Asylum - 13 Tales of Terror

by Matt Drabble

  “That’s kind of to be expected don’t you think?” Morton said looking at Terry, not wanting the cameraman to become aware of the scam. “There’s a lot of equipment around here.”

  He looked over at Terry whose face was a picture of pure distress. This was going even better than he could have hoped for. The effects of the shaky low quality camera work could only add to the sense of realism.

  “Morty!” Sheila droned in his ear before correcting herself, “Sorry, Morton.”

  “What!” Morton snapped.

  “Derek just got off the phone with the network; they are loving the show. The net’s buzzing and the ratings are going up and up as word spreads. They say, unofficially of course, to take it as dark as you can. That’s what’s driving the ratings.”

  Morton allowed himself a momentary slap on the back; he knew that this was going to work. This was going to be his ticket back to the top.

  “Uh, Morton?” Terry said distantly.

  “What?”

  “The camera’s acting up,” Terry said as he began banging the side of the camera.

  “Stop hitting it with your ape like paw, that’s hardly going to help, you idiot,” Morton barked, “It’s just a little interference.”

  “From what?”

  “Never you mind. Just get ready to go again, we’re back in five-four-three…”

  Terry aimed the camera and figured that it was up to the truck to get the technical side of the night right. He had his own problems to cope with, such as his testicles currently shirking to the size of walnuts.

  Morton looked down the lens as they went back live. “Mary Colbert was a pillar of her community, and when she hadn’t been heard from for around a week, friends and neighbors feared the worst.” Morton walked through the hallway and into the open lounge, pretending to skirt nervously around the door that had been slamming against its frame only minutes before.

  Derek and Sheila watched the monitor from the truck. The pictures were grainy and green under the night vision effect.

  “Most of her old circle were always aghast at her plans to open such a mansion to the homeless,” Morton continued as he passed into the lounge.

  The room was blackened with the soot that he had brought. The wallpaper and thick carpeting were saturated and stank of decay. The room was large and filled with antique furniture covered in white sheets. An imposing fireplace dominated the space with glinting brass and a cavernous mouth. Picture frames hung on the walls at carefully tilted angles, showing creepy images of bulbous following eyes that Morton had collected.

  “They feared for her safety whilst she was surrounded by the desperate. They could imagine that only the worst of the worst would darken her door, thieves and degenerates, molesters and murderers. When the alarm was raised the police raced to the scene. Many officers were expecting to find the worst possible discovery. How wrong they were, but also how right.”

  “Jesus!” Derek said with a hand over the mic on his headset looking at Sheila, “Did he write this crap himself?”

  Sheila could only shrug with a tight smile; some of the dialogue had been hers.

  Morton stood in front of the fireplace allowing the gothic scene to frame him beautifully. He sucked in his rather overly expanded midriff as the camera pulled out to reveal his full figure.

  “When the police affected entry to the house they found the body of Mary Colbert sitting neatly in the kitchen on a chair, hands folded across her chest in a serene pose. But the stench of death hung thickly in the air, causing experienced officers to shrink away from the house in terror.”

  Derek looked at Sheila in the OB truck. “Where is he getting this information from? Are we going to have to deal with a whole bunch of pissed off cops in the morning?”

  Sheila rolled her eyes; she had discussed boundaries with Morton, who had apparently abandoned the concept.

  “Grown men, veteran hardened detectives,” Morton continued, “ran vomiting from the gristly scene in this very house, under our very feet.”

  A glass flew across the kitchen and smashed violently into the wall, sending shards of jagged edges spilling onto the linoleum floor, and Morton jumped for the first time. He definitely hadn’t rigged that one.

  Terry seemed a little less scared by the latest outburst. After magically pounding doors and bleeding walls, the glass seemed a little trivial.

  Derek stared at the monitor, they were rolling live and Morton was standing motionless and more importantly, silent. “Morton,” he hissed over the headset, “MORTON!” He tried louder and was pleased to see a response.

  “Something has just happened here ladies and gentlemen. Some kind of event has happened in the kitchen,” Morton said a little shakily.

  “Dammit Morton, stop hyping a bloody glass breaking, we need to go bigger not smaller,” Sheila said annoyed into the earpiece.

  In the house Morton stood unsure. Suddenly below them a wailing scream emanated from the bowels of hell and his own bowels turned to jelly.

