Asylum - 13 Tales of Terror

by Matt Drabble

  “Push him,” the voice insisted, “Quickly, it’s nearly too late.”

  Just then the 6:45 train pulled into the station. The PA system crackled into life, announcing the arrival and Duncan gratefully boarded the train home. He took the closest seat amidst the deserted carriage. The cloth smelt vaguely of smoke despite the countrywide ban in enclosed spaces. The carriage was empty and Duncan was happy for the silence. He was obviously working too hard and was too tired. He closed his eyes as the train pulled away and let the gentle rocking sooth his weary mind. He was almost asleep when the voice spoke up again,

  “Duncan,” it whispered.

  Duncan closed his eyes tighter and willed himself to sleep.

  “DUNCAN!” The voice barked loudly in his ear.

  His eyes snapped open and he stood, but the carriage was still empty. He looked around desperately for the origin of the voice, but there was none.

  “Who’s there?” He asked nervously, “Where are you?”

  “I’m in here,” the voice whispered, “Inside.”

  “WHO IS THAT?” Duncan shouted loudly, his voice echoing off of the empty metal shell.

  “I’m in here Duncan. In you, and if you continue shouting then someone is going to lock you up my friend.”

  Duncan sat back down heavily with only the rising dust for company. I’m just tired, he thought again, that’s all it is, just tired and I need some sleep. Everything will be right as rain tomorrow.

  “Oh I don’t think so,” the voice laughed, “I don’t think that you will be ever again.”

  When Duncan finally laid his head on the pillow some two hours later, the voice was still singing incessantly in his mind. Apparently there was an endless supply of bottles that were sitting on a wall somewhere, and for some reason they kept falling off. He thrust his head further into the pillows in a futile attempt to drown out the noise, “Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!” He raged to no avail.

  The night drifted by interminably slowly like a wispy marshmallow cloud on a windless summer day. Duncan was unable to sleep and by the time the dawn’s rays crept around his bedroom window curtain he was close to tears. His whole body screamed for sleep and his insides were twisted into knots of frustration and impotent anger. “Please,” he begged, “Please, what do you want?”

  “Just to have a little fun is all. It’s very lonely in here,” the voice answered softly.

  Duncan dragged himself into the shower; the hot water splashed his face but only slightly woke his senses. He dressed quickly in jogging bottoms and a large baggy hooded top. It was Saturday and these were his weekend clothes; loose and comfortable, shapeless and anonymous - much as he saw himself.

  “So what are we doing today?” The voice asked pleasantly.

  “I don’t know,” Duncan answered, vaguely aware that he was engaging in a two way conversation with an imaginary voice, but also feeling too exhausted to care. Perhaps it’s a tumor, he thought depressingly. He couldn’t think of any mental health problems that ran in his family, but he wouldn’t be surprised.

  “Why don’t we go out?” The voice pondered.

  Duncan sat on the large comfy reclining leather sofa in his lounge. The house was a modest two bedroom bungalow that his parents had left him seven years ago when they had both died in a car crash. The house was clean and tidy but Duncan had found that he had left little impression even in his own home and that his parents’ stamp was still firmly imprinted on the house. He flicked the large 50” plasma screen television on and attempted to drown himself in the rugby game that, despite the early hour, was currently underway somewhere in New Zealand.

  “Let’s go out,” the voice whined.

  Duncan turned the TV volume up higher; he concentrated hard on the match in front of him. He had a love of most sports and found the brutal conflict of rugby to be most agreeable.

  “Come on Duncan,” the voice persisted, “Don’t make me have to make you,” it said with an air of menace.

  “You’re just a voice in my head,” Duncan responded, “What can a voice do?”

  The expensive television flickered; the picture rolled and static invaded. Duncan looked up at the set that was barely two months old. “That’s just a coincidence,” he stated aloud, as much to reassure himself as anything else.

  “Let’s go outside,” the voice said again, “It’s a wonderful day, too nice to be stuck indoors.”

  “I can’t hear you,” Duncan mumbled.

  The TV flickered once more and then went black.

