by Alan Spencer
“Amateur hack is going to embarrass himself.”
“Dork sure looks like he believes in magic.”
The performer closed his eyes and extended his arms up to the ceiling, prepared to disprove their doubts. “I ask you to count to three, audience.”
The audience responded with a boisterous shout: “ONE!”
“I call upon you,” he whispered to himself, channeling a greater force. “I call upon the gods, make them disappear.”
“TWO!”
The shuffle of many chairs at once, Gideon peeled back the curtain the split-second he knew the gods had acquiesced upon his wishes.
“THREE!”
The stage revealed, the chairs were emptied as many of the legs rattled the floor and then momentarily settled. The audience clapped, but then abruptly stopped their accolades when they noticed certain members in the crowd had disappeared as well. The bartender went missing in a blink; the shot glass and bottle of scotch in his hands shattered against the floor, dropped. The audience was less than half of what they were before the show began. A mix of worry and concern sent nervous chatter throughout the club. Matthew wasn’t sure how to react himself, standing rigid and unconfident; his beefy size couldn’t fight tonight’s problem. He surveyed the people in their seats again, remembering those who’d been sitting one moment, and the next there was nothing, only the sharp scuffle of chairs.
Gideon addressed the audience, expecting the uproar. “Ah, the gods heed me. I will make them return. Let’s hear it. Clap for me! You’ll see my magic. It’s real. I promise you, all is well. All is well!"
Bunny stood still on the stage unnerved, squinting throughout the audience to check if this was really happening. She drew back the purple curtain at his request, though hesitantly, afraid helping the man would make matters worse.
The audience didn’t cheer this time, but Gideon understood why.
He too was concerned.
The magic had worked too well tonight.
Stumbling on his words, he spat out to the uneasy crowd, “I will count to three, and the gods shall place the audience members back into the living world. I am Gideon. Heed my magic.”
He waved the wand back and forth (the action meaning nothing, and Gideon knew it too) and closed his eyes. “I call upon the gods. Return our visitors from the world of the ghosts and spirits to the living.”
Gideon counted aloud since no one else joined in.
“One...two...THREE!”
The curtain was drawn back by Bunny. Instantly, the chair legs scuffed the stage’s floor. Gasps rocked the club. Tables were knocked over and screams issued with alarming intensity. Patrons battled to escape the club, barreling into each other, shoving, and pushing, and fighting and cursing the horrible spectacles busying the bar and seating area.
Gideon buckled to his knees, taking in the horrors. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t supposed to happen this way!”
Matthew closed in on the stage, though he was hesitant to enter the morbid carnage.
His life was in danger too.
The audience members on stage did return, but they were altered. Eyes had switched sockets, the orbs bleeding from the exchange. Legs and feet were mismatched. One body was only a torso with an arm replacing the head. Fish-net legs jutted from a man’s big-bellied torso, the connection sealed by tangles of melded-together flesh and bone. A man’s head was attached to a women’s body, the pink dress sodden in crimson from the throat’s strange flesh graft stitching. The twenty people were blended together, not a single one owning their original parts. They writhed in horrid agony, twitching, and bleeding, and screaming and pealing out in terror, their inflictions unimaginable.
Those that weren’t dead upon returning were soon thereafter. The club was silent and near empty. Bunny retreated out the back exit, the final person to escape. The other security officer, Sam Wilks, was calling the police from the back room, his expression petrified and so pale.
Gideon wept on stage, curled in a fetal position and babbling. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. They promised they wouldn’t hurt anyone ever again. They promised. They promised me they’d be nice.” Snarling as spittle flecked out his mouth, he shouted, “And look what they’ve done!”
Matthew avoided numerous puddles of blood, treading closer to the grief-stricken man. The stage was a macabre scene, and he did his best to avert his eyes from studying the victims. Raising his voice, he attempted to re-claim control over the chaos, “Come with me, Gideon. You’re under arrest. It’s over. Now come along quietly.”
