Horror Becomes Me

by Oldrich Stibor

  ***

  “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust,” the old priest presiding over Jim Costa's funeral said and dropped a handful of dirt on the coffin which had already been lowered into its grave.

  His widow and son and daughter and their families watched as his colleagues, family and friends one by one scooped up a tiny handful of soil and sprinkled it over his final resting place.

  Mathews approached Costa's family from out of the solemn crowd.

  “Your husband was a good man,” He said to Mrs. Costa and extended his hand. She took it limply and stifled a sob.

  “A hero. He saved a lot of lives,” he added and then went to collect a handful of soil.

  ***

  “The nightmare is finally over,” ANN's new lead anchor Julie Parson declared to the nation. “The serial killer known as Mister has finally been apprehended.

  A mug shot of Alex Cuther is transmitted to millions of people in millions of home who all turn up the volume and lean towards the screen, marvelling at the monster's true face: So normal, so like their own.

  “The ongoing FBI investigation into the identity of the killer who has terrorized the state of California for years and spawned a copy cat killer, lead to the home of Alex Cuther, the owner of the home security company First Response Alarms. A gun fight broke out between the FBI and Alex Cuther at his residence a whole three day's ago, though the details of the crime scene had been kept secret until the FBI could positivity ascertain the identity of Mr. Cuther. Authorities were not prepared until today to confirm that Alex Cuther is in fact the serial killer Mister. One FBI agent was fatally shot during the altercation at the suspects residence, two more critically wounded. More on that story shortly. Also later in the programme reports of Cannibalism in New Orleans? You heard that correctly. Cannibalism. A strange story in which some say involve a flesh eating Christian based cult.

  ***

  Cindy couldn't stop watching the news and the news couldn't stop talking about her... and him. Her parents didn't understand why she insisted on watching the endless coverage of the story. After all, she had just lived it. She didn't understand it herself. Maybe it put some space between her and it. Like somehow running it through the television screen made it not real. Like it was about someone else or it was just a movie. Maybe even the kind of movie her Aunt Mary would have made.

  'It's about making fun of death,' Mary had once explained to her and Cindy could kind of see that. It was ridiculous, dressing up death and madness in the guise of all those cartoonish movie killers. That was kids stuff. The real monsters are worst than that. Much worst. The killers in movies never had a mother, or a child, or conscience. They were just movie evil. Real evil lives in the people who had a real choice. They could have been good people if they wanted to. And that's what made them evil. The choice. Making fun of death. Sure. That was like an ant making fun of God. Maybe if people respected the power of death more, they would also have more respect for life.

  She grabbed her cell phone from her dresser and dialled Mary's number. She wanted to hear her voice and tell her she didn't blame her.

  ***

  Her phone rang four times before Mary finally leaned over it on the table to see who was calling. Poor dear Cindy. The child she never had. The child she didn't deserve. She let it ring until her voice mail picked up. Cindy was better off without her in her life. She had done enough damage. Even if she wanted to talk to someone she didn't know how to breach the ramparts of silence which she had erected around herself.

  She kept seeing Jeremy's face, the madness in his eyes. There was some kind poetic notion which kept trying to surface in her mind. Something about duality or- or... paradox, or ying-yang or who fucking knows what. She didn't want an insight. All she wanted was forgiveness.

  ***

  Mathews limped to his car, a crutch under the arm of his injured leg. That could have just as easily been him in that box. But his day would come. We all end up in the box, buried in the earth like waste where no one can see us rot. Criminal, victim, cop. Good guy, bad guy. In the box you go.

  Soon there would be another case. Another sick mind lost inside itself, spreading its sickness. Hell, there were active cases he would probably be diverted to in a day two. He was just a response to that sickness. Stuck inside his mind and choices as much as the lunatics. The antibodies society collectively builds to fight off the sickness. Maybe we live our whole lives in a box, he thought and pulled away from the cemetery.

  ***

  Four walls and a cot Solitary confinement for the rest of his life no doubt. Though what was new about that? He lived his entire life in solitary confinement. He had woken to that the truth of it a long time ago in a room no bigger than the one in which they held him in now. A cell in Pelican Bay; the bathtub of a paedophile's apartment. It was all the same thing. There was no here and there. This and that. Only it. And it was a lie. A lie only pain and suffering could break. It was a test and if he could just wake up, he would be full. He would be truly real. But The Lie was strong and it was adaptive.

  Four broken ribs a fractured hip, a crushed cheekbone and orbital, he sat on his cot in the prison infirmary, taking shallow breaths in and out in and out, wanting to laugh but resisting because of the pain it would cause. He was close -so close to being made whole. Though the closer he got the stronger The Lie became. Then he realized that perhaps on some level he didn't want to wake up. It was all a dream, the world, the no-men, all of it and as such it had its genesis in his mind. Would he miss the no-men too much, up there in heaven, just another angel in a sea of angels? Here he was with his children. Here he was God. Each person touched by his red right hand, each person named and unnamed grew from the black soil of his own heart. And he loved his children as much as he hated them. How could he leave them? The God of gods was eternal. He would always be there, waiting. But here, here in The Lie is where he wanted to be for now. It was all too much fun to leave behind. Alex knew nothing s feeble as walls could contain him. Besides, there was always the surrogates.

