Asylum - 13 Tales of Terror

by Matt Drabble

  “Thomas,” he’d grated down the phone, his head still thumped from the party’s intake.

  “Gerald?” Thomas’ voice had answered thick with sleep, “Christ boy what did you do now?” He said, his waking voice jumping with alarm.

  Gerald looked down at his wrist; the time told him that Thomas could only assume the worst of a phone call at this hour. “Calm down old man, there are no dead hookers for you to be concerned about, no car crashes, no overdoses.”

  “Then what the hell are you calling me at this ungodly hour for?” Thomas snapped.

  “I think it’s time.”

  “Time for what?”

  “Time to start work.”

  “Oh great, have you got some new man meets girl, blah, blah, blah, that I haven’t seen yet?”

  “No.” Gerald’s voice was calm and strong, “I mean real work Thomas, real work.”

  The next month had been a depressing realisation that he could have all the best intentions in the world, but they counted for nothing. The real scripts for real films were scarce on the ground and he felt like the mouse that frittered away the summer without preparing for the harsh winter ahead. It was a sobering time for him as opinions about his name, face, and ability were found to be held in rather lower than expected esteem amongst the acting community. Gerald was small on the blame for himself and large on the blame for the inadequacies of those around him.

  He was about to give up all hope of redemption and return to his aging path when his life was turned around by an A4 brown envelope plopping noisily through his letterbox. He had scooped up the envelope inquisitively It was heavy and hand delivered; the writing on the front was scrawled with his name and a one word title “Disturbed”.

  Gerald had spent the following two days immersed inside the padded contents of the mysterious envelope. There was a script that hadn’t merely grabbed his attention, it had thrust the jagged edges of a shattered pint glass into his face and torn the flesh from his bones. The script was dark and disturbing. It was provocative and seemed monstrous and yet simple to film. There was no name attached to the script and no return address. The pages were merely signed “The Director”.

  Gerald had fallen in love with the very concept; the filming would take place in a guerrilla style, and as such, the cameras would never be seen. There would be no extras in the backgrounds, only unaware members of the public and their reactions would be captured on film for the most realistic look possible. The story - such as it was - was described as a deconstruction of the human mind and spirit. The main character - that would remain nameless throughout - would be a crumbling consciousness; a man becoming lost beyond the boundaries of reality itself.

  Gerald felt genuinely excited and terrified in equal measures. The script was bloody and provocative and it was something that would appeal to the auteur. He felt desperate to embark on the project and had immediately called Thomas to get the ball rolling. Despite there being no contact details for “The Director” contained in his package, Thomas had promised to see what he could find out. Gerald had hung up the phone imbued with a fresh sense of purpose and direction.

  Two weeks later Gerald got the call from Thomas.

  “Well I won’t tell you that it’s been easy my boy,” Thomas told him in a tone that Gerald found excruciatingly patronizing. “But I’ve got you the role, though God knows why you’d want it. Have you read this script?”

  “Of course I have,” Gerald had snapped impatiently, secretly wishing for the time to come when he could add Thomas to the fired scrapheap. “I wouldn’t expect the likes of you to understand a piece of art like this.”

  “The likes of me!” Thomas had spluttered, “Forgive me oh great thespian, but wasn’t your last movie about a talking dog that farted musical tunes?”

  Gerald hadn’t bothered to engage in such a conversation. “When do we shoot?” He asked tersely.

  “You get your shooting schedules on a daily basis. Each day’s will be delivered through your door. You’ll never meet the director or any cast or crew. Dammit Gerald, this whole thing sounds too weird to me. I know that you’re looking for some kind of credibility, but this is surely going too far.”

  “Just give me the rest of the details,” Gerald had yawned.

  “Fine,” Thomas sighed. “The scene filming will take place without the knowledge or consent of those around you. You will interact only with fellow actors; you’ll do the scene, and the reactions of the public around you will be genuine. With some of these scenes Gerald, I’d suggest getting the hell out of there quickly afterwards. I mean after some of these scenes you’ll be lucky not to get arrested or have to deal with some have-a-go hero.”

