basis that my novel Whisper was built on. Initially, whisper was to be a short story (the one you are about to read), but as I thought more about it, there was more story to tell there than I had done in this particular story. Readers of Whisper will see the parts which were transferred over to the novel. The run down house and young couple, the supernatural occurrences and voices of the dead, and of course, Donovan. I thought I would include this here for you to see the story which gave birth to the novel which s since spawned a couple of sequels. This original tale still means a lot to me as it inadvertently set me off on the path to writing my first novel. I hope you enjoy it.