Horror Library, Volume 5

by Boyd E. Harris R. J. Cavender

  I frowned.

  It wasn’t rain at all; it was snow.

  That’s when I hit something, and the front of the van crumpled like an accordion. The sudden impact hurled me out of my seat and through the windshield in a spray of glass. I must have blacked out for a moment. When I came to, I found myself splayed on the hood like a hunter’s fresh-killed deer. I rolled off the wreck, landing hard on my hands and knees, broken glass–what wasn’t studded in my face and my hands–raining off me. I looked to see what I’d hit, blinking through a mask of blood, snowflakes sticking to my face like a white beard.

  I must’ve been dazed. I couldn’t understand it. The front end of the van was crushed like a tin can against an invisible wall, steam hissing from the mangled radiator. I hauled myself up, too numb and shaken to feel the pain, and groped like a blind man towards it. My hands hit something like glass. I started back in shock, and saw my bloody handprints just hanging there in mid-air. I watched as the blood trickled down the glass and stained the snow. It was coming down hard now, starting to settle on the ground. I backed away from the wall, shaking my head in disbelief. I craned my neck to see how high the wall went. Looked left and right to see how far it stretched. I didn’t like what I saw; I had a sudden image of a beetle trapped under a bell jar. My stomach lurched and my heart started racing. I don’t like tight places; it’s why me and the Big House never got along. I looked back towards town, but all I could see was blizzard, and I didn’t trust my ankle to carry me that far.

  Fighting off panic, I scrabbled in the snow for something to break the glass. I found a good-sized rock, and pounded at the glass wall like I was back at the honor ranch busting rocks on the chain gang. I hit it again and again, until the impact jarred the rock from my frozen, bloody hands. But I hadn’t even scratched the glass. I sank to my knees, slumped against the wall, and began to sob.

  When I looked up next, the glass had fogged with steam from the wrecked van engine. I cleared a porthole with the elbow of my jacket, and then cupped my hands to the glass and peered through. I prayed that on the other side I’d see the railway track, but knew in my heart that I wouldn’t. My vision warped. It was like peering through the wrong end of binoculars, or a goldfish bowl. Everything was distorted, magnified. Suddenly I felt very small. I was looking down into the store; the old woman was lying where I’d left her on the floor. Her head, haloed with blood, was turned slightly towards me, her face shrouded with the bib of her apron. If I hadn’t covered her face with the bib of the apron, her dead eyes would be looking up at the souvenir shelf.

  At the snow globes–and at me, imprisoned behind a domed wall of glass.

  Adam Howe is an English writer of screenplays and fiction. Writing as Garrett Addams, his short story “Jumper” was chosen by Stephen King as the winner of the On Writing contest. His short fiction has appeared, or is due to appear, in Nightmare, Beware The Dark, One Buck Horror, and Bete Noire.

  -Intruders

  by Taylor Grant

  Sara hadn’t experienced this side of him during the two years they had been lovers. Though it unnerved her, she did her best not to show it.

  “Are you okay to talk now?” she said.

  “I think so,” he said, his voice still shaky. “Can I get a refill?”

  “Of course.” Sara took the empty ceramic cup from him. It was his third coffee so far, mixed with a touch of Amaretto to take the edge off.

  Sara moved about her well-organized kitchen, her mind racing with questions. Why in the world would Mason show up five years after falling off the face of the earth? And of all the places in the world to hide out, why pick her apartment? Most importantly, who was chasing him? And what did he expect her to do about it?

  She reentered the living room balancing an overfull cup, and noticed Mason lying back on the couch. He ran his fingers through his thick, wavy hair and she remembered how he always did that after a great lovemaking session; she felt her cheeks grow warm at the thought.

  Mason always had that effect on her. And despite the fact that he was narcissistic, noncommittal, and could have won an award for world’s worst boyfriend, he was the best sex partner she’d ever had.

  “Thank you,” he said. She could tell he meant it. There was a refreshing vulnerability in his eyes that made him more attractive–if that was humanly possible.

  “All right,” Sara said with a deep exhalation. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  Mason sat up and took the coffee. “You’ll think I’ve lost my mind.”

  “Says the guy at my door at three in the morning screaming for his life.” She was trying to lighten the situation, but it wasn’t working.

  She sat down close to him on the leather couch and put her hand on top of his. It was warm, and his skin was still as soft as she remembered. “Sorry. You know I make bad jokes when I’m scared.”

  “You should be scared.”

  “Of what?

  “Of…things.”

  Sara scowled, not sure where this could possibly be going.

  “The kind of things that can drive a person mad.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t…”

  “Of course you don’t. You have no context.” He took a measured sip of coffee and continued, “I don’t have all the answers. But I can tell you what I know. I owe you that much.”

  Sara took a deep breath, wondering what he could really owe her after all this time. “Should I make myself a drink?”

  “Not a bad idea.”

  Sara made a beeline for the bar on the other side of the living room. She definitely needed a drink.

  Mason cleared his throat and said, “I started researching a new book about a year and a half ago, called The Madness Within.”

  Mason’s writing career had taken off like a rocket not long after he broke up with her. More salt in the wound.