  Gerald’s mind buzzed with thoughts of infamy. His acting would be considered so realistic as to evoke terror, so brave as to risk incarceration.

  He awoke the following morning with a child’s Christmas morn enthusiasm; he rushed down the stairs to find the brown envelope waiting for him on the doormat. The A4 sized package held his hopes and fears for his future and he could only stand and stare, savoring the moment.

  Two hours later he was prepped and prepared, dressed for the part in scruffy torn jeans, a thick sweatshirt and heavy black overcoat; his wardrobe having been sourced from a local charity shop for authenticity. His character’s background was largely blank and it was to be his job to fill in the details. He knew that he was to be a deeply disturbed individual, prone to blackouts and violent outbursts - a man who had fallen through every safety net in the system and who was now a dangerous ticking time bomb of fury. The first scene was to be in a local pub. He was to approach his fellow actor in an aggressive manner and instigate a physical altercation. He had a detailed description of the actor, but he knew that he would never see the cameras rolling, and everyone else in the bar would be unaware as to the true nature of his intentions.

  He sank deeper into himself as he walked, testing the limits of his concentration and ability. His un-named alter ego was a man of deep dark corners, shadowy depths that would be blacker than coal. He shortened his breath to shallow pants, he clenched and un-clenched his fists, digging his nails deeply into the flesh. He was normally a fairly placid man by nature, but he could be spiteful and cruel especially when he wasn’t getting his own way on set. He took that childish behavior and magnified it, allowing every frustration of his life to grow exponentially. He felt anger towards every co-star who forgot their lines, every intern that couldn’t get a lunch order right, and every director who didn’t know how to shoot him. He felt the rage grow like a putrid monstrous baby in his own hateful womb; he seized the fury as he reached the pub and stormed inside.

  The bar was busy; jostling punters baying for barmaids’ attentions, thrusting notes in the air as a siren’s call. He immediately recognised his fellow actor. The man was dressed exactly as described; a sea green suit that stood out from the crowd and a hackneyed red rose protruding from a lapel.

  Gerald pushed his way through the throng; he set aside his cultured and civilized mind, because the no name stranger had no time for niceties. The script was vaguely ambiguous in order to illicit the most natural of performances, seeking to draw a reality out of actors, as yet unseen.

  He shouldered the other actor as he reached him. The man was considerably smaller than him, and his drink spilt over his revolting suit.

  “What on earth?” The man stammered.

  Gerald whirled on the man in a flash and grabbed him forcefully, sending a cascade of shirt buttons clattering to the floor.

  “What you say?” He snarled angrily.

  “Hey, I’m sorry,” the man mumbled convincingly.

  “Yes you fucking are,” Gerald said calmly, adding a creepy grin.

  “Look I don’t want any trouble,” the man whined.

  “Oi” a burly barman shouted over, “Take it outside ladies.”

  Gerald snatched the now empty glass from the man’s hand. It was supposed to be sugar glass, and so he swung it carefu
lly onto the man’s head. He was relieved to find that the glass crumbled easily under his fingers as it made contact. The suited man fell a little too theatrically to the floor and Gerald cringed inwardly at the less than natural response. His spirits lifted when a woman nearby screamed at the fake blood that the other actor had secreted and then let loose. Gerald kicked the fallen man in the stomach, pulling the action as much as he dared. The man looked up at him and winked as a crowd had gathered around them. Gerald didn’t pull the kick as much the second time and the man grimaced rewardingly.

  Gerald barged his way through the crowd before the bouncers could reach him. He knew that if he was arrested then the whole project would be revealed and finished before it could really begin.

  He reached the outside and disappeared off into the shadows, his heart pounding with adrenaline and his mind was buzzing with the possibility that this could really work. The audience’s reaction in the pub had been real; he had seen eyes full of fear and excitement.

