“I’m going to go home, grab a few hours’ sleep.”
“Good idea, I might do the same.”
Terry nodded. “I’ll come back later, and we can try to come to some kind of compromise on what to do.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Terry hesitated and then left. Doyle put his feet up and lay on the couch. He didn’t expect sleep to come, he was too jittery, his brain too active. He closed his eyes anyway, as it helped with the coming headache.
He was asleep within minutes.
***
Terry came back just after nine pm. He was excited and anxious, and sat at the kitchen table, opening the notepad he had brought with him and grinning at Doyle.
“I went back out there.” He said, eyes glittering in excitement.
“What the hell, I thought we were supposed to talk about this?”
“I know, I know, but just listen. I went out there and took some measurements.”
Doyle’s anger dissipated, and he sat at the table.
“Go on.”
Terry spun the notebook around so Doyle could see his scrawled notes.
“The cold area is still there. It’s around ten feet square. It’s about seven degrees cooler than the normal air temperature. There is definitely something there.”
“Yeah, but that still doesn’t help us with what to do about it.”
“I had a thought about that too,” Terry said.
“Go on.”
“How about this? Let me take a few more measurements, record some video, hell even record the broadcast tonight. First thing tomorrow, we report it, anonymously of course, then sit back and let the publicity build. As soon as it’s common knowledge, we can present our evidence as the first to find it.”
It wasn’t ideal, but it was more of a compromise than Doyle had expected.
“One more night, then that’s it.”
“Perfect. I brought my recording equipment. Let me set it up, make sure it’s receiving the broadcast, then we can head out there.”
“Fine,” Doyle said standing up and going to one of the cupboards in the kitchen. “But just in case, I’m taking this.”
He came back and set the handgun on the table.
“What the hell are you doing with a gun?” Terry said, glaring at the weapon.
“I got it for home protection, but I figured if nothing else, it will make me feel better to have it.”
“I don’t see why you would need it, but whatever. Just be careful you don’t get spooked and start shooting the damn thing into the night.”
“I won’t. I’m just being cautious.”
“Some might say irrational.”
“Some might say we shouldn’t be messing with something we don’t understand.” Doyle shot back.
Terry nodded and scooped up his notepad.
“I’m going to go set the recording equipment up; then we can make a move. Okay?”
“Fine. I’ll be ready.” Doyle said, as that horrible dull ache in his belly started to appear.
They were underway by ten fifteen. As before, they had the station tuned into the car stereo. Big T, he who had been shot and killed earlier that day in Doyle and Terry’s world and the evening before wherever DJ D was broadcasting from, was a guest on the show and was conducting his first live interview.
Terry looked excited; Doyle was horrified but kept his expression neutral. They arrived and parked the car. As they had agreed, they wound down the windows and turned up the radio, so they could hear the broadcast as they investigated. The conditions were the same as the night before, hot and dry and as they walked down the embankment, the feeling of dread in Doyle’s stomach increased as he looked both ways down the expanse of the tarmac where the car was parked. There was no sign of any traffic, which increased the sense of isolation. Terry marched on, rounding the corner and taking out his notepad and digital thermometer, taking readings of the air. Doyle stood and waited, half watching for anything strange, half listening to the broadcast. He wondered why Terry wasn’t afraid, or at least concerned with the enormity of the situation. It wasn’t exactly a normal everyday occurrence, and yet he had taken it all in his stride. He watched his friend, crouched in the dirt taking his readings, and the thought crossed his mind that perhaps, this was all a big joke, and Terry was in on it.
The broadcast was interrupted mid song, which got Doyle’s attention.
We interrupt this broadcast to bring you, our fans, news. We are sad to report that one of our loyal listeners, Doyle Reynolds, aged just thirty seven, passed away today.
Cold rolled down Doyle’s spine, as he turned towards the car.
It seems he got too close to something he didn’t understand, and he paid the price with his life. Rest in peace Doyle, this one goes out to you.
The Door’s track ‘The End’ filled the airwaves, and Doyle turned towards Terry.
“Holy shit, did you hear...?”
Terry was gone.
Doyle glared into the darkness, and without thinking about it pulled out the gun from his jacket and flicked off the safety.
“Hey, come on, this isn’t funny. Stop screwing around.”
He walked towards the cold spot, his eyes wide as he tried to see where his friend might be hiding. Confusion, anger, and fear raced through him as he stared into the dark. He couldn’t move, rooted to the spot by fear. The song finished, and once again, DJ D filled the airwaves.
That was Mr. Mojo Risin’ himself, Jim Morrison, who will be joining us live next week to perform a few of his classics and maybe a new song or two. Next up is…
Doyle pushed it aside, trying to ignore it and will himself to move. He took a single step, such a small thing feeling like a huge achievement.
“Damn it, Terry where the hell are you?” He screamed into the night, listening to the sound of his voice echo.
You know where he is.
The voice in his head startled him, as it had been dormant for a long time. He knew it was a bad sign that he was hearing it again, and so tried to ignore it. But it wouldn’t be silent.