  “Maybe I do feel like some fresh air,” he announced, standing up. The TV suddenly came back on again and he stared at the set contemplating sitting down again. But even as he began to crouch, a strange burning smell wafted from inside the expensive television. He wrapped up warmly in a heavy waterproof overcoat and put on his insulated walking boots.

  Duncan lived in Brighton. His commute into the office in London would take him around two hours each way every day, but he could not bear to encase himself within the concrete jungle. The sea air was bracing and the winter day was in full effect as he walked towards the near empty beach. There were only a few brave souls out today and he pulled his collar up around his neck to protect it from the weather’s icy fingers. The sands were deserted save for a few distant silhouettes braving the elements for the sake of their four legged friends’ daily exercise. The wind whipped his face with stinging cold rain and he lowered his head to walk into the onslaught.

  “I thought you said that it was a nice day out?” He asked the inner voice.

  “Always better out than in,” the voice chuckled nonsensically.

  Duncan was walking with his head lowered when his feet suddenly became entangled with a golden retriever that looked up at him happily. The dog’s mouth was shaped into a happy grin as it played, running around him looking to entice the new participant into its fun, despite the foul weather. Duncan looked down into the pleasant deep dark eyes of the friendly animal; he wasn’t a pet lover by nature, but he could appreciate the appeal.

  “Kick it,” the voice said.

  “I’m not going to kick it, what’s wrong with you?” He snapped.

  “Kick it,”

  “Screw you,” Duncan said as he petted the dog’s happy head.

  “Kick it now,” the voice warned with a menacing low tone.

  Duncan could now see the dog’s owner approaching across the sand and pebbles. The woman looked to be in her sixties but she was healthy and hearty. Her face was reddened by the coldness of the day, and white hair devoid of vanity poked out from under her coat’s large hood that she was using against the wet weather. She was short at around five feet two. She wore a large red coat, waterproof trousers, and wellington boots. A small backpack was slung over her shoulder with a blue plastic ball throwing arm tucked in through a strap on the side.

  “Sorry, is she bothering you?” The woman greeted him, pointing at the retriever.

  “Alright,” the voice whispered, “Kick her instead.”

  “I most certainly will not,” Duncan said aloud.

  The woman looked at him strangely, “I’m sorry?”

  “Um, I meant no, she’s fine,” Duncan said, hating the strange glances the woman was now throwing his way.

  “You don’t have to speak to me out loud dummy,” the voice chuckled irritatingly, “You want them to think that you’re nuts?”

  “Am I nuts?” Duncan thought, curious for the answer.

  “Don’t ask me, I’m just a voice,” the voice answered in his head.

  “Well, we better be on our way,” the woman said, shuffling away nervously.

  Duncan hated the look of fear in her face.

  “For God’s sake kick one of them!” The voice demanded.

  “No,” Duncan said aloud, immediately forgetting that he didn’t have to speak, he needed only to think.

  “Look mister,” the woman said nervously, “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but I am most definitely leaving, come alo
ng Lady,” she said addressing the dog.

  “Last chance,” the voice said ominously.

  “Good day to you madam,” Duncan said grandly, “Please be on your way,” he added with a sweeping gesture of his arm.

  “I warned you,” the voice said.

  The elderly woman turned and took a few steps away; her pace was hurried as though eager to be gone. She was no more than eight feet away when she suddenly clutched her left arm. Her body went rock still as she grabbed the arm with a pincer like claw. She turned enough so that Duncan could just see her face; the ruddy red healthy glow was abruptly replaced with a sickly green pallor and she sank to her knees, and then flat on her face, and lay motionless.

  Duncan waited for the ambulance, passing the time throwing balls for the ever willing retriever. He always carried a phone and had used it to raise the alarm. Ever since the woman had collapsed and died on the sand, the voice had gone strangely quiet and he was enjoying the peace and quiet.