He wasn’t a cop, but it was the best thing he could muster in the situation. Gideon didn’t move or resist. Matthew removed his cuffs from his belt, afraid to touch the man. How safe was it to be near a person like Gideon? Would his limbs be switched out too?
The magician’s mouth was an open maw. Sorrow affected his words. “It wasn’t me. They promised to be good. I should’ve learned from the first time. They deceived me again. I should've known.”
“Don’t move,” Matthew instructed adamantly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I'm taking you to the police. You can explain it to them, okay?”
He forced Gideon’s hands behind his back, sucking up his fears and putting the man in custody.
The man sobbed, “This wasn’t my illusion...it was theirs.”
Matthew fastened the cuffs, ignoring the man’s cryptic confession. “Let’s just let the police handle—”
Once he lifted the man to his feet, Gideon vanished
The horrors are all in your mind!
Psycho Therapy
© 2013 Alan Spencer
Craig Horsey's first visit to a therapist is hardly what he expected. Dr. Krone's unorthodox treatment began by hooking Craig up to a device the doctor claims can take him back to relive the memories of his past and mend his damaged psyche.
But instead the machine taps into Craig’s worst subconscious fears. Monsters, madmen and incredible terrors now turn his past into a nightmare. To survive the sadistic game, Craig must somehow uncover the truth about Dr. Krone and escape the machine while battling deadly visions determined to steal his sanity—and his life. Only one thing is certain: If he dies in his mind, he’ll die in reality.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Psycho Therapy:
Dr. Krone gathered a thick manila folder and plopped down across from Craig with a twin pop of the knees. “I don’t let my patients sit on a couch facing the other direction. I want to see their faces. There’s nothing to be afraid of, Mr. Horsy, and there’s nothing to hide from me. I’m a professional. Everything shared between us is confidential.”
“I understand.”
The doctor removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, working the fingertips in for a good thirty seconds before stopping. “Listen, I know you don’t want to be here. Some judge sentenced you to chat with me for,” he peered at his sheet, “six months. Let’s make the best of this. You might even get prescription drugs out of it." He gave Craig a smirk. "Would you like that?”
Craig laughed awkwardly, caught-off guard by the strange offer. “Well, now you’re talking. I like the way you think, Doc.”
The doctor shuffled through the paperwork and located what he was seeking. “I’m going to read off your past criminal record. This is to get us on the same page as to what we need to discuss in our sessions. You admit what you’ve done, and we can continue on with the truth. This means I can better help you. The truth is key, Mr. Horsy. Without it, I’m not only out of a job, but the point of me being here is wasted.” He dabbed a crawling bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “I must have the truth from you, if nothing else.”
Craig mentally turned over the deeds of his past. “I only have one offense besides traffic tickets. This'll be a short conversation."
“Ah-ah.” Dr. Krone waved his finger. The man was clearly tickled by the chance to catch Craig in a lie. “I have access to detailed files, Mr. Horsy.”
He turned over many pages before stopping to read one. “I’ll start with your childhood.”
“My childhood?” Was this what the receptionist meant by taking it slow? Hearing this, he was eager to learn what his childhood record contained.
What he heard had him reeling.
“In the first grade, you punched Tim Morgan in the stomach during lunch. He knocked over your lunch tray, and you slugged him. Tim was a bit of a bully, I understand.”
Craig threw his head back in one long nervous guffaw. “That was a long time ago, Doc. I mean, WOW. Tim and I made up afterwards. I couldn’t play at recess for two weeks, and I had to write him a letter of apology. I was really hungry, man. He knocked over my food on pizza day. Pizza day. And it wasn’t the first time he’d done it to me on the good food days.”
Dr. Crone moved on, satisfied by Craig’s reaction. “Third grade, you placed a whoopee cushion on Mrs. Steinman’s chair.”
“And she said ‘whoopee!’ She was asking for it. So book me, Dr. Krone. I can’t believe they documented this. What else you got? Now I'm really interested."
