Asylum - 13 Tales of Terror

by Matt Drabble

  She waded into the waves not feeling the icy water as it began seeping through her jeans. As she got closer she suddenly thought she saw a hand; an arm waving frantically, a chunk of flesh toned skin amidst the dark silhouette. It’s a person, she suddenly thought, oh my God it’s a person. Being born in California she had been raised as a swimmer; the oceans were at her disposal and much of her social life had revolved around the beach. She had been a lifeguard for several summer vacations and she was confident that she could reach the figure in front of her now.

  She quickly shucked off her heavy coat and boots, leaving them in a pile back on the beach to show that she had gone into the water. She quickly dragged her finger through the sand and wrote S.O.S. She scanned the beach quickly and wasn’t surprised to find it deserted. She had been living here for three weeks so far and had yet to see another living person.

  She turned back to the water and waded out as far as she could. The beach had a slanted shelf and she got out to around sixty yards before the waves crashed above her waist. She eased herself forward and began a steady stroke towards the person. The water was icy cold but she froze the thought from her mind and concentrated on a smooth form. The further out that she got the more the water calmed; the large crashing waves became huge pregnant swells ready to explode onto the sands. For one terrified moment she lost sight of the person. The dark silhouette suddenly dipped below the horizon as she was raised up high on the water. She suddenly grew alarmed that she had imagined the shape moving in the first place. She could end up dragged out to sea and drowned for the sake of a tree log. Her worried thoughts were interrupted as she caught sight again of the figure. She could now see the shape of a man clutching a large piece of what looked like wreckage as a buoyancy aid. She dipped her head and powered towards him. As she reached him she could see that he was about done. His eyes were closed and he began to slip beneath the surface. She dove under the water as she reached him; her eyes struggled under the dark waves to find the man. She reached out desperately for him; her fingers closed on nothingness in the blackness. Just as she thought her lungs would burst her hand snagged on something coarse in the ocean. Her fingers caught, lost, and then caught again. She kicked hard for the surface pulling the dead weight with her. She exploded out of the water and drank in great greedy gulps of precious air. She rolled the man onto his back and prayed that he was still breathing, knowing that if he wasn’t she could do very little about it at the moment. She hooked her left arm over his shoulder and under his chin. The water was still swelling worryingly as she began to tug him in a sideways stroke. Her lungs were already wheezing and her breath was short and she cursed herself for her slipping fitness levels. She fought against the rising tide of panic as the beach seemed further away than she had first thought. The sea tried to drag her backwards and out, seemingly unwilling to relinquish its prize. She slowed her breathing and began to stroke and kick in a steady motion, relaxing into the swim and refusing to panic. Gradually she began to feel the land grow closer; she fixed her eyes on the beach and pulled towards it, ignoring her burning muscles. She was shocked when her feet suddenly touched the ground still some way out, having forgotten the slopping shelf of the beach. One last spiteful wave crashed over them as she stood on wobbling legs. The pull of the water as it retreated was almost too much and she staggered with the additional weight of her passenger. For a second it was close; she almost gave way to the ocean, and then her passenger was pulling her. Strong arms took her weight easily and she was hefted free of the water as his powerful legs pumped through the increasingly shallow water. Her strength was gone; emptied by the sea. Suddenly she was lifted up and her arms wrapped around his thick neck.

  “Hey,” she murmured as he carried her, “This was supposed to be my rescue!”

  “Hush now Miss,” he said. His voice was rough and salty like the sea itself, “You just rest now, you’ve done enough.”

  She nestled into his broad chest and felt his heartbeat as it thumped rhythmically; unbelievably it sung her a lullaby, and she slept.

  Brittany awoke to the heavy pounding storm that raged outside. Her small new home had never felt more vulnerable. The wind screamed and the rain battered against the walls. She felt the powerful rumblings of thunder overhead and the crash of lightening.