Don’t think you can ignore me. I’m here to help.
“Go away.” He whispered.
You know why I’m here. You know what’s happening to you, don’t you?
“I won’t listen to you, you aren’t real.”
None of this is real. That’s the point. Whispered the voice in his head.
Doyle stared at the cold spot, then at the car. The broadcast was silent, the air filled with the static hiss of dead air.
“I don’t understand,” Doyle whispered, letting his gun arm fall to his side.
You are sick again. Remember? Like before.
He could remember snatches. A hospital bed. Medication. Therapy.
“I’m okay now, they said so....”
You never heard of a relapse?
“Terry, I need help buddy,” Doyle shouted into the night, trying to ignore the voice emanating from the centre of his brain.
Terry isn’t here.
“He is. I know he is.”
Terry’s dead. Remember?
“It’s not true, he’s here,” Doyle screamed, falling to his knees.
No, he’s dead. Dead because of you.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Doyle whispered.
It was your fault. You were the one who fucked his wife, remember?
“It wasn’t like that, we were in love…”
And when he found out, he went apeshit. Come on, help me out here. This is all buried somewhere in this head of yours.
“I can’t remember, it’s not true.”
You remember, you just had it all repressed by the shrinks. You lost it, buddy. Lost it big time.
“But why?”
Because he killed her. Terry killed his wife because of you, then he came out here, and killed himself.
“But the radio, the broadcast…”
It’s in here, just like I am. The radio station, Terry helping you out, all a fantasy, all
a failed attempt by this brain of yours to untangle the cables in here and put itself right.
“No, it can’t be.”
Really, let’s take a look at it. What was Terry’s wife called?
“She was called Dianne.”
But that wasn’t what he called her was it? Can you remember?
“Dee, everyone called her Dee.”
As in DJ D. coincidence? I doubt it. And the playlist, all dead artists, true, but also your own personal favourites.
“They played new songs, songs that shouldn’t exist.”
They didn’t. They played songs you wish had been created. It was never real. You told yourself it broadcasted from here because you know this is where Terry came to end it all after you fucked his life up.
“I don’t remember…” he wailed, openly crying.
You are broken, Doyle. I think you are going to be spending the rest of your life in the hospital, best place for you, really.
“I won’t do it, I won’t go back there.” He shouted, pounding his fist on the ground.
You don’t have a choice, a man who can’t separate reality and fantasy isn’t safe to roam the streets. I’m sorry it had to be me who told you, but somebody had to.
“No, I refuse to go back there. Not again.”
He put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. His world exploded into a haze of white light and pain as the side of his face sheared away. He lay there on the ground, his blood soaking into the sand as his ears rang. He waited for death, and was relieved when his vision faded.
***
Six years had passed since that day in the desert. The bullet had exited through Doyle’s cheek, taking with it most of his lower jaw. The surgery to repair the damage had gone as well as could be expected, but his once handsome features were gone, his ravaged face held together with screws and plates. He had been admitted to Penry Hospital following his recovery, and there he had stayed since. His routine was mundane, pills in the morning, electroshock therapy twice a week. He had a room with a view of the gardens and part of the large wall preventing patients from leaving. It was a simple life.
The voice in his head had been silent since the night he had shot himself, but he knew it was still in there, repressed by the electro-shock therapy for now, but there nonetheless.
The doctors told him he was making progress, and he wished it were true, but at night, when he was lying in the dark, strapped to his bed by the wrists and ankles, he would sometimes hear DJ D’s show, and smiled as it played one of his favourite songs.
Doyle closed his eyes and slept.
MR GHOUL’S QUAINT LITTLE GHOST TRAIN
The funfair had appeared overnight, and without warning. Potter’s Field had gone from an empty expanse of green to a dizzying kaleidoscope of colour, as rides were erected and stalls set up. Alfie Jones stared out of the window with twelve year old enthusiasm at the construction and thought that perhaps this particular Saturday wouldn’t be quite as boring as he had anticipated. He ran downstairs to the kitchen.
“Can we go to the funfair today?” He asked as he sat down and took a sip of his orange juice.
“Funfair?” Alfie’s dad said as he peered over his paper.
“Didn’t you see it?” Said Alfie’s mother as she put the bowl down in front of Alfie.
“I can’t say I did.”
“They’re set up on Potter’s Field dad,” Alfie said excitedly. “Can we go?”
Alfie’s mother and father shared a look, and then his mother gave the good news.
“I don’t see why not. Eat your breakfast and get dressed, and we’ll go over and take a look.”
“Yes!” Alfie said and began to shovel his cereal into his mouth, spilling milk onto his chin.
“Slow down, you’ll make yourself sick.”
“Sorry,” Alfie said, doing as he was told to ensure he stayed in his parent's good books.
“Would it be okay if I asked Tommy if he wanted to come?”
“Why not, that boy spends as much time here as in his own home anyway.” Alfie’s father said as he winked at his son.