  The paramedics found them soon enough and they were accompanied by two police officers. Duncan was relieved to find that there was soon no suspicion thrown his way after even the most cursory of examinations by the paramedics. He had overheard them tell the two officers that the signs were obvious and all the early indications pointed to a heart attack. Duncan found himself praised for his good citizenship; for waiting patiently in a day and age when many would have walked on by unwilling to get involved. Duncan barely heard them as he concentrated on the silence in his head. He could happily picture the tumbleweeds blowing across the dusty plains of his empty mind.

  He was making his way back across the beach, having politely refused the offer of a lift home, professing that the walk would do him good after such a shock. He had told the police that he had merely bumped into the stranger on the beach and she had told him that she felt a little unwell, just before she collapsed.

  “Miss me?” The voice returned and Duncan’s heart sank heavily.

  “What do you want now?” He asked.

  “Hey don’t get snippy with me, I did try and warn you, but you just wouldn’t listen.”

  “And I’m supposed to believe that the heart attack was your doing?” Duncan sniggered, “You’re just a voice in my head, what can a voice do?”

  “Oh you would be surprised Duncan, although I must say that was a little exhausting. I didn’t realise that it would require so much effort, I even had to take a little nap afterwards.”

  Duncan stomped his way grumpily across the beach. He headed up the stone steps and onto the promenade. The signs of winter were all around him, the smiling face of the summer tourism trade seemed a million miles away. Everything was carefully packed away for the off-season. There were only large waterproof coverings where there were once colorful rides and laughing children.

  “Perhaps we started too big,” the voice offered considerately, “Hey I’m new here too; it’s only my second day on the job.”

  “Then you’re fired,” Duncan grumbled.

  The sound of echoing laughter battered against the inside of his head and it throbbed woefully.

  “Not bad, not bad at all,” the voice chuckled, “We’ll make this work yet.”

  “Make what work? What is it that you want from me?” Duncan demanded.

  “Pinch her ass,” the voice replied.

  Duncan looked up to see a shapely teenage girl walking towards them, “What?” He stammered internally.

  “Pinch her ass.”

  “No I won’t.”

  “Have you already forgotten what happened the last time you said no to me,” the voice said, all trace of good humor suddenly gone.

  “That woman had a heart attack, it was just a coincidence, and you’re just a voice inside my head. Maybe I’ve got a tumor, maybe I’m going mad, but voices are just voices. You are as powerless as I am.” he said firmly.

  “Pinch it.”

  “No.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Duncan held his breath as the girl drew closer; she looked around seventeen with a cruel hard face that did not belong on such a young woman, one barely above a child. She swaggered with the arrogance of youth; her ample figure refusing to be fully covered despite the cold wet weather. She looked at him with raw contempt through her heavily smoky black eyed makeup. Her thick foundation verged on the wrong side of orange and her lips were smeared with a greasy looking pale red gloss. Duncan could not take his eyes off her as she reached him; he was terrified that she would suddenly drop dead of something harder to explain than a heart attack.

  “What you looking at?” She sneered as she reached him.

  Despite physically towering over the girl, she viewed him without fear and spoke likewise. Duncan looked down at the ground, embarrassed. “Nothing,” he mumbled.

  The girl stopped and stared hard at him, “What are you, some kind of perv? Like looking at young girls do you?”

  Duncan backed off and tried to walk away, but the girl started following him.

  “Oi, perv,” she shouted after him as he ducked his head and attempted to move away.

  There weren’t many others walking along the promenade and for that he was grateful. His self-esteem was low enough already without being publically ridiculed and bullied by a teenage girl.

  “Yeah, you just keep walking you bloody paedo,” she called after him, “Next time I’ll kick your bloody arse,” she shouted without an obvious filter or volume control.

  Duncan kept his head down low as he passed a street sweeper who only smirked at him with the relief of the standerby, rather than the taking part. Duncan was almost safely away when he heard the screech of tires followed by a heavy wet thud. He turned back to see that someone had stepped into the light traffic flow. There was sudden pandemonium as bodies began rushing to and fro and a high pitched women’s scream was soon not alone as others joined the ghastly choir. Duncan hurried to the side of the road; half of him wanted it to be the girl for her shaming of him, and the other half was terrified as to the consequences of the voice. He reached the curb and peered into the crowd. A large dark salon car had swerved sideways and two wheels had mounted the pavement. There was a female body laying sprawled across the car bonnet and her dead eyes stared back up at him through heavily made up smoky black lids.