  “I was commissioned to write a true crime book, and I interviewed several serial killers in prison.”

  Sarah mixed a healthy dose of rum into a glass of Coke. “Serial killers? Jesus. Like who?”

  “Remember Ned Hawson, the Headhunter?”

  Sara sat down in the loveseat facing Mason, her interest piqued. “Sure. You actually went into the same room with a guy who collected heads?”

  “He was behind prison glass–I was perfectly safe.”

  Sara shivered at the thought. “You couldn’t get me in the same building with that freak, much less the same room. Who else?”

  “Richard Nakamura. He was the guy in Toledo who ate the tongues of his victims. There were several more after that who weren’t as famous, but they were just as interesting. Anyway, it wasn’t long before I started to notice a strange pattern during these interviews. It took my book in an unexpected direction.”

  “A pattern?”

  “They all heard voices. Y’know, like David Berkowitz?”

  She didn’t recognize the name.

  “Son of Sam? Never mind–before your time.” Mason sat forward, his eyes narrowed. “Anyway, all of them claimed that…’voices’ were responsible for their actions. Some said it was God, others said it was the devil. Some believed it was the voices of their victims, and one of them was convinced they came from another dimension. All of them were diagnosed schizophrenic.

  “Of the group, Nakamura was the most lucid and intelligent. I was the only person he’d ever agreed to meet with. And that was only because I’d written him a letter telling him that I believed the voices were real.

  “We met on several occasions. Fascinating guy; he was a former psychiatrist who spent much of his career working with schizophrenic criminals himself. Ultimately, he felt that his condition was the result of long-term exposure to his own patients.”

  Sara said, “You mean…as in he thought the disorder was contagious?”

  “In a way yes, sort of like a virus. A mind virus. Nakamura told me that the victim must be susceptible to be affected. Which I thought was strange, since he was a doctor who specialized in me
ntal disorders. But he explained that his natural skepticism–that is, his immunity–had been weakened after so many years.”

  “But a disorder is not a disease… immunity to what?”

  “The truth. You see, not long after my initial interviews, I started to hear the voices too.”

  Sara nearly dropped her drink. She caught herself staring at Mason in horror, immediately adjusted to neutral, and hoped he hadn’t noticed. When he’d first arrived, she’d been terrified of who might be chasing him. But suddenly she was keenly aware of her vulnerability. If Mason had indeed lost his mind, she could be in serious trouble.

  Her eyes drifted over to the rack on the kitchen counter that held her cutlery, and a meat mallet. She took note of the biggest and sharpest of the knives.

  Mason’s eyes seemed to look right through her. “I know you don’t believe me. You’ve always been a natural skeptic. I remember struggling to bring you from atheism to agnosticism–and failing miserably.”

  “If you’re hearing voices, then there must be a perfectly logical explanation, Mason–some kind of chemical imbalance. It doesn’t mean you’re crazy. And I know some people that can help.”

  “Doctors can’t help, Sara…because the voices are real. And they don’t want me to finish my book and expose them to the public–they’re not prepared for that kind of scrutiny yet. They’re out there right now–looking for me. At this point, it doesn’t even matter if I don’t publish the book–they’ll kill me simply because I know too much.”

  He slumped back onto the couch and buried his face in his hands.

  Sara grimaced. Why was it always the most damaged men that attracted her? Her mother told her it was a compulsion to feel needed. And while she hated her for saying it, it was probably true.

  Mason needed her help, and that was something she hadn’t felt for a long time. Not since Bradley had dumped her two years ago, after she’d helped him through an ugly divorce and let him live with her, rent free, for six months. Once he’d gotten back on his feet, he repaid her by shacking up with a dirty whore half Sara’s age.

  And now Mason shows up on her doorstep, five years after kicking her to the curb. She loathed herself for the hint of satisfaction she felt knowing he’d chosen her apartment as a safe haven. Was it that far a stretch to believe that he had finally realized her worth after all?

  Against her better judgment, she heard herself say, “Look, I’m sure there’s an answer to all this–a logical explanation for whatever you’re going through. Let me help you. I know a great doctor. He’s easy to talk to and really helped me with my depression after the…well, he’s really good.”

  Mason laughed, but his eyes remained serious. “Doctors can’t help, Sara. Meds either. Believe me, I’ve tried every antipsychotic available. I’ve seen two psychiatrists and one well-known psychologist, too.”

  “You’ve been diagnosed with schizophrenia?”

  “Of course. Do you think anyone in the medical profession would consider for one second that the voices are real?”

  “No…I suppose not.”

  “It doesn’t matter anyway. I know they’re real. And they want me dead.”

  “Who? Who are they?”

  Mason set his cup firmly on the coffee table. “Look… I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to tell you any more details. I never would’ve involved you in the first place, but they were chasing me, and, well…you were the only person I knew in this area.”

  Sara felt her chest tighten. “I see. So…I was just the most conveniently located ex-girlfriend.”

  “Sara, it’s not like that. I was desperate–not thinking. I should go. If they find me here, you’ll be in danger too.”