  “Hey that was good,” Derek said to Sheila impressed. “That one sounded much more realistic than the others. Why didn’t he use that effect to begin with?”

  Sheila leaned into the monitor, wondering just how Morton had managed to lower the temperature in the house to such an extent that she could now see his breath.

  Morton now stood transfixed; what had started out as a simple scam to fool viewers and create a saving effect to his career had suddenly taken an unexpected twist. The cellar below them became a hive of noise and activity. He had placed several sound effects and rigged a large bookcase filled with breakables to tip over, but now the whole cellar seemed to be moving. Furniture was throwing itself like lemmings into the walls and smashing with echoing screams.

  “Ladies and gentlemen…” he cleared his throat quickly, “Ladies and gentlemen,” he tried again in a stronger voice, “What you can hear are the real sounds of a paranormal event being beamed to you live. This is unprecedented television, this is something that will go down in the annals of time,” he spoke confidently, but his mind was racing. “After the break we will return for our final part and our entry into the pit where Mary Colbert slaughtered her prey. We will see you in a few minutes, if you have the stomach.”

  “Damn Morton that was good,” Derek said impressed, momentarily forgetting his loathing for the man.

  “Do me a favor Derek,” Morton replied.

  “Sure, what is it?”

  “Shut your bloody mouth and let a professional think for a minute, you disgusting fat pig,” the insult flowed naturally as Morton was only half listening.

  “Morton, that’s not very nice,” Sheila said sticking up for her colleague in a rare act of defiance.

  “If I want your opinion you talentless slut, then I’ll bloody well give it to you,” Morton snapped.

  Derek and Sheila both gestured obscenely and angrily towards the monitor in the truck.

  “That was a bit rough wasn’t it?” Terry ventured, his question was cut off at the knees with one of Morton’s most withering stares.

  Morton stood rock still; the noise in the basement had abated for the time being, as though whatever was down there had a flair for the dramatic and didn’t want to waste A-material during a commercial break. He weighed up his options; he had rigged a house to scare a few viewers, but now something really was going on. Sheila knew all about the scam and the dozy cow had no doubt let Derek into the plan.

  “Derek, what’s the latest from the network?” he asked as though he hadn’t just verbally insulted the man.

  “Ratings through the roof and three commissioning editors have already been on the phone looking to set up meetings,” Derek answered in a neutral voice, “but you’ve got to pick it up. Get down into that cellar, that’s where everyone wants you to go.”

  Morton made a choice; he was going down into the cellar.

  His courage lasted about the ten feet it took to reach the cellar door. Just as they came back from the com
mercial break and Terry waved him in, all hell broke loose below them. Morton had been down into the cellar when setting up his effects, and he could remember a lot of the furniture down there. There was a huge solid oak dresser that must have taken several large and determined men to drag it down the narrow stairs. Most of the pieces were large and heavy and Morton was fully intending to get them appraised once this charade was over with. Now, however, he could hear the weighty oak furniture being tossed around like leaves on the wind. He grimaced as the sound of wood splintering and breaking under tremendous force drifted up to torment his ears. Suddenly a cackling female laugh that stank of evil intent and insane notions filled the air. The sound quite simply forced any bravery from his bones and sent it screaming for the hills.

  Terry stood motionless at the sound of laughter. His knees felt weak and his hands trembled.

  “Terry,” Sheila spoke softly after isolating Terry’s channel, “You’ve got to get him moving down into the cellar.”

  “You have got to be kidding me,” Terry spluttered under his breath and away from Morton’s live mic.

  The demonic laughing below intensified in pitch and tone and became far removed from anything feminine or even human.

  “You’ve got to get him down there,” Sheila pleaded, “Everything is riding on this, for all of us Terry.”

  “Can you hear that laughing? There’s no way in hell I am going down there.” Terry said dubiously.

  Sheila took a deep breath and realised that she was no longer interested in keeping Morton’s secrets and running his errands. She found that she did have a little self-respect after all. “It’s all fake Terry. Morton rigged the house with special effects.”

  “Are you shitting me?” Terry hissed, “I’ve been crapping my pants in here, and it’s all been a giant sham? I don’t believe you, all the weird stuff with the doors and the blood?”