  EPILOGUE

  Some time passed and a man found himself alone in a bed. A man with a past. A past he couldn’t bring himself to see.

  He sat there, eyes open though was he awake? Maybe. Maybe not. One can’t be sure. Maybe it was all just a dream. Some horrible nightmare and now he could open his eyes and see again.

  The man had a life. He had things. An education, a career. The man had a son.

  He reached up and touched the coarse beard hanging from his face. Stretched his skinny and frail body feeling his bones snap and pop under his dry skin.

  He looked around at his surroundings trying to name the things he saw. A bed. Walls. A window with a view to a world he once knew.

  He ran his fingers past his chest, feeling his sternum fighting to poke free from his emancipated body and probed at a catheter.

  With a groan he pulled it free, shuddering from the pain and the sickening feeling of its contents spilling down his leg.

  And then came to a choice. To remember or return to forgetfulness. Was he ready to see again? Was he ready to be?

  He was a man with a name. A man with a son.

  The man rolled out of the hospital gurney and assumed incorrectly that his legs would hold him, his knees smashing painfully off the white linoleum.

  He struggled to get his rickety frame upright again, a skeleton learning to walk.

  Then with the shaky unsure steps of a child, he made his way out into the hallway of the hospital.

  At one end of the hall was a large window, the sun shining brightly through it whiting out the corners his vision and instinctively he moved towards it, desperately longing to feel the warmth of the sun on his skin.

  Each painful and incremental step brought him a little closer to the light. He was unaware of the hospital gown flapping behind him exposing him in the back. Didn’t care about the ringing in his head forcing him to squint from the pain. All he cared about was being in the light again.
And something deeper maybe. Something he didn’t want to try and name.

  “Mr. Foster?!” Someone said from down the hall.

  Yes, he was man with a name. His name was Foster. Dr. Jeremy Foster, and he had a son.

  He had to turn his entire body around to face the nurse because his neck was too stiff to turn on its own.

  “I… I want to walk,” he heard himself say surprised by the sound of his own voice.

  “Well that’s very, very good,” the pretty young nurse said in the tones reserved for small children. “We can go for a walk but first we need the Doctor to see you.”

  “I want to walk,” Jeremy said again and began to slowly rotate his unsteady body back towards the window at the end of the hall.

  “Okay, okay,” the young nurse said taking him gently under the arm and leading him back towards his room. “As soon as the doctor see’s you I will take you for a walk. You’ve been in bed for a very long time.”

  He wanted to resist. He wanted to tell her to just shut the fuck up. He wasn’t a child. He could cut her pretty little throat open and pull out her larynx if he wanted. He just wanted to go for a fucking walk. But he didn’t have the strength. He let her guide him back to his bed where she lifted the bars on either side so he couldn’t roll free again.

  Several minutes later a Doctor appeared in the door way.

  “I’m Doctor Corntagier,” he said sidling up to Jeremy’s bed. “How are you feeling?”

  Jeremy didn’t know how he was feeling so he simply stared.

  “Do you know your name.”

  “Jeremy.”

  A man with a name. A man with a son.

  “Yes. Your full name?”

  “Doctor Jeremy Foster.”

  “Do you know what year it is Dr. Foster?”

  “Twenty fifteen.”

  “Good. How do you feel?”

  “I’m thirsty… I… I want to go for walk.”

  “Yes,” the doctor smiled. “I hear you already went for a bit of one. That’s good. That’s very, very good Jeremy.”

  “I just want to walk.”

  “I know,” the doctor said and patted him on the shoulder. “We will get you up for a walk shortly.”

  He then went about examining him, he checked his eyes, his pulse, his heart.

  “Are you hungry?” he said when he was finished. “We’ve been feeding you intravenously. We need to get some real food in you.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Jeremy croaked.

  “oh you are. Trust me. You just don’t know it. I’ll have them bring you something to eat and then how about we go for that walk?”

  It was dark again and Jeremy was alone in the hospital bed. He could sense his mind trying to think. He could sense the thoughts he couldn’t let be, fighting to be.

  He had a son. Where was his son? Where was his boy?

  The door to his room glided open and a tall man with a buzz cut strided in with a folder tucked under his arm. He wasn’t a doctor. He was someone else. Someone he knew from another life.

  The man with the folder pulled a chair next to Jeremy’s bed and sat down. They locked eyes, just looking at each other for a long time. Jeremy didn’t mind. He had nowhere to go. If this man had something to say he could speak but Jeremy didn’t.

  “I told them to call me if you ever came to your senses again… You look like shit Foster.”

  Jeremy blinked.

  “You have come to your senses, right?”

  “I don’t like you,” Jeremy said suddenly remember his disposition towards this man. “What do you want Mathews?”

