Asylum - 13 Tales of Terror

by Matt Drabble

  “Morton, we need to get moving,” the weary voice droned in his ear.

  Morton could picture Derek Korn’s bloated face. The producer was no doubt twitching nervously, his pig-like beady eyes glued to the clock.

  “Yeah in a minute,” Morton yawned with exaggeration, enjoying his petty torments.

  He looked up at the building again and shuddered. Some of the scene had been added for dramatic effect; the smoke and the creaking gates, but the house now appeared to have engaged its own sense of menace after darkness had fallen. The infamous “Wayward Shelter for Lost Souls” had been a place for the homeless and destitute to rest their weary heads with a clean bed for the night and a hot meal. Mary Colbert had been a saint in most people’s eyes. After the death of her beloved husband Theodore she had opened their lavish home as a shelter, much to the disgust of her surviving family. The press had descended on her story like voracious locusts, “Rich widow opens heart and home” they decried. But when she had missed a succession of appointments and no-one had heard from her for around a week, the alarm was finally raised. Fearing for her life - and especially after much concern over the poor woman’s saintly nature - the police had finally broken down the door to her shelter. The neighbors gathered, clutching each other in fear of the poor woman’s fate.

  Sometime later, ashen faced veteran policemen staggered out of the house; the stench of torturous death hanging on their very souls. Unfortunately for her army of supporters, Mary Colbert wasn’t quite the saint she had pretended to be. What the police had actually found was initially the heart attacked corpse of Mary, lying innocently dead in the kitchen. However the stench of death had been far in excess of one recently deceased saintly pillar of the community sitting neatly in a high backed kitchen chair. Twitching police noses soon led them to investigate the cellar where the bodies of around twenty men in various states of decomposition were discovered. The bodies had been hacked into so many pieces that they were never able to quite reassemble them all together again. Amongst such carnage no-one could quite bring themselves to openly discuss just what Mary Colbert had been stocking in her famous soup kitchen.

  Morton knew that he needed something to turn his career around, as even rats know when the ship is sinking. The ratings were bottoming out and his agent had already stopped returning his calls with the urgency that he once showed. Morton knew that drastic times called for drastic measures. The show had been a scary thrill ride of green night vision cameras and carefully orchestrated jumps. But today’s audiences were tired of using their own imaginations. Now they seemed to want everything handed to them on a plate, so Morton had decided to give them all that they could handle.

  The house had been rigged with every device and special effect that he could think of. He had emptied his savings account and poured every penny into this night. He had begged and bullied every favor he had left in the bank to get the show on a primetime live slot. He had exhausted the knowledge of every skeleton in every closet that he had held on file; those with evidence, and those where the recipient could only guess that he had them cold. The show had to work. He had to get back to where he was supposed to be and then he could shed all of his excess baggage, starting with that pig of a producer and the clinging bitch of a director.

  He let the unit wait a little longer, just because he could. “Terry,” he snapped at the waiting cameraman, “We go in one minute.”

  “Dammit Morton, I’m supposed to tell you when to go,” Sheila snapped in his ear.

  “Well stop wasting time talking to me then,” Morton sneered. “Nineteen-eighteen-seventeen,” Morton mocked, enjoying the panicking sounds from the OB Unit in his ear.

  “Five-four-three…” Terry waved the last two numbers of the countdown silently.

  “The Wayward Shelter for Lost Souls,” Morton began earnestly as the camera rolled, “was supposed to be a safe haven for the poor unfortunates who were down on their luck and with nowhere else to turn. But their haven became a bloody nightmare as the once saintly Mary Colbert was revealed to be a monster. The police broke down her doors fearing for her safety, only to discover a gristly scene fit for the most twisted imaginations.” Morton walked slowly and dramatically to the rusted iron gates, raising his right hand high and becoming the picture of sorrowful remorse. “Over twenty men came here for shelter and only found death,” he lowered his head and clasped his hands in front of his admittedly overly round middle. “Tonight, we will dare to venture into the scene of the massacre; we will walk where no-one has dared to tread since that horrific discovery. We invite you to come with us tonight. Take our hand and let’s step into the darkness together.”

  “And we’re clear for commercial, three minutes,” Shelia informed him through the earpiece.

  “Really? Three minutes? Like I need you to tell me that,” Morton scoffed.

  “I don’t know why you put up with that asshole,” Derek said to Shelia in the truck, carefully muting the mic first so that their conversation would be devoid of Morton’s knowledge.

  “Oh, he’s not that bad really, he’s just under a lot of pressure,” Sheila answered, hating the whining sound of her own voice.

  “He’s a prick is what he is,” Derek said kindly, “and you should get the hell away from him as quickly as possible.”

  “I know, I know,” Sheila shrugged.

  “You’re far too good for the likes of him. He’s a washed up never was, except in his own mind.”

  “Maybe, but we’re back in 10 seconds,” Sheila said pointing to the monitor where Morton was waving his arms frantically.

  Derek turned up the faders.

  “…the hell is going in there? Have I got to do everyone’s freaking job around here? Should I stick a broom up my arse and sweep the floor as I go?” Morton raged.

