Asylum - 13 Tales of Terror

by Matt Drabble

  “Will you give me anything?”

  Zachery’s insides cramped and distorted. His face twisted in pain and he clutched the phone tightly with white knuckles. “Yes, yes anything, name your price, I’ll pay you anything you want, just tell me where they are.”

  “Well there is one thing that I want,” the man said tersely.

  “Name it,” Zachery stammered.

  “Can you give me my wife back?”

  Zachery struggled to understand, “Excuse me?”

  “My wife, Amy, that’s what I want. You give Amy back to me and I’ll tell you where they are and you can stuff yourself with as many burgers as you can manage.”

  “Amy?”

  “Yes you bastard,” the man’s voice was now savage with rage. “You don’t remember me do you? I suppose I’m just another notch on your bedpost, just another poor soul whose life you ruined.”

  “Do I know you?” Zachery genuinely asked.

  “My name is Jonathan Guzman. My wife and I used to own a restaurant in the city called Ciao Bella. It was a silly name I know, but it was our dream; our dream that you shattered out of sheer spite Mr. Carmine.”

  Zachery thought hard. The name raised a slight flicker in his memory but no more than that. “Did I review your establishment?” He asked, but fearing the answer.

  “If that’s what you want to call it. It was a hatchet job; you tore apart our menu, our service, and our décor. You questioned our hygiene and recommended us only to Muslims during Ramadan.”

  “Oh,” was all Zachery could manage. Now he remembered the place. It had been an attempt at quaintness that had irritated him from the start. He had been hung-over and just that morning he had been turned down for a raise. He had been in a foul mood and had taken out his poison pen to dish a little retribution, however randomly, caring little for innocent bystanders.

  “Oh indeed Mr. Carmine. We lost everything on the back of your review, we had sunk every penny that we had into that business, every penny that we had and a lot more that we didn’t. We lost it all; our savings, the kids’ college fund, even our house. Amy took it all on her own shoulders and couldn’t cope with our ruin.” Guzman’s voice was teetering on the edge of hysteria. “She slashed her wrists open you son of a bitch. Our nine year old found her in the bath, and he hasn’t spoken since.”

  Zachery could only listen horrified, but despite the tale of woe that he had helped to cause, the thoughts of that food still invaded, angrily pushing for attention.

  “What can I do?” He asked.

  “I already told you, you can give me back my wife or you can rot in hell. And since you can’t do the first, I look forward to you doing the latter. Here’s the thing Mr. Carmine; no matter what you do, you are never going to able to eat anything else ever again. That taste that you had last night will be the only thing your body is ever going to crave; anything else will just be poison to you. You are going to starve to death. It’s going to be a long hard excruciatingly painful journey for you Mr. Carmine, and I look forward to it.”

  Zachery stared in horror as the phone went dead; he flung the handset hard against the wall, where it ended up laying broken amongst the wine glass shards.

  ----------

  For the next week Zachery slowly fell apart, both mentally and physically. Guzman’s threat had appeared to be not as hollow as Zachery had once hoped. No matter what he tried to force down his mouth, it was soon violently expelled by his system. He had tried every possible recipe that he could think of; every dish, every ingredient, every food source, but nothing would stay down. He had sat and tried to recollect every taste and morsel of that burger. He had tried to remember every ingredient, to summon up every spice and every herb. His once immaculate kitchen was now a designated war zone; expensive pots and pans were strewn about with abandonment. Luxury utensils were thrown away, discarded, and crusted with failed recreation attempts. In his fast becoming doomed endeavor to reproduce the magical taste he had tried every kind of meat he knew existed. He had used every cut of beef, every type of pork, turkey, chicken, and venison. He had used every contact that he had in the industry to procure every exotic animal that he could think of; horse, zebra, camel, ostrich, and kangaroo to name but a few. He had even managed to get his desperate hands on a small sample of alligator meat, but nothing fit the bill; no single meat or combination could reproduce the taste. His weight began to plummet from a healthy lean and trim to skinny, then down to wasting. All he existed on at the present was water and a few vitamin pills that he sometimes managed to keep down. Most worryingly of all was that his mind was starting to slip as his body failed around him. He was struggling to think clearly anymore. He wasn’t sleeping anymore as every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was that damned yellow polystyrene container. He hadn’t been into the office since that night, mainly because he was afraid to face anyone in his current emaciated state.