  He started to get off the couch, but Sara stopped him with a gentle hand. “No, it’s okay,” she said. “I’m being childish. Please…forgive me.”

  Mason looked tired, the kind of tired that might kill a man if he went too much longer without sleep. He rubbed his stubbly jaw with his hand, as if trying to decide what to do, yet unable to come to a suitable conclusion.

  “I want to help you,” Sara said, a little more desperately than she’d intended. “Let me help you. I want to understand.”

  And that was true. She did want to understand. She wanted to know how a man such as Mason Tanner could have fallen so far. God help her, she genuinely wanted to understand.

  A single teardrop rolled down his cheek and he quickly wiped it away. “I’m going to die soon–and the only thing people will remember about me is that I lost my mind.”

  “Mason, I can’t pretend that I understand any of this, but I’m a good listener.”

  Mason looked into her eyes, and for a moment she saw them soften. “Yes,” he said, “you always were. I took a lot of things for granted back then.”

  Sara took his hand, held it firmly.

  He said, “Honestly, if just one person I knew understood the truth…that would give me some peace.”

  Sara tightened her fingers around his. “I’m listening. Who is it you think wants to kill you?”

  “Not who…what.”

  “Okay. What are we talking about then?” Sara said, trying not to sound patronizing.

  “What they are exactly is debatable, but I can tell you what I know, based on the work of Richard Nakamura, who spent years doing his own research.”

  “The serial killer.”

  Mason sighed–as if anticipating her skepticism. “The research predates his psychotic break, back when he was still a renowned psychiatrist. He had taken extensive notes when it became clear that several of his schizophrenic patients were hearing the same types of voices. He was convinced these invisible beings were real and not from our world–not even from this plane of reality. On a quantum level, he believes their existence is of a different vibration, which is why they are almost imperceptible. Yet they’ve somehow found a way to intrude on our dimension.”

  Sara wasn’t sure what was more disturbing, the things Mason was saying or the conviction with which he said them. “And…what do you think they want?”

  “To experiment and observe. The people who hear their voices–like me–we’re part of a large control group–and it’s growing. New York City is one of the focal points.”

  “Why here?” Sara continued to probe, hoping that if Mason discovered a flaw in his own logic the whole delusion might begin to unravel.

  Mason rubbed his eyes as he spoke, “There are several hubs around the world: Cairo, Mumbai, Buenos Aires, Madrid, and New York–the noisiest cities in the world. The excessive sound pollution–traffic, sirens, alarms, jackhammers, crowds, and everything in between–covers their activities. The higher the baseline decibel level of a city, the better it masks their voices and communications, making it easier for them to hide in plain sight.”

  Mason leaned forward, looking deep into Sara’s eyes, “Don’t you get it? These things walk among us all day, every day, experimenting on us…studying the effects. But that’s not the worst part: their test subjects kill or harm others, suffer from extreme schizophrenia, or eventually kill themselves to stop the voices. No one notices it here because people are used to seeing crazies wandering around New York.”

  Sara had to admit that his delusion was well thought out. And in some perverse way, she was intrigued at how deep the story went. “What kind of experiments are they doing?” she said.

  “A form of mind control. They test our strengths and search for weaknesses.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “To pit us against each other. It’s strictly small scale for now–a testing phase–they don’t want to draw too much attention. But eventually they’ll be able to set entire countries against each other. And once that happens, they’ll control everything.”

  “But why? To take over the world?”

  “Look, I don’t know exactly, Sara. I’m not privy to their agenda. But based on the work Nakamura did with his patients, and my own experiences hearing the voices, it wouldn’t be that
far a stretch to imagine an invasion of some kind.”

  “So, you actually hear these voices?”

  Mason finished his drink with one last gulp. “I didn’t hear them at first because I thought it was all bullshit. I just assumed that the killers I interviewed were indeed schizophrenic. But after extensive interviews with Nakamura, I began to see that there were too many coincidences, too many patterns that couldn’t be denied. Nakamura is an intelligent, lucid man–and despite his homicidal tendencies, a charming fellow to boot. Over time, I gained his trust, and he confided things to me that he’d never shared with anyone else.

  “He told me to start observing the ‘crazies’ in the city; you know, the ones that talk to themselves. Since the average person avoids them like the plague, this has given the intruders a false sense of security. He told me to get as close as I could. And eventually, the intruders would slip up and I would hear the voices, too.

  “It wasn’t long after that I started noticing people talking to themselves all over the city. They had always been around, of course, I just hadn’t been attuned to it. There were a lot of homeless people, as you would expect, but I also saw everyday looking people, too. One day I’d see a man dressed in a business suit, waiting at the crosswalk, murmuring to himself, and the next I’d see someone yelling and screaming at invisible entities–having arguments with thin air.

  “And then something happened on the subway that changed everything.”

  Mason seemed to look within himself, as if watching some invisible film being unspooled in his mind.

  “There was this decrepit homeless woman on the train in a corner by herself. She wore a pair of filthy pajamas, and had wrapped herself in a tattered old blanket. Her hair was grey and wild and she was just crouched there, facing the corner. I couldn’t quite make out her face. No one wanted to sit next to her–so I did.