  He was lost in thought when running footsteps suddenly caught up with him and he span around to face his follower; the character’s anger must have been still on his face.

  “Hey, easy,” the actor from the bar said holding up both hands nervously.

  “What the hell do you want?” Gerald barked.

  “I just wanted to say great scene,” the man grinned through his fake blood. “I wasn’t sure about any of this to start with. Strange packages in the post, flash mob acting, but that was great. Did you see their faces? It was brilliant.”

  “Well then, why don’t you just piss off before someone sees us talking and you ruin it all?” Gerald snarled menacingly.

  The man skulked away sheepishly whilst he mumbled something under his breath.

  Gerald watched him go and filed away his anger with the idiot for his next scene. Apparently the idea was to film all of the similar scenes to tonight’s one after the other with increasing violence and depravity. After all of the scenes were finished then they would build the story and fill in the gaps in a more conventional manner. Gerald should be fully immersed into his character by that point.

  The following morning Gerald woke with a heavy funk lying over him. He embraced the emotion and let it fill him completely. He grumped around the plush apartment, waiting for the envelope to appear. Finally the sound of the letterbox rattling broke through his bubbling anger and he rushed to greet his nourishment.

  Over the next week he played out several acts. Not all scenes were violent; some were just simply downright embarrassing. He had run naked through the park scaring women and small children. He had launched into a screaming fit about the links between Christianity and a race of alien beings determined to infiltrate the upper echelons of international governments. The list was seemingly endless and he had prayed on more than one occasion that he was not on the end of an elaborate practical joke.

  Slowly Gerald began to live as his character, and he began to lose himself in the process. Only every now and then would he realise what he was doing, he would catch sight of his reflection in a mirrored surface and be snapped back into who he really was. These were fleeting moments in which he would feel smug and superior, and he could already see the accolades at the end of his deep dark tunnel. He knew that he could not allow himself to be drawn out of his role, for this would be the making of him and the crowning achievement of his professional life. He knew that in these moments he was achieving absolute emersion and a reality to his performance that would be unrivalled throughout his industry. He could remember little about the scenes, just flashes of screams, and the sweet odour of the corn syrup fake blood. Wherever his unknown director was getting his inspiration from, it was a dark and scary place indeed.

  Today was to be the last of his scenes and Gerald felt a strange mixture of relief and regret at the prospect. He waited, as had become his ritual, in a hard backed kitchen chair facing the front door, often for hours on end. His fear would grow that the envelope wouldn’t appear, and his fear also grew in case it did. The process had been far more grueling on him than he had ever thought possible, and the physical transformation had left him gaunt and tired. His dreams were filled with terror and blood with an echoing scream soundtrack.

  After two painful days of waiting the envelope finally plopped through his door, and his heart skipped a beat when it landed with an ominous thump. He sat and stared at the teasing brown package for some time. Eventually he stood on shaky legs and walked towards his destiny.

  He left his apartment later that evening in a drunken haze. He had consumed no alcoholic beverages for the duration of the shoot, but he was intoxicated just the same. The suit of the no named man was a heavy burden to wear; the clothes seemed to seep into his very pores as the new personality invaded. He found that there was only a gossamer thin layer between them now. He felt bitter anger now all the time; he could smell their thoughts towards him as he walked through the world. He caught their mocking glances and could feel their fear. People now avoided him on the street; they crossed the road to remove themselves from his path. Deep down he knew that he was dangerously ill-prepared for this venture. He had thought himself more than capable of carrying out the process, but he now knew that his arrogance could only carry him so far. But he was nothing if not committed. He had one more night to perform; one more scene to get through, one more nightmare to survive before it all became worthwhile.