  Two days later Duncan was sitting in a quiet café nursing a coffee; the once hot liquid was now rapidly cooling. His hands were wrapped around the still warm mug and the sharp tension of not sleeping was now being replaced by a soft foggy haze. The voice was now a part of him; it governed his life and shaped his days. He no longer had the fight left in him to even argue, if the voice told him to jump then he would only ask how high. He was vaguely aware that he must be suffering some kind of breakdown but his sleep deprivation had left him unable to process the facts.

  The waitress walked past his table; her not unappealing pert behind jiggled past inside a black cotton skirt. He merely obeyed and reached out with a finger and thumb in a pincer motion. The waitress yelped and whirled around angrily; she slapped his face and he took it with a growing acceptance. The voice laughed riotously inside his head; it seemingly never tired of the familiar prank. He had pinched more bottoms than he could count in the last two days. He had been slapped, punched, threatened, abused and even propositioned once. He had found that if he obeyed his orders then no-one came to any serious harm. So far the voice seemed content with relatively harmless, almost childish actions. He didn’t like to think about the day when immature pranks would no longer suffice.

  He stood and wandered out of the café; his weary body shuffling across the linoleum floor, accompanied by the harsh glares of the other patrons. His natural anonymity had so far meant that no-one had provided the police with any detailed descriptions. He could only hope that they had bigger fish to fry than a bum pincher.

  “In there,” the voice directed him to a supermarket.

  Duncan could only follow; part of him wondered just how long this was all going to take.
If he was truly going mad then surely at some point he would either collapse, be arrested, or sectioned.

  The voice was whispering again, he’d missed it through his sheer exhaustion; it wasn’t a good thing to try the voice’s patience he had already found to his cost.

  “I can’t,” he said after catching the instructions laid out for a second time. His voice was hoarse and desperately sad, “Please just let me sleep.”

  A woman serving behind a deli counter suddenly began coughing violently; her skinny body began jerking and retching. She looked to be in her mid-twenties and pretty, her curly blonde hair fell in waves from under her white hygiene hat. She wore a white overcoat and matching apron; her nails were manicured and sat beneath clear gloves as she worked. Under other circumstances Duncan might have watched her from afar, not quite daring to approach her for conversation, instead ending up with a multitude of unwanted delicacies from her counter. But now he could only watch as her face turned blue and her eyes rolled back in their sockets as her coughs were silenced and she began to choke soundlessly.

  “Alright, alright,” he told the voice wearily.

  The woman suddenly began to hitch and cough noisily again as her chest heaved in great gulps of precious air. Her male companion on the counter pounded her on the back in panic. Her face began to fill with color again and she slapped the back thumping hand away.

  Duncan did as he was instructed; he climbed up onto a large display advertising washing detergent.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he shouted loudly, “Your attention please,” he said following his internal script. “Today’s special, sausage, buy one get one free.” With that he dropped his pants and fluttered free in the breeze. All the while during his humiliation he watched the girl from the counter; she was shaken but apparently thankfully unharmed.

  He was discharged from the police station later that evening with an official caution, it had been the first time that he had been in trouble, and it wasn’t pleasant. He had managed to convince the desk sergeant that it had all been a stag night prank. Just too many beers - which wasn’t true - and a childish sense of humor, which was. The laughter continued to echo around his head until he thought it would burst. His eyes were now narrow pin pricks of light and everything hurt. The one thing that he had discovered was that if he concentrated hard enough the voice couldn’t hear his own thoughts. He could speak to the voice inside his head, but he could still lock away his own thoughts deep inside the vault. He could picture the huge steel door; the thick metal was impenetrable, with vast locks and uncrackable codes. It was in here that he could truly think away from the voice; he could only hope that the voice had not found the door.