At The Edge of Night - 28 book horror box set - also contains a link to an additional FREE book

by Bray, Michael

  I found out who tried to have me killed, and dealt with them accordingly. All off the books you understand, all away from the prying eyes of the public. I never did anything myself of course. I’m not a hands on kind of guy. But I gave strict instructions to the people I paid to do it to make sure the son of a bitch suffered before he died. If anything, the assassination attempt only served to increase my popularity with the public, and in turn, the fear amongst my political peers.

  I can hear them now outside, banging on the door and trying to get in. I have barred it though. Barred it good. The headache is throbbing behind my eyes, and the office suddenly seems too bright, too harsh. I long for quiet, I long for an end to everything. My chief of staff is lying face down on the floor, the blood pooling around his head soaking into the blue deep pile carpet. The gun on my desk is a magnum, just like the one Clint Eastwood used to use when he played Dirty Harry. I want to make sure you see. I want to make sure there is no comeback.

  Less than a minute to go. I better wrap this up.

  I Became president last year. Me, Dillon Brooks, president of the United States of America! Who would have thought it? It was a landslide victory. I thought that I owed it to myself to at least try to put things right without resorting to the extreme measures that I have now put into place, but I found that even with the title of president, I couldn’t solve everything. Sure enough I might, over time, be able to change a few things for the better, but the world had become a cancer, and the vile roots of those who controlled it went deep. Plus, there were the other countries too. The ones intent on destroying the planet. Our natural resources are depleting. Oceans are rising. Overpopulation is becoming a problem. But at no point has anyone decided to try and change things. Only by purging the planet can we change things for the better. Only by making sure that future generations have a chance, can we rest easy.

  The voices on the other side of the office door are getting louder now, and I’m sure they will soon break through. It’s already too late, though. There is no stopping this now.

  Time to wrap this up.

  The genesis project is a top secret weapons program. People think that the atomic bomb is the be all and end all, and so did i. but it turns out we never stopped developing our weapons capability, and Genesis makes the nuke look like a firecracker. I’m not sure how it works, something about charging the oxygen in the air and making it volatile. It was never launched because there was no way to control how much of the oxygen it would burn. It was shelved and labelled as unsafe, but I had the power to restart the program. I poured as much money as I could into it. My advisors asked how I intended to afford it but never pressed too hard. Maybe because they trusted my judgement, or maybe because word had gone around about my ruthless streak. Either way, it doesn’t matter now. I can already hear the rumble in the distance and the sky has gone dark.

  I didn’t realise quite how powerful the blast would be, it’s frightening how large that wave is, that wall of fire racing towards me. I have the gun of course but that doesn’t seem fair anymore. I only got it in case things went wrong, so they couldn’t send me to trial. I know now that I won’t need it. Nothing could survive this. Nothing at all. Besides, I don’t think my family would have approved of me wimping out and not dealing with the situation I caused. That’s not my way. I can see it coming now out of the window, a column of fire as far as I can see, the rumble shaking the photographs off the walls. Even the banging on the door has stopped. I think they know as well as I do that there is nothing to be done. It’s so beautiful.

  I hope it’s quick.

  50/50

  He stood on the ledge at the top of the Seaburn Hotel, the toes of his shoes hanging over the edge of oblivion. Death used to scare him, but not anymore. Now he was relaxed, arms at his sides as the wind rocked him on his heels and threatened to displace him with each fierce gust.

  He had been trying to kill himself for three years.

  The first time he tried, he was nineteen. It wasn’t even because he was depressed, or mentally damaged or any of those other bullshit excuses. He had simply decided that he no longer wanted to live. He kept it to himself, a dirty secret which wasn’t something to bring up in conversation, but from the moment he had decided he wanted to die, he knew what he had to do to make it easier on those around him. He distanced himself from his small circle of friends to the point where they had started to ignore him as he passed in the street. He knew they pointed and laughed and called him a weirdo, and he was glad, as it was just another thing that would help to make it easier to go ahead with it.

  He looked at the cars forty stories below, a stop start procession of people going home from work, or heading out to meet family or friends to eat dinner, people who were looking forward to futures filled with meaningless objects and jobs they hate. He wondered how could they be so stupid, how could they stomach living in such a shallow, pathetic way with bodies filled with parasites and bacteria, cancers and tumours. He wondered how they couldn’t see that humans as a species, like a plague of locusts were ravaging the planet and making it uninhabitable for future generations. He was angry, sad, and frustrated.

  Back in the beginning, when he was certain that his friends were suitably alienated and he was alone, he put his plan into action and tried to hang himself.

  He bought a good length of strong rope and taught himself how to make a noose, then tied the rope to the upstairs bannister rail of the house. The rope snapped the first time he tried, and he landed on the floor frustrated and angry with nothing more than a grazed knee and a sprained ankle.

  Determined not to be denied, he tried again, this time, he bought thicker, stronger rope and headed deep into the woods, looking for a strong tree from which to end his life. Although the rope held, the death he craved still didn’t come.

  For twelve hours he hung there, waiting to die. There was no pain. No struggling for breath even though the rope was embedded deeply into his neck. Eventually, a passer-by cut him down, and he managed to slink away before medical attention could arrive, or awkward questions from the authorities could be asked.