  He sat in his armchair facing the city. Even the view that he had once so lovingly enjoyed failed to lift his spirits. He had been a man who had valued his mind above all else, but now his most valuable asset was foggy and glazed. He had been certain at first that Guzman was just playing a prank on him, to scare him with tales of gypsy curses in retribution. Zachery had of course found this all very amusing after his initial shock, but his humor had soon dried up and turned to dust as he found himself unable to eat. He had dismissed his early failed attempts to eat as simple mind over matter; a physical manifestation of a guilty conscience. After three food deprived days he began to think of a solution - any solution. His arrogance had led him to believe that he would simply give in to his conscience and reproduce the burger; after all there was nothing that he couldn’t replicate. But failure after failure had driven him close to insanity; his food deprived senses had played second fiddle to his arrogance. He had been unable to accept that he was unable to duplicate a simple burger from a simple food truck. He was now at the point of desperation, unable to deny the simple facts that he could not eat and that he was going to starve to death. He had used every contact he had but no-one had heard anything about the food truck. There were no rumors, no sightings, nothing. He had used the paper’s investigative powers to find out what had happened to Jonathon Guzman and his wife. His worst fears were confirmed when he was emailed the gory details. Mrs. Guzman had indeed committed suicide when the family were on the verge of bankruptcy. She had also been discovered by her nine year old son. The boy was swiftly taken into care as Jonathon Guzman had fallen apart. The last record that anyone had of him was when he was sectioned to Blackwater Heights hospital. Zachery knew that Blackwater was a nuthouse, but one phone call had confirmed that Guzman had indeed been a patient, but that he had also been released some two years ago. Unfortunately for Zachery, since then Guzman had quite simply vanished off of the face of the earth. He had no paper trail, no benefit claims, no title deeds, and no electoral register - nothing to find him with.

  He stood on shaky legs and grabbed an extra sweatshirt and his coat, dimly aware that his bony frame would need the extra layer against the cold night.

  He hailed a cab and ignored the nervous stares of the driver. He caught a glimpse of his emasculated face in the rear view mirror and the damage was greater than he had feared. For the past seven days he had felt the weight slide off of his bones, but his vanity had prevented him from looking into any mirror. His cheeks were hollow and his eyes were deep set dark pools in a shrunken skull. The skin across his face was stretched tight and paper thin like dusty parchment paper. He was wearing his smallest tightest fitting clothing, but it still billowed around him like sheets in the wind.

  The driver took him back to the original destination and pulled up alongside the curb. Zachery handed over the fare with a generous tip, but the driver took the money delicately so as not to risk touching Zachery’s fingers, as though the slightest brush would pass on whatever terrible disease he was carrying.

  Zachery headed for the same spot where the truck h
ad been parked on that fateful night. He held out little hope as he staggered across the street. The moon was full and bright and lit the way, but he could already see that the truck wasn’t there. The street was deserted - only framed by desolate buildings - and covered overhead by the disused stretch of the metro railway tracks that used to ferry workers back and forth - when there was work. Despite his thick layers he felt his bones knocking together in the cold. He stumbled towards a bench and sat down heavily. His mind was weary with confused thoughts of pity and a growing sense of anger.

  “Not tonight fella,” a voice echoed out of the darkness.

  Zachery turned to face the man as he wandered out of the shadows from behind one of the thick girders that lined the street carrying the metro tracks. The man was disheveled in filthy clothing; his overcoat was brown and torn in several places. He wore a thick woolen cap on his head pulled down against the cold weather. His hair underneath was long and his beard was thick and bushy with yellow nicotine stains. When he spoke Zachery could see the black gaps between yellowed teeth.