  She sat up, groggy. Her whole body seemed to ache and she had trouble lifting her head from the sofa. She suddenly realised that she was wearing different clothes; she grasped the thick woolen jumper around the neck in panic. She sat up too fast and felt her head spin worryingly. She looked around and saw that she was in the lounge and a freshly laid fire danced before her, heating the dark room. The memory of her rescue - and rescuing - suddenly fell upon her like the roaring waves of the ocean that she had fought.

  “How are you feeling?”

  The rough voice startled her from behind and she jumped to her feet and away from the voice. Her legs buckled dangerously beneath her and she reached out to the fireplace mantle for support. The man from the sea stood before her; he was tall and broad with a weather battered face that was covered in red stubble. His hair was the same dark red and hung loosely over his face with the unkempt style of the recently toweled dry. His eyes were deep green pits that were large and gentle; his nose was narrow and his lips thin. He wore dark blue canvas trousers and a pristine white vest. His arms were powerful and muscular and she could see how he had carried her with such little effort.

  She suddenly realised that she had been staring at him for must have seemed like an age as he waited patiently for her to answer. “Did you…?” She looked down at her change of outfit and felt oddly charmed by his deeply blushing face.

  “I had to,” he mumbled embarrassed, “You were soaked and shivering.”

  She could almost feel the rumbling timbre of his voice from across the room; he had a singing quality to his accent that she could not quite place.

  “What’s your name?” She asked as his eyes caught hers and she felt like she was in danger of drowning all over again.

  “Michael,” he said, slightly hushed as though whispering a prayer, “Michael Felton.”

  The locked gaze between them was electric and Brittany felt the rising tension in the air; a tension that seemed greater than even the storm raging outside. Michael stood before her, his powerful frame shivered and seemed almost ethereal to her. It was almost as though he wasn’t really there.

  “What were you doing out there?” She asked.

  “We were fishing and we got caught in the storm. We were starting to head back in, but I guess we left it too late. The ocean got angry at our arrogance and the waves sank us. They just tossed us around like ragdolls and everyone went down.”

  “Didn’t you radio for help?” Brittany asked.

  Michael looked away awkwardly, “There wasn’t time.”

  Brittany stared at him. His story and manner seemed ill at ease. She only had a rudimentary knowledge of common sea practices but she imagined no sailor worth his salt would be out when a storm of this magnitude was on the horizon. She felt that he was lying about his reasons for being out at sea, but she also knew that it was no place of hers to interrogate him.

  A loud crash against the kitchen window broke the tension and they both spun around towards the noise. Brittany raced into the room; one of the small window panes had shattered inward and a large tree branch was poking through the hole. The howling gale battered the small house and rushed through the broken window, bringing the torrential rain with it. Brittany grabbed hold of the thick branch and tried to force it back out the way it came, but the sturdy wood resisted. Suddenly Michael’s strong hands were easing her aside and thrust the intruding object back into the night.

  “Have you got any tools around here?” He asked in his rhythmic lilt.

  “I think so,” Brittany tried to remember. Her memory was hazy about the contents of the small house. “Try the garage,” she said pointing to the adjoining door in the kitchen.

 
Michael emerged a few minutes later holding a small square of wood and carrying a hammer in his hand and a mouthful of nails. He patched the hole quickly and efficiently and the makeshift mend was soon holding the storm at bay.

  Brittany looked out through the kitchen window. The storm was raging outside and the sky was a darker black than she could ever remember seeing before. The trees and hedgerows at the bottom of her garden were being flung from side to side effortlessly in the high winds. The rain was coming down in an almost horizontal fashion and the gale force outside whipped it viciously against the house. An explosion of thunder quaked her to her bones and the lightning was almost instantaneous, telling her that they were in the eye of the storm. Suddenly they were plunged into darkness as the power went out, proving that that the modern invention of electricity was no match for the primal force of the squall. She quivered in the dark, and then Michael’s arms were wrapped around her. She buried herself into his musk and clutched him fiercely. She felt him tremble against her and she suddenly felt his essence as it joined with hers.

