Terror Scribes

by Adam Lowe

  “Sarah, I’m not your GP, but I really think you should let me refer you to one of my colleagues.”

  “You think it’s me? That I have the problem?” Sarah pushed Rothkiss away and stepped back from him.

  Rothkiss cut off her retreat. “I think that Marcus needs help, but you need it too. It’s a lot of pressure that you’ve put yourself under, but you don’t need to do it alone.”

  “It’s not him. Why won’t you believe me? He looks like Marcus, and talks like him, except when he thinks I’m not watching. But it’s not. He’s not.”

  “Sarah! Will you listen to yourself? If we were living in the Middle Ages, you’d be burning him as a witch. Or possessed by the Devil! This is not rational thinking!”

  “Rational? He went to sleep Marcus Hales and woke up . . . I don’t know who.”

  Three

  He never touched her again. Not physically, anyway. But her mind, on the other hand . . . He had ways of getting into her head that no psychologist could untangle, no matter how many referrals she took up. He had her conditioned, and played her guilt like a Stratocaster. Guilt over her part in making him the man he had become. For his own amusement, he started to bring other women back to the flat when Sarah was home. For the most part, once he got them inside the door, one look at Sarah sitting there, and they were away again. A bit of no-strings attached infidelity was one thing, but most lost the taste for it when the injured party was standing in front of them. Most. He would email her links to XXXTube videos of him fucking other women in their bed, but they did not achieve the desired effect he was looking for. After the first one, she stopped opening them. So he sent them to her friends. Bingo. Isolated from any relationships outside of the flat, Sarah had no respite from it.

  One thing that Sarah did pick up from her sessions with the headshrinker, was that she stopped thinking about him in ways that set alarm bells ringing with the medical professionals. Or at least, she stopped talking about it. She found coping mechanisms. She never called him by name. She did nothing to anger him, but no longer rose to his baiting. Like a toy he’d grown bored with, he dropped her, and mostly found his pleasures outside. Mostly.

  He had done such a good job on her, whispering poisonously in the night, that she was still tied to him, unable to just pack her things and leave. It was nothing to do with fear that he might come after her. She had always had a stubborn streak, and would not give up when she set her mind to a task. As a girl, she nursed a duck with a broken wing back to health. Sarah’s father told her he would put it to sleep humanely. It would not suffer, he promised. But she set her jaw, and even then, he knew better than to argue with her. So it was he who went to the vet and browbeat them into giving him antibiotics for the bird, and Sarah made Quakers her pet project. In some altogether creepier symbiotic manner, ‘Marcus’ was her new pet project. Like the duck’s wing, the car accident had broken Sarah and Marcus, and she would knit them together again, no matter who tried to get between them. Or who made any attempt to offer help.

  And then one day, like many a bully, he took it too far. He crossed the line that must not be crossed, and something ignited in Sarah. A purifying flame. A moment of clarity. The scar tissue that had formed around her under the barrage of mental torture was now her armour against his forked tongue. His barbed accusations could not penetrate her chainmail. The guilt he had traded as currency was spent. There was no more to be had. Lying prone in their formerly shared bed, with her kitchen knife to his throat, he looked into Sarah’s eyes, and she into his. Something passed between them; some moment of revelation, and then they were free. Without a single word passing between them, or any form of protest—the blade remained in Sarah’s hand, but it was unnecessary—he quickly threw on jeans, boots and a zip-up hoodie, and left.

  Sarah watched through the venetian blinds at the bedroom window. He did not even slam the door as a parting ‘fuck you’ gesture, but as he stood under the street light, he looked up at the window, right through her. Nothing of Marcus remained. Sarah drew back into the shadows, but saw him pull up his hood, shrouding his face within the night. And then from somewhere within, he summoned up an unnatural wail. It was the urgent yelp of a mating urban vixen, the hiss of steam escaping from a pipe, a crying polecat struggling with razor wire, the drone of an insistent car alarm; it was all of these things and none of them. It bounced around the houses for a minute, causing Sarah to shudder involuntarily. As the last echoes faded away, another voice picked up the refrain. And more. And yet more, both nearby and distant. As he loped off into the darkness, he was not alone.