  “What’s not tonight?” Zachery asked.

  “What you’re looking for.”

  “What do you know about it?” Zachery slurred, his voice seemed as tired as the rest of him.

  “Oh I know a lot young fella. I’ve seen them all come and go, and I’ve seen the looks on their faces. It’s in their eyes you see, dark hungry eyes like yours,” the man chuckled.

  Zachery looked up to demand answers, to force the filthy bum to reveal what he knew, to beat it out of him if necessary, but he had no strength. “Please,” he pleaded instead, “Help me.”

  “Oh there’s nothing that can help you now sonny,” the bum cackled gleefully. “What you’re looking for won’t be back, and what you need you won’t be able to make,”

  “There must be something I can do?” Zachery whispered.

  “You got the taste, the taste that’ll never go away; it’ll only get stronger and the more you eat, the more you’ll have to eat. Whatever you did to get here, I’m guessing that you deserved it. Only the worthy are chosen sonny. What did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Zachery said, his voice gaining a little strength from anger. “And whatever I might have done, I don’t deserve this,” he thumped a bony fist against his skinny leg, “I don’t deserve this.”

  “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t,” the man said.

  “What is it?” Zachery asked, not really knowing if he wanted to know the answer.

  “It’s an old word, a strange word, a word that means little to those outside of the circle.”

  “What word?”

  “Wendigo”

  “What the hell is that?” Zachery asked tiredly.

  “The Wendigo is an ancient spirit of cannibalism. It is said that any man who eats the flesh of another will bare themselves open to be filled with the Wendigo spirit.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Oh really, and how exactly are you feeling today?” the bum giggled, “Feeling a bit peckish are we? Can’t eat no matter what you try to guzzle down? I’ll bet you can’t stop thinking about that one perfect burger can you?”

  “What are you saying? That there’s a burger truck driving around the city serving up human delicacies?” Zachery wanted to laugh at the absurd notion, but somehow he couldn’t find the strength.

  “Starting to get the picture are we Mr. Carmine?” the bum laughed riotously. “Starting to see the joke. You’ll never get better; you’ll never heal and you’ll never eat again. You’re going to waste away painfully, inch by inch, day by day.”

  Zachery stared up at the bum who was now doing a clumsy jig around him as he laughed. “Guzman?” he asked as the bum danced and laughed. “Jonathon Guzman, is that you?”

  “Oh yes,” Guzman’s mad eyes sparkled, “You took everything from me and now I’m going to watch you die slowly, so very slowly.”

  Zachery sank into the rickety bench, his hand pressed against the cold steel of the razor sharp kitchen knife that he had brought from home. Even though his senses were severely dulled by his crippling hunger he still knew enough not to come into a neighborhood like this without at least some sort of protection.

  “Guzman,” he whispered quietly, “Come here,” he motioned.

  Guzman stopped his merry dance and moved in closer, “Is it absolution that you’d be wanting?” the widowed restaurateur said in a terrible Irish accent, “Is it the last rites that you’d be wanting son?” he snickered.

  Zachery waved him in closer; he clutched the knife with a trembling hand inside his coat. Guzman leant in to hear his confession and Zachery drew the knife in a smooth fluid motion and plunged it deep into the heart of his tormentor.

  Guzman staggered back in disbelief; his eyes bulged at the sudden turn of events, and Zachery drew strength and pleasure from the shock in Guzman’s eyes. A dark stain began to soak through Guzman’s chest as he sank to his knees and then fell onto his back.

  Zachery heaved himself up off of the bench and stood over the dying man. His stomach lurched at the sight of the blood and he assumed that it was in horror, before a thunderous rumble and a salivating mouth corrected his assumptions.