  As the storm raged and they sheltered in the darkness, it was as though they were the last two people left alone on earth. Suddenly she was swept into his arms and he carried her effortlessly back to the lounge. She held onto him and nestled her hot breath into his neck. She felt his strength as he held her and she left her inhibitions outside in the storm. She knew that there was something strange about this man; she didn’t know him, and yet she felt closer to him than anyone she had ever met before. She wasn’t a woman prone to flights of romantic fancy, but here, she felt outside of the real world, as though the usual rules and practices did not apply. Her mind buzzed with a thousand questions as he laid her down before the dancing fires flames. She wanted to laugh at the sheer ridiculous nature of the cliché, but here in the moment it was the most natural thing in the world. She felt his pounding heart as his chest mashed against hers. Her thoughts fluttered with a momentary panic as his skin felt arctic cold, and then his lips were on hers and she surrendered willingly.

  The night passed slowly and entirely in each other’s arms. She spilled her life’s tale in between their amorous tussling. By the time the dawn light was approaching she felt as though she had always known Michael. She knew that she had done most of the talking through the night. She had told him everything about herself, but he was still largely a mystery to her. His reticence to talk about himself was as endearing as it was infuriating. She knew that he had not been simply fishing as he had first claimed, but she also knew that he would tell her in his own time. As the morning light brushed the horizon they finally fell silent as she rested her head on his broad chest. The lullaby of his heartbeat sang her to a blissful deep sleep.

  ----------

  The next morning was bright, dry, and clear, and Donald Crowley was making his rounds. Donald owned four holiday properties in the county and the one in Freshwater East was causing him the most concern, as it was the most exposed to the elements. The storm had been the worst that he could ever remember in his 58 years, and he could only hope that the house was still standing.

  He drove his 4x4 through the flooded roads until he reached the cliff top turning. His heart jumped a little as he saw that a large tree had blown across the driveway. The thick branches and foliage gave testament to the power of the storm and he couldn’t see the small building. Donald was a pessimistic man by nature and he felt that his fears had been entirely justified. However as he parked and walked closer he could see that the house was only obscured and was still standing fully intact. He did a quick visual take and could see some damage around the well-kept garden that looked only superficial, and a few slates were missing from the roof.

  He walked to the front door and saw a silhouette moving behind it. He banged on the door loudly enough to wake the dead. The door opened slowly and he was greeted by a sleepy mess. Bed-head hair and morning breath soon gave way to a puzzled lopsided grin.

  “Can I help you?” The sleeping beauty asked.

  “Well you can start by telling me what the hell you are doing here,” Donald snapped.

  “I beg your pardon,”

  “This is my house and I don’t take kindly to squatters.”

  Michael stared at the landlord, “What are you talking about? Brittany Nicholls rented this house three weeks ago!”

  “No,” Donald said patiently, “Brittany Nicholls rented this house some three years ago.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Michael demanded, “I was with her all last night.”

  Donald stared back hard, “Son are you alright?” He asked in a soft low tone. “Brittany Nicholls drowned herself three years ago. She was a writer from the states; she had some kind of breakdown after her book failed or something. She rented this house from me. She seemed nice enough, but a little quiet. Then one day she took herself off to the beach, walked out into the ocean, and drowned herself. It was real tragedy, such a waste; such a beautiful young woman, such a waste,” Donald said with a tear in his eye.

  “No, no,” Michael said disbelievingly. He turned and ran back into the house; his eyes could not comprehend how the inside had altered so much since last night. The wallpaper that had been pristine was now limp and dirty and the carpets looked grubby and flat. The fireplace that had warmed and framed them both so beautifully last night was empty and cold. The whole house seemed hollow and empty, as though devoid of anyone living for some time.

  15.