  Epilogue

  Sunday morning. Just after eight o’clock. Sarah counted off the street lights, one every other house. She clutched an envelope in one hand and a single white rose in the other. A fresh one, this time, kept overnight in some water. As she approached number 68, she noticed that the new tenants had retired the old metal bin in favour of a wheelie-bin and a regimented set of different coloured recycling bags. Going up to the next street light, Sarah rifled through the pocket of her coat, and withdrew a couple of plastic gardening ties, which she used to affix the flower to the lamp at her eye-level. When she was sure it was firmly attached, she opened the envelope and brought out a photograph of Marcus with her in happier times. Both of them were making bunny ears behind the other’s head. She lost herself in memories for a few seconds, letting the emotion well up in her, and then took out the remaining item from the envelope, a prewritten Sherwood Florist message card, and fixed them both to the flower with ribbon through punch-holes she had prepared earlier. She admired her handiwork, sniffed back the tears as she kissed her forefinger before touching it to Marcus’ image in the photograph. Job done, she turned and went home, without looking back.

  ‘Lost to me now, but I’ll remember you always. “Lizzie” xxx’

  Jay Eales is the editor of Violent! and the publisher of The Girly Comic for Factor Fiction. His comics have also appeared in Negative Burn, The Mammoth Book of Best New Manga and The British Fantasy Society Journal. He was News Features Editor for the award-winning Borderline – The Comics Magazine, and his fiction published in Drabble Who? (Beccon Publishing), Murky Depths (House of Murky Depths) and Faction Paradox: A Romance in Twelve Parts (Obverse Press). Forthcoming in 2012: Alt Zombie (Hersham Horror) (contributor) and Faction Paradox: Burning with Optimism’s Flames (Obverse Books) (editor). Forthcoming in 2013: Dark Adapted Eyes (editor/contributor) from Factor Fiction. Website: factorfictionpress.co.uk.

  Mister Death

  by Paul Bradshaw

  It was almost dark when the dead came knocking at the door. They always came at that time, although Glade was puzzled by it. After all, no-one could see them except him.

  Glade opened the door hesitantly, and came face to face with two of them, a tall one and a short one, both male. He knew at once that they were the dead. An eerie coldness emanated from them. He felt it wafting his way like an icy invisible cloud.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked them.

  ‘Are you him?’ asked the tall one. His eyes were so dark, and seemed to dig right into Glade’s like strange daggers.

  ‘Am I who?’ Glade replied, acting dumb.

  ‘You know,’ urged the tall man. ‘The one.’

  ‘I can’t help you,’ Glade said, and began to close the door.

  The tall one placed his large foot in front of the door, preventing Glade from closing it.

  ‘We know you’re him,’ the short one said. ‘Mister Death.’

  ‘We want you to do it,’ the tall one said. ‘We’re desperate!’

  ‘Everyone is desperate,’ said Glade. ‘I can’t go around helping everyone.’

  ‘We don’t want you to help everyone,’ said the short one. ‘Just us. Please.’

  Glade had no intention of helping them. He wished that he had never acquired the gift he had. He wished that he had never become Mister Death, or whatever it was they called him.

  ‘I’m not the one you wan
t,’ he told the dead men finally. ‘I can’t help you, I’m afraid. I just can’t.’

  He looked the tall one directly in the eye, defiant that he would not help them. The coldness about them was intimidating, and caused him to shiver slightly.

  After a few seconds the tall man reluctantly removed his foot from in front of the door, not taking his gaze away from Glade’s. This enabled Glade to close the door at last, which he did. He watched the pair slowly walk down the pathway to the gate, and disappear, as if into thin air.

  Glade’s heart was beating swiftly. He staggered into the lounge and flopped on to the settee. He knew the dead could not harm him, but still the encounter had been quite scary. He always found the dead to be scary.