  No matter what he tried, the results were the same. He slit his wrists, but where he knew there should be great gouts of blood, there was nothing but a small trickle which quickly stopped. He could feel the pain, and had certainly gone deep enough, but the precious red stuff was stubbornly staying in his veins.

  He spent more and more time in the seedy, red light areas of town, the places where bad things happen to people. He did so without fear, for death was something he craved more than ever. Eventually, he was able to source some Grade A heroin. Although he had never done the drug before, he knew that any information was available on the internet, and after a little research, he cooked it up and filled the syringe with way more than he knew was survivable. He didn’t hesitate, or consider the consequences, and injected it into his arm.

  He lapsed into a warm, hazy cocoon of pure joy, and was sure that he had at last succeeded, embracing the numb bliss of his high.

  But as always, it didn’t work, and he had come round a few hours later, nauseous and frustrated.

  The story was almost exactly the same with the sleeping pill overdose that he tried the next day, only this time he was sick, and when there was nothing left to throw up, he had wept and wished that whatever was keeping him alive would just let him die in peace.

  Again, he postponed his death, and did more research, hoping to find something he had missed, some reason for his continued existence. His depression grew deeper, and he started to hang around in the dangerous parts of town, provoking people into fights, trying to get himself stabbed or shot, anything to bring his life to an end. On two occasions he had been threatened with a knife, only for his attacker to lose his nerve and leave. Another time, a mugger shot at him, but something went wrong, and the bullet ricocheted off the lighter in his jacket pocket, embedding itself into the wall.

  By then, he wasn’t even surprised anymore and laughed a
s the mugger fled back under whichever rock he had crawled from. If anything, his failure to die had increased his determination to succeed.

  That was in the past, though, and now he was determined to make this next attempt count. He leaned forward to look over the edge of the roof, enjoying the dizzy, giddy rush of adrenaline which surged through him. The street resembled nothing more than a thin pencil line from all the way up here, and he wondered how long he would free-fall for before he hit the ground. He tried to ignore the possibility that he might still be alive when he hit the ground, but the idea was there, all the same, lingering in his subconscious.

  He sighed, licking his lips as the wind ruffled his hair. He had tried high impact death before, sure that it would work, but when a speeding car throwing him up into the air didn’t do the trick, he tried stepping in front of a train instead. Although he was tossed further and higher, his body spinning like a ragdoll before skidding across the ground, he was unhurt and able to get up, dust himself off and walk away as the disbelieving onlookers pointed and stared as if he was some kind of freak, and he supposed, in some respects, he was.

  The wind tugged at him on his perch, and although his instinct told him to grab the edge of the roof, he forced himself to keep his hands at his sides, almost willing the elements to make the decision for him and drag him away to the death that he craved.

  Here it comes.

  He thought to himself as he felt his weight shifting, tipping over towards the dizzying fall, but like a door slamming in his face, a secondary gust which came against the direction of the wind, pushed him back to safety.

  He felt a stab of fury at again being denied another chance to die, and then he calmed and took a deep breath. He didn’t believe in god, but he prayed anyway, because, on the slim chance that there was someone listening, he wanted to plead his case.

  “Please.” He said softly, his words snatched from his mouth by the wind.

  “Please just let me die.”

  He waited, breath held, staring at the rolling thunderheads above for some kind of response. Twenty seconds passed. Then a minute. He shook his head and smiled.

  Of course, there was no answer.

  Nobody was listening, and the world ticked on as normal, and that in itself was the problem with the world as a whole. Everyone out for themselves, never looking at the bigger picture. Why could only he see it? Either way, it didn’t matter. It was time.

  This was his last chance, his last attempt to leave this cruel, shithole world to its own devices. An idea popped into his head, a single thought appearing from nowhere.

  If I survive, I’ll give life a try.

  It certainly wasn’t something he had ever considered before, and he wondered if this was indeed an answer from whatever was manipulating him into continuing his life.

  And what if you do?

  He asked himself in his head.

  What if you fall, and hit the ground then just appear back up here on the ledge, or at home in your bed, or worse, you hit the floor and break every bone in your body, and live on as a cripple?

  He shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t think so. He was pretty sure by now it didn’t work that way. Whatever was pulling the strings wouldn’t have him suffer, it wasn’t its way. Whatever it was, wanted him to live, and not be a broken, brain damaged thing lying in a bed for the rest of his days. It was a flip of a coin, a 50/ 50 chance. It reminded him of the time he had tried to shoot himself and every bullet in the chamber had failed to fire. If whatever was responsible had meant for him to exist as a cripple, then one of the bullets would have done the job, or the asphyxia from the hanging attempt would have done just enough damage to his brain to leave him a drooling thing unable to communicate.

  No.

  Something wanted him mobile, active, able to do whatever it was that he was supposed to do. Whatever it was, this was the best way to test the theory.

  “Okay.” He said, his voice barely audible against the fury of the wind. “It’s a deal.”

  The wind roared and tugged at him, his coat flapping against his legs as he composed himself.

  50/50. Live or die. Such a simple choice.

  He smiled, hoping that the outcome would be the one he wanted, and also considering what the hell he would do with his life if it didn’t. It was an exciting proposition, though, and that was something that he hadn’t experienced for some time.

  He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and stepped off the edge.

  THE BIRTHDAY

  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 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 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 hit something living.

  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 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.