  “Back in five-four-three…” Shelia said sweetly.

  Morton swallowed his rising tide of anger and got back on track fast. No-one was going to derail his plans.

  “This house of horror has lain dormant for over ten years,” Morton continued to preach to his audience, “not a single soul has dared to cross this threshold, until now.”

  Morton eased the rusty gates open with a well practiced creak. The house had a large front garden encased by sharp tipped fence spikes that kept in, as much as they kept out. The lawns were a dirty brown stain as Morton had been generous with a large container of industrial strength weed killer when he had destroyed the grass a few days earlier. The large house was derelict and abandoned, as it had indeed been empty for several years. Not everything out of Morton’s mouth was a lie.

  “Imagine the tortured souls that still dwell within the confines of their own personal hell,” Morton continued as he walked slowly up the winding path towards the house’s front door. “Grown men slaughtered and dismembered in a dark cellar at the hands of a maniac.”

  Terry the cameraman rolled his eyes discreetly at Morton’s theatrics.

  Shelia directed from the truck, “Terry pull out a little, let us get more of the house behind him.” She winced at Morton’s over the top acting. She had tried to tell him before about reigning it in, but he would never listen.

  Derek jammed another candy bar into his mouth, stuffing his resentment and unhappiness down his throat with a sugar coating.

  Morton had reached the front door of the condemned property. He reached out slowly and delicately to touch the door handle. He paused and looked directly down the lens. “Tonight I shall risk everything; my life and my very soul to bring you access to the borders between worlds, between life and the afterlife.”

  Suddenly the door began to shake, gently trembling at first until it pounded against the hinges, threatening to tear itself free from the frame.

  “Are we getting this?” Morton shouted with a finger pressed into his ear to show the audience that he was talking to those behind the scenes.

  The door vibrated violently and the night was suddenly shattered with a scream of monstrous pain.


  “What the hell’s going on?” Sheila panicked in the truck alongside Derek.

  “Jesus Christ,” Derek spluttered, “Is this for real?”

  “Terry keep the camera straight,” Sheila barked to the shaking cameraman.

  As suddenly as it had started, the night became still and silent again.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Morton addressed the home audience somberly, “What you have just witnessed can only be the beginning. But I undertook a solemn vow to bring you all with me in a television first. A fearless journey into the unknown, and I will not turn away from my promise. Join us after the break.”

  Morton held his bowed pose until Terry gave him the all clear sign.

  “Morton…, Morton are you alright? Is everything OK?” Sheila spoke softly into his ear.

  “I would be if you’d stop prattling on in my ear every two minutes,” Morton snapped.

  “But the door, that scream, what the hell was that?” Derek asked concerned.

  “Just a little magic,” Morton replied enigmatically with a wink.

  “Wait a minute, what the hell is he up to?” Derek asked Sheila after muting the open line.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Sheila said averting her gaze to avoid Derek’s eyes.

  “Yeah you do. Did he rig the house for the ratings? Is that what he’s been up to the last couple of weeks?”

  “Look, he made me promise not to tell anyone,” Sheila said unhappily.

  “What the hell else has he rigged up in there?” Derek said, suddenly looking up at the house on the monitor nervously.

  “He wouldn’t tell me everything,” Sheila answered honestly, “but I guess that we’re going to find out.”

  “Back in one minute Terry,” Derek said un-muting the line again.

  “I don’t know about this Derek,” Terry said down the open line to the truck, “I didn’t sign up for this.”

  “Never you mind,” Morton replied casually, “You just keep the camera and me in focus. Any shaking and twitching on your part will only add to the entertainment. Remember you don’t work for them you ignorant prick, you work for me. You all do!” Morton raged, “and you’ll do exactly what I tell you to do.”

  “Hang in there Terry,” Sheila offered, “Another forty three minutes and you’ll be done. Just think of it like a theme park ride.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Terry mumbled.

  “Are you ladies all done?” Morton said, “Because we’re back in five-four-three…”

  “What the hell has he rigged up in there?” Derek asked again as he looked to Sheila nervously. All of their futures were riding on the show.

  “Who knows? He may be a lot of things, but Morton does know how to attract an audience,” Sheila shrugged. “Maybe he can pull this off for all of us.”

  Terry kept the camera steady as they rolled again, framing Morton standing bravely at the front door to the dark house. Terry was currently wishing that he was anywhere else.

  “Here we go folks,” Morton said invitingly as he turned the door handle and stepped into the house.

  The hallway was long and dark. The open plan atrium was lined with fading and peeling wallpaper that had long since discarded its original pattern. The flooring underfoot was soft and spongy with a reek of decay. A winding banister stretched to the upper floor that was missing several spindles. One window on the second floor had been cleaned free of grime and the moonlight now cascaded through it atmospherically. Morton had worked hard to provide his viewers with the perfect environment. He had been prepping the house for several weeks now after purchasing the property with the last of his savings. He had left a hosepipe running through the house for two days straight, rotting the carpets and peeling the walls. He had rigged the door with an air compression unit and set hidden speakers throughout the building. He had raided the studio’s special effects’ department for cobweb spinners in order to dress the set. He had also selected black soot bags, a smoke generator, fake blood, sound effects, and a strip of yellow crime scene police tape that had been aged appropriately and now hung across the cellar door.