  He closed his eyes, as suddenly he felt very tired. A disturbing exhaustion had been creeping up on him the last few months. He knew the cause, and wished to God that he had never become the monster they referred to as Mister Death.

  The next morning Glade made his way to the tea shop. He had enjoyed a long night’s sleep and was feeling utterly refreshed. It was a cool day, and he hugged his greatcoat tightly to his body as he strolled across the pavement.

  The bell tingled as he entered the shop, and he ventured over to the table by the window that he always sat at. The middle-aged waitress smiled at him as he caught her eye, and he smiled back. Shortly she came over to him and he ordered the usual pot of tea.

  It wasn’t long before Susan arrived. Glade saw her approaching from across the road, and lingered on her form as she finally came into the tea shop. She joined him at the table by the window and they exchanged greetings, a kiss upon the cheek and a big hug.

  Glade was so happy to see her. It seemed so long since they last met, even though it had just been a couple of days. She ordered tea, as Glade had, and settled down for a morning chat and a catch up.

  ‘I see the Germans are advancing,’ she said grimly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Glade. ‘Denmark and Norway, according to the radio.’

  He did not wish to discuss the war. He merely wished to enjoy her company, admire her beauty, gaze into her eyes, and hold her up close.

  He watched as she sipped tea. She had removed her long coat to reveal a fetching pink and white dress. Glade reckoned she was the loveliest girl in the world.

  ‘Something’s troubling you,’ he said at last.

  She smiled awkwardly. ‘You know me so well,’ she replied.

  ‘Yes I do,’ said Glade. ‘Please tell me.’

  She placed her teacup on to her saucer, and reached over to grab a hold of Glade’s hands, which she gripped in hers.

  ‘It’s Amelia,’ she told him, staring him directly in the yes.

  Amelia; Susan’s younger sister. Glade had spotted her several times when he had been at their house.

  ‘What about her?’ Glade enquired.

  Susan bit her lip slightly. ‘She is going to die,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow. She’ll be hit by a tram.’

  Glade shuddered. Of course he was aware of Susan’s gift, which was more of a curse than a gift at times. It was part of the reason they had been drawn together, the both of them being unique to the world.

  ‘That’s terrible!’ said Glade. ‘You saw a vision?’

  It was a silly question. It was obvious that she had seen a vision. Glade was so shocked that he was becoming confused in his head. All he could picture was Amelia. an image inside his brain of that sweet young girl.

  Seconds later, when he had recovered from the shock, he noticed a young man had approached their table and was standing right beside him and Susan. Glade was startled. He knew at once that this was one of the dead.

  ‘You are Mister Death, aren’t you?’ the man asked.

  Glade saw that the man was in a soldier’s uniform, and an awful iciness surrounded him as with all the dead. He seemed to have appeared from nowhere at all.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Glade whispered. ‘I can’t help you.’

  Susan was staring across the table, and Glade knew that she realised what was taking place. She had known him for so long. She herself was not able to actually see dead people, only him.

  The young soldier appeared to accept Glade’s response immediately. He initially glared at Glade before turning his back and wandering away toward the exit to the tea shop. As he did so Glade spotted that the back of his head had been blown away, and that what was left of his brain was clotted thick with dried blood.

  ‘He’s gone,’ Glade told Susan.

  ‘Who was it?’ she asked.

  Glade told her. She seemed somewhat disturbed, yet Glade was not concerned about the soldier, he was thinking of young Amelia.

  ‘How old is Amelia?’ he asked Susan.

  ‘Thirteen,’ she told him. ‘I saw it clearly. The tram hits her full on. She dies almost instantly.’

  ‘When did you receive the vision?’

  ‘This morning,’ Susan said. ‘It was just before I awoke. That’s normally when I get them. It was horrible, Peter.’

  Glade grabbed her hand again, holding it tightly under his.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he assured her. ‘It’s going to be alright. I promise.’