The doctor rattled the list off like a preacher at the pulpit. “You pulled the fire alarm three times at Parker Elementary. You lit a cherry bomb in the bathroom while you were being watched by a babysitter. Fifth grade, you removed a fire extinguisher from the wall and doused three girls as they were walking out of the bathroom. And then—”
Craig cut him off, overwhelmed by how funny his record was. “I didn’t understand why the girls always wanted to go to the bathroom together. They mentioned make-up, so I decided to apply my own kind of make-up on them. Makes sense for a fifth grader to do. So I did it. I know, I know, I’m a jerk. But I was a kid. It’s not like I seriously harmed anybody. And I didn’t do it again.”
The doctor became stern. “Seventh grade, you broke Drew Massey’s nose.”
Craig lowered his voice. “Drew Massey, yeah, I remember that jerk. Middle school sucks, man. You understand. Kids make new friends. Old friends break apart. People are labeled and form their own cliques. I won’t make excuses. Drew was pushing a kid in the locker room with a developmental disability. He punched the kid in the gut when he couldn’t work his combination lock open. Drew denied it. But I protected Jake the whole year. Drew backed off after I elbowed him in the nose during a flag football game in gym class. The bully deserved it. Kids can be cruel. I was crueler.”
“But you’re an adult now. You can’t win fights by starting them.”
“What kind of philosophical talk is that? I was a prankster. I played jokes when I was little. I’ve gotten into fights. Who hasn’t?”
“Tell me about Willis Young.”
Willis Young was his best friend, and maybe still was, but he wasn’t sure.
“I met Willis at Indiana University. I dropped out during the second semester. You know how it goes. You don’t know what degree you’re after, so you take your general education courses. The problem with me, I lost interest. Willis got his business degree and opened his bar called Half-Time. It’s a sports bar. I visited the place all the time.
“I lost my job working for the city. I picked up garbage. I came in late too many times, and off with my head, right? So Willis offers me a job, and I really need the money. What happened, Willis’s brother also wanted a job. He gave it to Joey without telling me. I depended on that paycheck, and man, the tips would’ve been awesome. Willis offered me free drinks the night he told me about not getting the job, so I was drunk. I lost control, and, um,” he loosened his collar, “I threw a barstool at him. I broke his collarbone and nose."
Craig jumped to defend himself, "Hey, it’s nothing I’m proud of. I felt horrible afterwards. I had no right to do that. I lost control. I’d been drinking too much. I was lucky Willis didn’t press charges, but he made me seek counseling for the favor, obviously.”
The doctor scribbled notes actively. His tired features were animated. Craig wouldn’t call it a nervous tick, but it resembled one.
The doctor asked, “So what are you doing for work now?”
“Unemployed.” He wasn’t proud of it. Thirty-two years old, and no job, the next step in his life was undetermined, and a mid-life crisis loomed on the horizon. “It sucks.”
Dr. Krone finally made eye contact. “I’d worry about getting your house in order before pursuing a job. Unemployment can foot the bill in the meantime. We need you clear of mind. I wish the government would truly focus on the people who need time. They should give you a few months to recuperate from your ordeal. Visit me daily, for one. It’ll take more than a few visits to cure you—anybody, Mr. Horsy. Nobody wants to spend the time anymore to be well. That’s American society. Instant gratification, throw some pills at me, maybe shock therapy, and boom, you’re good again.”
He wasn’t sure what the soapbox spiel was about. A mantra of the field, he supposed. He’d already touched upon a lot of old memories and fresh wounds in a matter of fifteen minutes. Dr. Krone wasn’t doing a bad job so far, he admitted.
He’d shortly change his mind.
“Let’s go back to your prior record.”
“Prior record? What other minor offenses have been recorded in the history of Craig Horsy?"
The doctor simply stated the name, “Alice Denny.”
The name ripped the smile from his face. The room closed in on him, then titled hard, so hard, he thought his head injury was flaring up again. The caught feeling burned in him, and wouldn’t subside. How did he know about her? There was no official police report involving her. What happened between them was private.