  “In this house Mary Colbert took in the homeless and the helpless,” Morton addressed the camera. “She welcomed the troubled with open arms. She opened her heart and her home after the death of her husband. Many viewed her as a modern day Florence Nightingale; a selfless woman of means using her wealth to help those less fortunate.”

  Morton edged his way slowly into the hallway and paused with one hand perched on the banister.

  “Tight on his face,” Sheila directed Terry, and watched on the monitor as the camera pulled in close.

  “Mary operated a soup kitchen out of her home,” Morton continued. “She had the upstairs converted into bedroom wards to house the needy. She provided food and shelter, showers and God’s wisdom to those that she welcomed through her door. But no-one really knew just what depths lurked in the recesses of her black heart. She…”

  “What the hell is that?” Terry suddenly interrupted Morton mid-flow, Terry’s voice had never been heard before on camera, and his fear of Morton was suddenly superseded.

  Sheila and Derek watched to where Terry’s camera was now pointing over Morton’s shoulder at the wall. Long dark red streaks were suddenly running down the peeling wallpaper in thick treacle trails.

  “Is that blood?” Terry stammered.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the voice you have just heard is that of my cameraman Terry Jarvis, a brave man who is on this journey with us,” Morton pronounced magnanimously. He turned to face where Terry was staring with a terrified fixated look on his face. “A psychical manifestation of the evil that still permeates this house,” Morton spoke loudly to show the TV audience that he was still in control and reassure them. “This house still bleeds with the blood of its victims.”

  Terry’s hands trembled and the camera wobbled.

  “Terry, the camera, you’ve got to hold it steady,” Sheila whispered helpfully into Terry’s earpiece.

  “Are you kidding me?” Terry snapped, “The freaking house is bleeding through the walls!”

  “It can’t hurt you Terry, it’s just like pictures in a book, that’s all,” Sheila said kindly. “Remember what we’re doing here and what’s at stake. If this doesn’t work we’re all out on our asses come Monday morning.”

  Terry weighed up his terror of the spirit world against his terror of having to tell his wife that he was unemployed. It wasn’t much of a contest. “OK, OK I’m good,” he said with a low whisper and more courage than he felt. But if Morton was holding up, he was damned if he was going to be the first one to run screaming like a little girl. He zoomed into the wall and caught the glinting slick blood trails as they slid a slug’s pace down towards the floor.

  “I feel bad for Terry,” Derek said to Sheila in the truck away from Morton and Terry’s ears. “He’s the only one now who doesn’t know that it’s all fake.”

  “I know,” Sheila replied unhappily, “but Morton said that it was crucial for Terry’s reactions to be real. He has to act for the audience at home. He has to be their eyes and ears.”

  “Still feels like a shitty thing to do to the man.”

  Sheila could only shrug in agreement; her relationship with Morton was complicated at best. She had fallen for his roguish charms and had dreamt of being the woman to bring about his hidden depths, but after months of digging she had yet to find any.

  On the monitor Morton was examining the wall closely.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is some kind of actual residue,” Morton said in a low tone as he touched the wall and held his fingers up to the camera. “Perhaps this house has absorbed more than anyone’s fair share of blood and pain. Perhaps Mary Colbert’s spirit is now forever entwined in these bricks and mortar. Who knows just what else we may find as we…”

  A door off to the side that led into the large open lounge area suddenly swung hard shut and the camera jumped as Terry did. He span around to face the door, w
hich began opening and slamming over and over again. The wood splintered under the force of the blows and the noise echoed throughout the house.

  Morton paused, momentarily confused. He was sure that he hadn’t rigged that particular door. Surely it was the kitchen door that should be banging next. He ran through the sequence in his head, fog, front door, screams, blood walls, then kitchen door, wasn’t it? He had been pretty wasted by the time they had begun rigging the doors; perhaps he had done the lounge instead of the kitchen after all. There was a timer in the cellar that should set off an audio effect, if that… His thoughts were interrupted as the rising banshee wails crept up from the cellar and continued up Terry’s spine, judging by the look on his face, Morton mused.

  “Can you hear that in the studio?” Morton asked aloud.

  Sheila and Derek looked at other in the small smelly truck, “Studio?” Derek asked with a smirk, “Is that what we are?”

  “Apparently,” Sheila laughed.

  “I must inform the viewers watching from the safety of their living rooms at home that one of our producers has just been taken ill with a suspected heart attack,” Morton said seriously down the lens.

  Sheila and Derek looked at other and laughed aloud at Morton’s ridiculousness.

  The banging door subsided and the wails faded from beneath their feet.

  “It appears that we have awoken something in this house ladies and gentlemen, something dark and evil. Something that was asleep in the cellar before we came, but now sounds awake and hungry. We’ll be right back after these messages. Join us after the break as we venture down into the scene of the crime,” Morton teased.

  Derek slapped the monitor as the images rolled with distortion.

  “Hey Morton, we’re getting some feedback on the broadcast,” Sheila said after they were clear into the commercial break. “Something keeps screwing with the feed.”