“Thanks, dad.”
“Don’t get too excited yet, make sure Tommy asks his mother if he has permission first.”
“I will.”
Alfie ate the rest of his breakfast as fast as he dared without risking getting into trouble, then dressed and waited for his mother and father to hurry up and get ready. Tommy’s mother had said it was okay for him to go, and he arrived around thirty minutes later.
He and Alfie had been friends for three years. Tommy was 14 and already tall for his age. He stood awkwardly and waited for Alfie and his parents to get ready, and then the four of them headed off to the fair.
***
They were early, but the funfair was already filling up with curious people. The air was thick with the smell of hotdogs and burgers. The foursome stood at the entrance, looking at the array of rides and stalls.
“Can Tommy and I go and explore?”
“Go ahead, but be careful. And don’t leave the fairground without us.” Alfie’s father said.
“Thanks, dad.”
The two boys walked away, looking at the rides and soon disappeared into the growing crowd.
Alfie’s mother linked arms with her husband and rested her head on his shoulder.
“Well Dean, it looks like it’s just you and me.”
“Yeah, it does.” He replied. He was looking around him at the stalls and rides.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know, something seems odd about this place.”
“Funfairs are odd by design honey, that’s why kids love them.”
“No, I don’t mean that I… I don’t know.”
“Are you okay?” She asked him as a mother carrying a screaming toddler walked past them.
“I’m fine Sally. I think I just have an issue with places like this that’s all. I always found them creepy.”
She grinned at him and dragged him by the arm.
“Come on, I’ll let you win me a prize or two then you might come around.”
He grinned and dismissed whatever discomfort was there. They walked, arm in arm. The stalls were old, decorated in garish reds and blues, with dancing strip lights around the edges. There was a test your strength machine, a towering red structure with a bell on top. The couple watched as an overweight man in baggy shorts tried his luck, but came nowhere close to making the bell ring.
“Wow, I haven’t seen one of those things in years,” Dean said as he watched someone else try their luck.
“Most places aren’t as traditional as this. They have arcades and thrill rides. This seems more of an old school funfair.”
Dean nodded. His wife had hit the nail right on the head. Although it was two thousand and thirteen, this place looked like it had arrived straight out of the fifties. He looked around at the other families, who seemed to be having fun regardless. He convinced himself he was being stupid, and that, in fact, it stood to reason that if the funfair was family run, it would still have its original fittings and rides. The pair walked on, and Dean tried as best he could to relax.
For the next half hour, they ate ice cream, talked and admired the old rides and attractions. Dean had won a huge, fluffy toy rabbit on the hook-a-duck for Sally, and had already forgotten his discomfort. They had snaked their way around the attractions and were about to try their luck on the duck shooting stall when the two boys raced towards them.
“Dad, Dad!” Alfie yelled as he dived around the families who were in his path.
A surge of panic raced through Dean, and he forgot all about fairground rides and turned to his son.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” He asked.
A cloud of uncertainty passed over his son's face.
“Nothing, I just wanted to ask if we could go on the ghost train.”
Dean relaxed, and hoped that nobody had noticed his overreaction, although a quick glance towards Sally told him otherw
ise.
“Of course.” He said, trying to relax. “Go right ahead.”
“We can’t the man in charge said it’s too scary for kids. Adults have to go with them.”
“He was probably pulling your leg, Alfie,” Sally said as she tucked the toy rabbit under her arm. “It’s just to get you worked up enough to want to go on.”
“No, he’s serious. He said it’s the best and scariest ghost train in the world. You should see it.”
“Okay. Relax.” Dean said, trying to show that his earlier discomfort had gone, even if it hadn’t. “Let’s go over and take a look at this world’s scariest ghost train.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Alfie said, and then led the way.
***
The ghost train was at the very back of the Funfair and was quite spectacular. It was fronted with ornate gold angelic figures with demonic faces scowling at the customers from above. The structure itself was large and adorned with large red flashing letters which read. Mr. Ghoul’s Terror Train. The train seemed to be a three car affair, and the entrance to the ride itself was a ghastly clown face with purple hair and one pupil missing. It was quite disturbing, and it appeared that the train entered the ride through the clown's open mouth, which was part grin, part laugh, part scream. As the group approached, they were greeted by a tall, thin man dressed in full ringmaster outfit. His eyes were wide and ringed with dark makeup, and his white hair stood to attention as he interacted with the people as they passed.
“Good day folks.” He said as the four came to a halt. “I’m Mr. Ghoul, and this is the world’s most terrifying experience. See your worst fears come to life, experience your most private terrors up close and personal. Only here, on Mr. Ghoul’s horror train!” He threw his arm behind him, as he flashed a wide-eyed grin.
“How much is it?” Dean asked flatly, taking an unconscious step back from the colorful host.
“Oh, no charge sir.” The grinning host said. “It’s just a case of holding your nerve long enough to say yes!”
At The Edge of Night - 28 book horror box set - also contains a link to an additional FREE book Page 35