  “There you are Foster. That’s more like it,” he smiled all teeth and fangs. “I didn’t think you’d ever snap out of it. And I wouldn’t blame you really. If I had done the things you done…”

  Yes, he was a man with a past. He had done things hadn’t he? Horrible things.

  “I have son,” Jeremy muttered and there was a flash of sympathy in Mathew’s cold eyes.

  “What do you remember?” Mathews asked.

  “I… I remember I don’t like. And you don’t like me. So why are you here?”

  “What else do you remember?” Mathew’s said gently.

  “My son is dead.” Jeremy said with a sudden sob.

  Mathews turned away and gave him a moment to collect himself.

  “A lot of people are dead,” he said eventually. “I know what happened. And I don’t blame you. Not entirely. I saw the tapes he sent you. What he had done to Charlie.”

  Yes, he had a son. His name was Charlie. His son was Charlie. Charlie was his son.

  Mathews sat there and watched as the memories came down like a barrage of punches on Jeremy. Watched as he tried to slip back into whatever dark corner of the mind he had been hiding these last few months, and failed.

  “I… I…” Jeremy started but didn’t know what to say.

  “The Bureau is paying for your care,” Mathews said. “Only three people knew what you’ve done and one of them is dead. Jim. Jim Costa.”

  Jeremy’s eyes flashed on Agents Costa’s corpse in Alex Cuther’s –Mister’s house.

  “I remember,” Jeremy nodded.

  “I didn’t know what I was going to do about it. I thought about leaking it but the damage it would do the bureau – well, it would be a fucking circus show. I even thought about coming in here late at night and killing you myself. But then I thought about those tapes. What you saw… I don’t have any kids so I can only imagine. Imagine what I would do if I was in your position. I don’t have what’s inside of you, inside of me. Thank god. But still… I’m going to let you live Jeremy. I’m going to let you just be. As long as you stay put. You stay here in the funny farm, eating pudding and watching game shows and you won’t have to worry about me. But if you step out those doors…. Jeremy if you step out those doors I will put you in the ground.”

  And then Jeremy could feel the world darkening on him again. The wombish embrace of forgetfulness start to close in on him and take him away from the pain. Mathews must have been able to see the animal dumbness creep back into his eyes again because he got up to leave.

  He was a man. A man with a son. Charlie his boy. Charlie was dead and he was never coming home. And there was nothing he could ever do to fix that.

  Jeremy managed to cling to one last scrap of awareness.

  “What’s in the folder?” He asked Mathew’s who was already at the door. He never replied.

  ***

  Mathews walked briskly towards the elevator, glad to be out of the room and away from Foster and his dead eyes. He took the folder full of pictures of Foster’s victims and dumped them into the garbage before getting on the elevator. Showing them to him would was unnecessary, he was clearly already broken.

  CONCLUSION

  Thank you so much for downloading and reading this book! We realize that this may not be the type of story that one can ‘enjoy’ but we certainly hope you can say it was entertaining.

  At Red Right Hand Publishing we put a lot of hard work into all our books. You will never find us pushing out content we don’t believe in just to make a quick buck.

  If you liked this book would you be so kind as to leave a review here? Every review counts and is the lifeblood of our success.

  Finally, if you liked this story and would like to learn what ultimately becomes of Dr. Jeremy Foster, feel free to contact the author Oldrich Stibor directly at oldrich.author@gmail.com and let him know, or just leave a quick comment about how you felt about his book. Thanks again for reading!

  Also by Oldrich Stibor

  FEAR THE MONKEY KING

  Remmy was at home in bed with Betts, shivering on the outskirts of their mattress and glaring at her in the promise land of bedding of warm wool and cotton.

  Somewhere in the onset of sleep he finally heard the monkey cry. And this time he was sure it was definitely–definitely monkeys. The low grunting accompanied by the shrill screeching was unmistakable. With each animal cry a piece
of him melted with relief. It wasn't all in his mind after all. It was the sound of his sanity.

  Remy rolled out of bed, grabbed a shirt and pyjama pants from the floor and moved ninja fast and silent to the hallway where he found his slippers and slippered himself out the front door and down the stairs with near-android accuracy, three steps a second.

  The night air was balmy and sticky and quiet. Even the odd car passing by seemed slow and sleepy in its progress. It wasn't until he got all the way to the sidewalk that he realized his shirts was on inside out, though it was one of Betts sleeping t's and had a picture of a cartoon duck or something on it so inside out was right side in for him anyways.

  He cocked his head as though his ear was a satellite dish he was angling for reception. This is silly he thought. Though he would feel a lot less silly if he could just figure out where the damn monkey noise was coming from. His heart was thumping so desperately he could feel his pulse in his neck. His hands had become moist like two limp fish hanging awkwardly down by his waist.

  Again the cry of pissed off monkeys cut through the urban night noise and Remy sped off in the direction he thought it was coming from. He flip flapped his slippers off the pavement for some time, less and less hopeful he was traveling in the right direction with every flat footed slap. There were too many flat surfaces and corners and sound ping ponged too easily to be able to get a feel for where the sound was coming from.