  ----------

  It was three in the morning before he staggered back into his apartment, his arms full of dripping bounty. He had first attempted to devour Guzman raw but his system had rebelled at the attempt. He had finally managed to clear his mind enough to think clearly. He had to recreate the burger, the recipe. He knew that he couldn’t heft Guzman’s whole body through the city streets all the way home, so he had beavered away into the cold night, slicing and dicing with an expert’s skill until he had enough of Guzman to see him through. Luckily he’d had the foresight to remove his own coat during the butchery and was able to use it to cover his now blood-soaked clothing. He’d wrapped the pieces in Guzman’s own coat turned inside out. He was more than a little concerned over the sanitary aspect, but figured that beggars really couldn’t be choosers.

  He had carried his groceries all the way home in their makeshift dripping container, his stomach rumbling in anticipation, all the while his mind ticked over with thoughts of spices and herbs to add and combine. He knew that there was no recipe that he couldn’t recreate; his earlier attempts had been doomed to failure as he had lacked the right ingredients, but all that was going to change now that he had been shopping for the choicest cuts. He hummed merrily as he walked, assured that his ravenous hunger would soon be vanquished.

  25.

  BLACKWATER HEIGHTS

  “Uh, that’s pretty gross,” Martin said, back in the hallway again.

  “Well just you remember that next time that you think the cafeteria’s food sucks,” Jimmy giggled.

  Martin looked at the elderly custodian without sharing his humor. His taste for these stories had just about been exhausted, and he didn’t think that he could take another bite.

  “The neighbors began banging on Zachery Carmine’s door at around 4am,” Jimmy began to explain. “The noted food critic was cooking up a storm apparently, and the aroma was filling the entire building. The pajama attired gathering all agreed that the bouquet coming from the apartment was mouth-watering, but the noise of the chef clanging around with noisy pans was a little too much at 4am. After numerous unanswered attempts to raise Zachery the police were eventually called.”

  “Do I really want to know what they found?” Martin asked, feeling his own stomach roll over.

  “When the police finally agreed to break into the apartment at the insistence of a high court judge who just so happened to live in the building, they were answered by a bloody chef,” Jimmy continued gleefully, “Zachery’s Carmine’s face was tarnished with red stains as pink meat hung from his greedily chomping mouth. They discovered gore smeared utensils and pans as the noted food critic stomped around furiously yelling about not being able to get a recipe right.”

  “Lovely,” Martin said through a queasy creeping
that formed a lump in his throat.

  Jimmy merely grinned happily as though he was having the time of his life.

  “Why don’t we just get this done Jimmy?” Martin snapped, “One more tale and we’re finished.”

  “Oh yes Martin, you are quite correct,” Jimmy said in an abruptly serious tone, “One more tale and then we are finished.”

  Before Martin could ask anything else Jimmy was already moving further along the corridor. He suddenly noticed that Jimmy seemed to be limping now, dragging his right leg behind him. His right arm hung low and swung gently as he walked, as though it was missing something in its grasp. The shuffling walk put him in mind of something that he couldn’t quite place, some memory of the night’s tales from earlier. His mind temporarily refused to reveal its hidden bounty and Jimmy opened the last door.

  “After you,” Jimmy ushered.

  26.

  NIGHT CLASS

  Sara Wilton pulled into the college car park as the wind whipped rain viciously against the windscreen. The usual busy hive of the day’s activity was absent from the dark and stormy winter night. She checked her watch and found that it was 7:25pm; she was five minutes early and none too eager to be late on her first evening.

  She wrapped her jacket tightly around her and pulled the hood over her head. She grabbed her backpack from the passenger seat and exited the car. She carefully closed the door behind her; she had soon discovered that when you were the one paying you treated all things with more care. The three year old Mini may not be anything special, but it was hers and she had papers to prove it.

  Sara was thirty four; she was naturally blonde and tall with a slim runner’s build. She had sparkling green eyes, a dusting of light freckles, high Nordic cheekbones, thin lips and a whole new lease of life. She was just beginning to breathe in fresh clean air again after a smothering 12 year marriage that had all but sucked the very life from her bones. It had been such a long time since she’d had a thought of her very own; one that hadn’t revolved around Randolph. Even the name still made her shudder. He had been older by a dozen years, a suave gentleman with manners and etiquette that had transfixed her from the beginning.