The Unhinged

by David Bernstein

  But still, Aaron found it hard to believe that she wouldn’t call him to let him know she wasn’t coming home after work.

  He decided to watch television, needing to heed his own advice and not worry, when his phone chimed, indicating he had a text message.

  Girls grabbed me after work. Wouldn’t let me go home. At a restaurant with them. Not allowed to use my phone to call you, but managed to sneak in this text. See you later.

  Aaron smiled after reading the message and was glad his mom had such good friends. Even though it had been a couple of months, they were finally all together and able to mourn their friend properly. Share some tears and laughs, which was what friends were supposed to do. Of course being involved with Barbara’s death made it even more difficult for Kelly, but hopefully hanging out with her friends would help the healing process further.

  Aaron grew tired after watching the eleven o’clock news—the news something he’d grown accustomed to watching since the media discovered Horror House—and went to bed.

  Aaron was startled out of a deep sleep by a blaring, eardrum-rupturing scream. Terror and confusion assaulted him like some unseen entity. His eyes shot open, heart hammering in his chest. He tried sitting up, but found his arms pinned to his sides, legs pressed together. The scream kept on, piercing his brain like hundreds of needles. It was one never-ending howl, as if the blower had the lung capacity of an opera singer. He didn’t understand what was happening and thought he’d soon wake from the nightmare, but then the overhead light came to life and reality presented itself.

  He squinted as his eyesight adjusted to the brightness. Lifting his head off the pillow, he looked down at himself and saw he was wrapped securely in rope from chest to ankles, mummy-like. Standing at the end of the bed was the man with the scar. The terror already gripping him tightened further. His head was pounding from the constant air-horn-like screaming. Aaron closed his eyes, telling himself it was all a dream. The blaring scream didn’t stop; the pain in his head intensified.

  He finally opened his eyes and turned his head to the right and saw a young girl’s face next to his. Her mouth closed and the screaming stopped. A slight ringing remained in his ears.

  The girl licked his cheek and giggled. “He tastes sour,” she said, and stood, revealing her tall, slender frame. She was pretty, with pin-straight, auburn-colored hair and soft-looking skin, but there was a wickedness about her—eyes hungry with malice. She turned and stood beside the man with the scar, towering over him. “He’s awake, Daddy.”

  A small boy—maybe ten years old—with short brown hair and wearing a T-shirt and overalls appeared from behind the man. The left side of his face, neck and arm were severely scarred from burns. The tissue was healed, leaving a pocked and stretched look to the flesh.

  Aaron thought the maniacs’ house had been empty when he set it aflame, save of course the two corpses in the basement. The kid must’ve been hiding, afraid to come out. Maybe the boy had seen the phony cop and the girl get killed.

  The boy stared at him. His mouth was a pencil-thin line, brow furrowed. Aaron could feel the hate coming from him like deadly radiation. The boy came forward and stood next to Aaron. “You killed my sister,” he said. “Daddy’s going to make sure you suffer.” The boy smiled, then stepped back.

  They’d both called the man with the scar Daddy, letting Aaron know the kids considered both men to be their parents.

  Aaron was injected with something that made him drowsy, but didn’t put him to sleep. He was then picked up and slung over the shoulder of the man with the scar and carried out to a van. He was laid next to his mother and Hanna. Both women were clearly awake, their eyelids sluggishly opening and closing, as if they’d just woken from a deep sleep. Aaron was able to see terror in their eyes, but guessed they had been dosed too.

  The van doors shut and gloom swallowed them.

  Aaron had no idea how much time had passed when the van’s engine shut off, but it seemed like hours. The girl had given him, his mom and Hanna another injection during the journey and Aaron could only assume it was more of the drowse-inducing agent. Breathing was difficult, but manageable. Most of the ride had been smooth, except for a stretch right before the end when the van rumbled and jostled around as if it was traveling along an unpaved road.

  When the van doors opened, a thick wave of manure-rich air rolled in. One by one, Aaron and the others were taken into a creaky, old farmhouse. Cornfields surrounded half the property, extending into the distance for miles. On the other side of the land was thick pine forest that led to the bottom of a mountain.