  BLACKWATER HEIGHTS

  “So who was he?” Martin asked Jimmy when they were outside the room and back in the deserted corridor again.

  “He was part of a smuggling crew. Their boat went down off the coast and he was the only survivor and washed up on Freshwater East beach.”

  “What were they smuggling, drugs?” Martin asked excitedly.

  “Nothing so exotic,” Jimmy smiled. “They were bringing in pirate DVD’s from Amsterdam.”

  “Oh!” Martin said disappointedly. “So how did he end up here?”

  “Well, word got back to Brittany’s parents and her mother flew over to meet with Michael. He was under arrest for the DVD racket at the time but she bailed him out. I guess that he must have been convincing in his story about Brittany, because her mother had her father pay for the charges against him to disappear, and then for him to come here for treatment,” Jimmy explained.

  “So did her mother really believe that he had spent the night with her dead daughter’s ghost?”

  “I doubt it. I think that maybe she just appreciated the story. Maybe she got to feel close to her daughter for a short while and felt like she owed Michael something for his time.”

  “I’m guessing that her generosity cost a fair amount of money,” Martin wondered aloud.

  “No doubt,” Jimmy said as his leathery hand reached out for another door handle, “But money’s not the only way to pay a bill,” he winked mischievously.

  16.

  METHOD ACTING

  Gerald Dayton was twenty seven, tall at six feet two, lithe and athletic; his features were serene with an almost feminine grace. He was blue eyed and pretty in a way that made the women swoon when he was standing sixty feet high on a movie screen.

  Gerald was the UK’s leading man; he was an actor of dubious repute amongst his peers. He was typically found in romantic comedies opposite increasingly younger women and his charms were sufficient enough to require very little acting ability. It was a career that he was handsomely rewarded for, but it also carried very little in terms of respect. Gerald craved reverence for his abilities; he was an actor who had been seduced by fame and fortune, leaving his dreams of credibility far behind for the sake of a bank balance and a flashbulb. But all that was changing; he had taken a decision one night at some party. He’d been surrounded by vapid scantily clad women and elderly men fighting against the dying of the light of their middle age. The air had been thick with the aromas of hair dye and Viagra and a sudden clarity had overtaken his senses. A par
ting of the seas had appeared before his eyes, and he’d realised just where he was and just what he was doing with his life. He slowly remembered his dreams of being an actor, not a film star; of being in films and not movies. No more, he’d thought to himself as some slutty teen had gyrated on his lap for the hope of an extra role in a non-existent upcoming movie. He’d left the puzzled faced girl and the party, ignoring the glassy eyed stares full of pharmaceutical and alcohol buzzes.

  He’d fired his agent and the agency that represented him despite their wails and pronouncements of his impending failure. He had burned every bridge he had in the industry, not that he had many left to begin with. He had insulted, reneged, and abused everyone in his former life, happily playing the part of the apex in his industry. As far as Gerald was concerned, it was his right and his obligation to be the star. He was rightly ordained in his position and he had made full use of his power. He cared little for those around him and he cared less for their feelings. In order to sever his few remaining ties, he had happily been cruel to others in order to be kind to himself. He could picture the interviews that would fawn over his resurrection into the bravest and most highly regarded actor of his generation. From that moment on he had thrown himself into the deepest waters of his craft.

  The only man that he’d had to annoyingly keep on the payroll was his manager Thomas Butler. Thomas had been with him since the very beginnings. He was an earnest man, thick of girth and thin of hair. Thomas was somewhere in his mid to late fifties by now, Gerald imagined, and the industry had treated him and his cash cow well. Gerald knew that Thomas was always one opinion that he could at least rely on, as Thomas had never been afraid to speak his mind. Thomas had never been sold on Gerald’s career path; he had always voiced the thoughts that the rom-coms should only be a stepping stone and not the final destination. But Gerald had been far too busy enjoying the trappings of his life to care about respect or craft, and secretly he felt that Thomas had failed him with the direction that he had taken.