  “I’m sorry Terry, but Sheila’s telling you the truth,” Derek interjected. “It’s all part of Morton’s great comeback trail.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Terry said grinding his teeth in anger.

  “Morty…Morty…” the chuckling voice sang from the cellar

  Morton stood at the cellar door, his outstretched hand trembling badly. “Maybe folks we should delay our excursion into the unknown before we know a little more,” he said to the camera. “I’m not afraid to admit it ladies and gentlemen, but perhaps we are unprepared to deal with such a level of unmistakable evil.”

  “What the hell is he doing?” Derek snapped, “He’s going to ruin everything.”

  “Morton,” Sheila barked down the line, “you’ve got to go into the cellar. The network is demanding it. We can’t tease the audience this far and then not deliver.”

  Morton remained motionless, “Perhaps we can do a séance, perhaps we need to bring a priest to bless the house,” Morton said to camera as he backed away.

  “For Christ’s sake you arrogant prat,” Derek yelled into the mic, “get your ass down those stairs.”

  Sheila stared furiously at the monitor as she watched Morton remove his earpiece and their voices from his ear.

  “Morty…Morty…” the voice continued to sing, “I’m waiting Morty, and I’m so hungry Morty, so very hungry.”

  Morton backed further away from the cellar door.

  “Terry can you hear me?” Sheila said quickly.

  “Yeah I’ve got you,” Terry answered.

  “I don’t know what game Morton is playing, but he’s going to ruin this for all of us. Get him into the cellar, I don’t care how you do it,” Sheila barked, utilizing her newfound sense of self belief.

  “My pleasure,” Terry answered with glee. He outweighed Morton by a few pounds, but where Morton was soft, Terry was hard and muscular. He had carried heavy cameras on his shoulders all over the world and they were broad and powerful. He transferred the camera from his right shoulder to his left and placed a strong meaty paw on Morton’s back and began pushing.

  Morton looked around in disbelief as he was suddenly propelled forward and towards the cellar again. “No, no,” he begged, “Please don’t,” he said struggling.

  “Watch the camera Terry,” Derek said watching the monitor, “It’s shaking all over the place.”

  The laughing behind the cellar door rose like a tidal wave and the door began to shake in anticipation as Morton approached.

  “This isn’t a game anymore,” Morton pleaded, “This is real, somebody help me, please don’t make me go down there, this is real.”

  Sheila shared a laugh with Derek in the truck, “Who thought that he had that sort of acting ability in him,” she sniggered.

  “I think he’s actually starting to believe his own lies,” Derek snorted.

  “Poor baby,” Sheila giggled.

  On the monitor in front of them, Terry’s shaky camera was distorting the pictures as he carried the heavy equipment on the wrong shoulder whilst shoving Morton forward with his right hand.

  Suddenly the demonic laughter stopped and the cellar door was flung open. The camera picture wobbled nauseatingly as the two men staggered through the doorway and down the narrow stairs.

  “We need it steadier Terry,” Sheila instructed.

  Over the mic they could now hear a soft whimpering that was coming from Morton.

  “Is he… Is he crying?” Derek asked, not knowing whether to laugh or be concerned.

  “I think so,” Sheila said coldly, “I certainly hope so.”

  The monitor glowed green with the night vision setting on the camera, and the picture steadied a little as Terry had to expend less energy shoving Morton forward. The camera panned around the cellar; there was smashed furniture all over the floor - massive oak slices that had been thrown around with contemptuous ease. Sheila spotted the white huffs of breath from Terry and Morton as the temperature dropped again.

  “When…? How is Morton faking this?” Derek pondered aloud.

  Suddenly the image wheeled violently out of control. The camera’s pictures spun around through the air as though something was flinging the camera and cameraman.

  “Terry, TERRY!” Sheila screamed down the mic

  A piercing scream shattered the air from somewhere off camera. There was a sound of wet ripping and soft moans and struggling breath. Morton’s voice that had screamed now began to sob quietly. The camera picture rolled over and over as the camera itself rolled across the cellar floor. The image came to a stop on Terry’s bloody face; his eyes were blank and motionless and seemed to stare forever into the abyss. His mouth was twisted into a petrified mask of horror; his features bulged in death and spoke of some abominable terror that had been his last vision.

  The camera suddenly lifted up off of the floor and panned around to frame Morton rocking back and forth in a fetal position. His face was deathly white and his eyes were glazed and distant.