The response shot out of him as a threat. “I don’t want to talk about her.”
The doctor weighed his reaction with calibrated eyes. “I can see your blood pressure rising. You’re a new shade of red. I’ve hit an important topic, haven't I?"
“Watch it. I don’t want to talk about her. Your receptionist promised this would be easy today. What’s my favorite pig out food, what’s my favorite color, that bull. How would you know about what happened between Alice and me? Nobody does.”
Cherry bombs and fire-extinguisher stories didn’t sound so ridiculous now, he thought.
Dr. Krone removed a handkerchief from his pocket and waved it like a flag. “I’m trying to flush out what brings out your anger. Be honest with me. I’ve done my research on you, Mr. Horsy, to assure positive results. I know who your friends and family are. So I’ve taken the liberty of doing some preliminary interviews. I’m hard at work for you. My patient’s success is top priority. You do have an anger problem. That’s why Willis was sent to the emergency room. I am correct, yes?”
“Yes,” Craig admitted. “I’m quick to anger. Isn’t it obvious? I’m a hothead. Impulsive. I overreact, yes. You're right."
“Then let’s hash out the issues, like you said. It can only help. Do it for Willis."
What’s with this guy, Craig thought. The doctor forewent the niceties and lunged straight for the throat. Craig couldn’t leave the session. Prison would be the next option. Judge Ingram described the visits as a form of probation. This was mandatory. He’d have to deal with the unusual doctor, like it or not.
The doctor licked the tip of his Bic pen. “You have a lot of reasons to be angry, Craig. The issue is you need to learn how to manage yourself. If you can harm your best friend, what will you do to a stranger—or perish the thought, me?”
“I wouldn’t harm you.”
Dr. Krone grinned. The gesture accused Craig of lying.
“Are you rattling the cage and seeing what you can shake up?” Craig popped his knuckles unconsciously. “Rachael said this wouldn’t be so intense.”
“You’re a special case.”
“And what the hell does that mean?”
“You require immediate assistance. Everybody in your shoes does. You may not show the symptoms, but early prevention is the best thing to avoid the sickness.”
Craig couldn’t relax in the chair, his shoulder blades a
nd lower back becoming rigid. In that moment, he wanted to beat that self-satisfied smile from the doctor's face. No. That’d validate my requiring immediate assistance. Maybe I am out-of-control. Maybe I do require ‘immediate assistance.’
“I don’t want to talk about Alice, not yet. Maybe some other time when I know you better, okay?” He checked his watch. The digital face had cracked and turned black. “Is this session over yet?”
“No.” The doctor slapped the file onto the ground, and one side of his face sneered hard. “None of this Q&A matters now." He bent in closer, leveling with Craig. "My treatment is revolutionary. I won’t sling drugs at you or talk your head off. This is a mere preliminary to what we’re about to accomplish. You won’t have an anger problem when I’m through with you.” He rubbed the small patch of saliva from the corner of his mouth. “Do you have regrets, Mr. Horsy?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Do you wish you could’ve done things differently? We make a lot of choices in our lives. I’m sure you’d like to re-live some of those choices and change things—even if it’s just in your mind. And let me say, I’ve done it before.”
“Done what before? I’m confused.”
“Never mind.” The doctor placed his fingertips together. “What I’ve begun to say, we’ll address later. I think I’ll head straight into my next step of treatment.” He raised his head to meet Craig's eyes. “It’s the most effective.”
“Why not jump right into it if it’s the most effective?”
“My line of questioning serves to open up that brain of yours. It stirs memories to the surface. Good ones. The ones I can use.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” He didn’t expect the visit to be so out of the normal. He’d been on the verge of tears thinking about Alice, and now he was genuinely concerned as to the effectiveness of Dr. Krone’s program. “Use my memories for what? Can you give me a little bit of information here? Layman's terms."
Dr. Krone's eyes went small, and then they went soft again. “First, would you talk a little about your wife’s death?”