  He reached the supermarket location; the night was cold and damp and fitted his mood perfectly. Today’s shooting schedule package had contained the details of the filming and a serrated vicious looking knife. The envelope explained that the “victim” actor would be in the freezer section of the supermarket. He was to storm up to the actor and stab him repeatedly in the chest with the enclosed knife. The actor would be wearing a chest protector that was filled with blood packets and the effect would be messy and shocking. After the murder scene he was to flee the premises as quickly as possible, as if he was detained and arrested now then the weeks would all have been for nothing. A very public arrest would lead to the film being revealed and the effect would be ruined.

  After the supermarket he was to relocate to a warehouse a few miles away where there would be the wrap party to end all wrap parties. He was also hoping to get to view the fruits of his labors and maybe get to meet his illusive director.

  As tired as he was, he desperately wanted to sit in a cinema with an audience viewing his transformation for the first time. He wanted to hear those shocks and gasps. He wanted to feel their revulsion and terror and see them fleeing up the aisles. He wanted to witness the hordes come to see the rom-com darling shatter their worlds in a bloody blaze of glory. In truth he was just keen to get the last night over with; his head seemed to ache all the time now. He wasn’t sleeping, he wasn’t eating, and he knew that he did not have much left in the tank. He was running on fumes.

  He steeled himself as he entered the supermarket, and the bright neon lighting spiked into his brain spitefully. The building was large and busy, and tired mother’s hustled their unruly litters as tiny hands were forever grabbing at colorful packaging.

  Gerald walked through the aisles of merriment and seduction; his head throbbed painfully and he just wanted this to all be over quickly. He kept the image of that golden statue in front of him; the inevitable confirmation of his sacrifice that was surely on the horizon. He would bask in the adulation and it would all have been worthwhile, as he would try to explain to empty headed talk show hosts. He would paddle in the pools of pop culture, but his head would be firmly raised above the parapet.

  He reached the freezer aisle. The package had told him that the actor would be the same man from his very first scene in the pub a couple of weeks earlier. Gerald had cringed at the casting, as the actor in question had not been of a suitable standard as far as Gerald was concerned.

  He spotted the actor ahead of him. The man was perusing the freezers; his concentration seemed appropriate, and his manner was relaxed
and natural. Gerald wondered if he had underestimated the actor’s abilities after all. Perhaps this new style of filming had perhaps thrown the man at first.

  He stormed towards the actor, his blood pumping and his heart pounding hard. The man turned towards him with a more than credible look of surprise on his face and the actor went up another notch in Gerald’s estimation. He drew the wicked blade from his jacket and the man visibly paled before him; his face contorted with horror and panic.

  “Hey, hold on a minute man,” the actor stammered. “What the hell are you doing?” he yelled loudly, his voice rising to an almost comically high pitch.

  Gerald knew that the whole scene depended on his clean getaway and the man’s yells were already attracting attention. He swung the blade, his arm full of adrenaline infused power. Despite his anger racing he still took careful aim to land the knife into the actor’s hidden protective vest. The response was instant and bloody, the squibs exploded a crimson gush into the air and the man sank instantly to his knees. Gerald landed on the actor’s chest and drove the evil looking blade into his chest for the scripted three more times. The actor’s death scene was marvelous and Gerald could only hope that the hidden cameras were getting sufficient close-ups. For once Gerald felt an uncharacteristic urge to convey his admiration to the actor for his performance. But his thought was interrupted by a shattering scream of a female shopper who had wandered into the blood ridden aisle.

  He quickly leapt to his feet. His shoes were sticky underfoot from the fake blood and he left red fading boot prints in his wake as he turned and ran for the exit. Several more shoppers had joined the party; some were screaming for help, some were screaming for the police and some were just screaming. Gerald knew that his complete disintegration into his character was more than convincing, as even the bravest of witnesses seemed unwilling to stop him as he ran. A security guard suddenly emerged in front of him as he reached the supermarket exit. Gerald dipped his shoulder and charged into the minimum wage wannabe and he sent the man flying and was outside free and clear.