  Shelia and Derek watched on helplessly from the OB truck as the camera filmed Morton. It was Sheila, who finally asked the obvious question,

  “Who’s holding the camera?” She screamed in terror, “Who’s holding the camera?”

  21.

  BLACKWATER HEIGHTS

  So who was?” Martin asked back in the safety of the corridor, “Who was holding the camera?”

  Jimmy only smiled, “Who knows my boy, perhaps Mary herself wanted to get a little face time.”

  “What did the police have to say?”

  “Well, about what you imagine. They found all of Morton’s special effects. Sheila and Derek testified as to Morton’s intensions to film a faked show. But poor old Morton in there has barely spoken since that night. Whatever he saw in that cellar ruined him. Terry’s body was ripped apart with far more force than Morton could have ever mustered, at least so the coroner determined. And with Morton unavailable for comment there was no alternative than to section him and place his care in our fair hands.”

  Martin watched the old man carefully; his intrigue had soon taken a detouring side road to
a wary distrust of the elderly janitor. The man could be engaging and charming one minute, and then secretive and downright creepy the next. Martin felt the night dragging as never before and was beginning to wish that it was just all over and done with.

  “How many more of these have we got to go through Jimmy?” He asked tiredly.

  “Not flagging already are we?” Jimmy cackled, “A young buck like you, you should have plenty of energy left in the tank my boy. It’s an old geezer like me that needs fresh batteries from time to time.”

  “Hey, it’s only my first day here remember, and I don’t want to be stuck here forever.”

  “Want doesn’t always get,” Jimmy said with a strange small smile that tightened his features further around his bony skull.

  Before Martin could ask just what in the hell that meant, Jimmy was already opening another door.

  22.

  YELLOW STREAK

  Major Donald Carragher sank his face lower into the mud, praying that he could sink beneath the surface of the wet ground and disappear into the darkness below. The night was black and cold and its icy fingers were nipping at his toes despite the army issue thermals’ attempted defense. He was lying in full camouflage gear, his face smeared with black and green streaks to hide his presence further. His eyes darted back and forth over the misty horizon with scared rabbit-like flicks. The thick fog had descended around the mound where he was currently positioned and was threatening to invade the ravine below. He was lying on a grassy hill overlooking a small valley that disappeared into a thick forest. It was winter and the season was in full effect. The grass was sodden with the cold damp; the terrain was rocky, and great mountains framed the horizon with snow topped peaks.

  Donald had been a soldier for a little over ten distinguished years now; his father’s dreams of another Carragher name to continue the family’s deep military tradition all but fulfilled. Donald had taken to the training and structure of the army with a natural instinct. He had excelled during his basic training, so much so that he was soon selected for officer school. He had found an aptitude both in and out of the classroom, and had headed his unit in all categories. A bright future was earmarked for him, making his seemingly unappeasable father actually pleased for once. Unfortunately for Donald, he was a coward. It wasn’t something that he had decided to be, it was just a simple fact. He had blue eyes, brown hair, a slight dairy intolerance and he was a coward. Initially everything about his army career had been fine - everything had been strictly hypothetical. Every exercise had been friendly, with scenarios created and manned by staff members. Guns fired blanks and training officers changed into generic uniforms to play the enemy. By the time Donald had graduated, the conflicts around the globe that he could have been sent to were all considered resolved, at least as far as his superiors were concerned. British soldiers were no longer being deployed to the likes of Afghanistan and Iraq, and troops were being sent home as operations wound down. Donald had breathed perhaps the longest and deepest sigh of relief that had ever been released, and he had settled into a life of toy soldiers. He began to cultivate his reputation as a tactical mastermind, a brain devised for conflict resolution. He had attended courses and seminars around the globe and his abilities under theoretical battlefield situations soon began to become the stuff of legend. He played the part of the frustrated soldier to a tee, sharing many evenings with his once unapproachable father, bemoaning his lack of opportunities to put into practice just what he preached. He had risen quickly through the ranks, becoming a Major some three years earlier than even his retired father had managed. His father, Horatio Carragher, had retired a Lieutenant General and a legend. He was a man who had forged his own career on the battlefields of Europe. An officer born of conflict, one who had directed his men with a gun in his hand and under fire as the bullets flew.