  Susan nodded, tears arriving to her eyes.

  ‘What time does it happen?’ asked Glade.

  ‘Just before three in the afternoon.’

  ‘Ok, well don’t worry. I’ll be there.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘I promise.’

  Susan reached for a handkerchief and began to dab at her eyes, wiping off the wetness around them.

  ‘You’re my hero,’ she told him.

  ‘Not a hero at all. I love you.’

  Glade slept soundly that night. The dead had come knocking again but he had ignored it. He required a good night’s sleep so that he could be refreshed for the next day.

  He awoke as light dawned, and as he lay between the sheets he thought of his gift, and the time he had first discovered he had it. He was like a young boy in a sweet shop then; he just wanted to use it as much as he was able to. When the dead came knocking he had never refused. Then the more he helped them the more people found out about it, and there was no stopping them, and no stopping him. He helped them all the more, dozens of them, hundreds of them. He thought he could use the gift as often as he wanted to.

  Until that day he looked into the mirror; the day he noticed what was happening to him. He was supposed to be a young man, but resembled someone much older. Each time he helped the dead a little bit of his own life was squeezed out of him. He had shrunk away from that mirror in horror.

  He had learnt the error of his ways; the lesson that with his gift there came a price.

  Presently he arose, and got ready for the day. He sat on the settee, and watched the grandfather clock in the corner of the room as it ticked by. The radio was playing quietly. He listened to reports of Hitler’s abominations. He did not take his eyes away from the clock though, and shortly before three in the afternoon he arose from the settee, snatched his greatcoat from the hall, and left the house to head into town.

  When he got to the trams in the town centre he immediately spotted the commotion that was taking place there. A group of citizens was gathered at the tram-lines, and much shouting and wailing was going on. He ran up to the crowd, and pushed to the front.

  ‘I’m a doctor!’ he lied. ‘Move away, I’m a doctor!’

  The group dispersed slightly, so that he was able to see what was occurring. He began to tremble when he saw the prone form of young Amelia lying beside the tracks. He knew at once that she was dead.

  He knelt down, and reached out for her.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he heard someone cry out.

  ‘She’s dead! She’s dead!’ someone else shouted.

  ‘Quiet!’ yelled Glade. ‘I’m a doctor. She’s not dead. She’s going to be alright.’

  He gathered her cold body in his arms, and as he held her close he placed his warm palm upon her forehead. He could feel the death i
n her; it was icy cold and horrendous.

  ‘Sssshhh,’ he assured her. ‘You’re going to be alright. You’re going to be alright.’

  He felt the gift working inside him. It was lurching right through him, building up through his guts, and causing him to retch a little. It was like an absurd thrill, swimming through him, like a bizarre rollercoaster ride. He could see a strange glow arrive to the top of Amelia’s head, as the gift coursed through him, transferring over to the lifeless form of the young girl, a lifeless form that was quickly becoming a form filled with life once more.

  He felt weak and faint, but still held her close, as voices rang around him, voices that were intermingling, not making any sense.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault!’ he heard someone say. ‘She just stepped right in front! It wasn’t my fault!’

  Then Glade saw Amelia’s eyes snap right open, and she gasped loudly. Her body had become warm in his arms, and as he continued to hold her right up to his bosom he suddenly felt quaintly nauseous, and collapsed unconscious to the ground, noises reverberating around him.

  When Glade woke up he was in some bed in a strange place that he didn’t know. The sheets were all white, so were the walls, and a weird surgical smell pervaded. He then realised that he was in a hospital; and when he glanced up he spotted six ghostly forms standing by the bed, all of them without clothing.

  He was immediately taken aback.

  One of the forms reached out to him, an old female with bulging eyes.

  ‘Help us,’ she pleaded. ‘We know who you are. Mister Death. Please help us.’

  Glade then understood that they were the dead, and they had come up all the way from the morgue.

  ‘I can’t help you,’ he said weakly. ‘Please go away.’