  After passing through a large kitchen with worn checkered tiles and a dingy hallway containing holes in the yellowing Sheetrock, Aaron was deposited in the basement with Hanna and his mom. The strong odor of bleach irritated his sinuses.

  Aaron and his mom were then placed into six-feet-by-six-feet steel cells, still unable to move, but their bodies were positioned so that they had a view of the room. A surgical steel table was set against the left wall. Hanna was stripped of the rope and her clothing. The man shoved a ball gag into her mouth and secured it around her head. He then placed her on the table. The scene was all too familiar—his mother’s rape—and the room he was now in was an almost exact copy of the one in Horror House.

  With the drug wearing off, he was more clear-headed. “Don’t do this. Please. I’ll do whatever you want. Let her go.”

  The man with the scar pulled off his shirt and slid off his jeans. His penis was engorged with blood, rock-hard and ugly. His daughter massaged his shoulders from behind. She looked at Aaron. “You killed our miracle baby,” she said, “so now Daddy’s going to make another. But first he needs to make Hanna look more attractive.”

  Aaron fought to break free, but was only able to watch as Hanna was hooked up to IV tubes. A tourniquet was strapped around her right arm at the shoulder, and then the cutting began. She was awake, her eyes pinned to Aaron’s, begging him through muffled cries to do something. The sloshing, breaking of bone and ripping of flesh was nauseating.

  In his mind, Aaron went insane.

  The nightmare continued over the next week. Hanna’s body was slowly and methodically taken apart, sliced and burned, tortured to no end. She was allowed to cry out at times, at first begging for Aaron’s help, then begging to be killed when the man with the scar violated her. Day after day, grunting like an animal, he forced himself inside her, spilling his dirty seed.

  Aaron lost a part of his soul as he was unable to deal with what he was witness to every day. He was never touched himself. Never harmed. The family of sickos knew the emotional pain he was experiencing was far worse than any physical anguish.

  He and his mom were kept alive. They were fed horribly disgusting meals containing insect parts, uncooked animal remains mixed with cooked ones, chicken beaks and claws and portions of each other’s vomit—of which they produced a lot. And there was plenty of food served with mold and rot on it.

  But the need to survive was strong. Mother and son continued to eat, knowing they needed the sustenance. Then one night, after a delicious meal of chicken and spaghetti—Aaron grateful the meal seemed normal—the girl paid him and his mom a visit.

  “Did you enjoy the meal?” she asked.

  “Fuck you, bitch,” Aaron said.

  “That’s no way to talk to your host, especially after I slaved in the kitchen over freshly cooked Hanna parts and spaghetti.”

  “You’re full of shit,” Aaron said.

  “Tastes like chicken,” the girl said, then held up a femur stripped of flesh.

  Aaron knew she was telling the truth and upchucked his dinner. His mom joined him. That seemed to be the final straw for his mom, because after that she was no longer the same. Even after throwing up everything in her stomach, she continued to make herself dry heave, saying how she needed to get all of Hanna out of her body.

&nb
sp; Aaron had no idea why his mom was kept alive and physically unharmed. He was grateful for that, but she wasn’t doing well mentally. He needed to get her out of there and fast. His mom talked with Barbara and his father as if they were present, just hanging out at home with her. She talked to him, asking him simple things, like what did he want from the grocery store.

  He was able to get through to her once in a while, reminding her to stay with him, stay strong. The family was using psychological warfare on them, hoping to break their minds. They wanted him and his mom to give in and beg for death. He couldn’t allow for that.

  Aaron needed to live. He couldn’t let the deranged family members roam the earth. When he managed to escape, the first thing he’d do was kill Hanna. He’d come to grips with this. He was a hero and would do the right thing. She didn’t deserve to live the way she was living.

  But Tabitha and Jack, as he came to know them, took care of him and his mom. They were cunning and careful. They never made mistakes with him, never gave him a chance to act. He had to hope one day they’d slip up and that he’d be quick enough to take advantage.

  The boy kept a calendar on the wall, letting Aaron know how much time was passing. The days crawled by, and the torment of Hanna’s cries and his mother’s babbling became impossible to bear. He was cracking up, losing his mind.

  He grew to love the night; at least he imagined it was night when things were quiet. With the windows bricked over, he had no way to know for sure if it was night or day. He’d thought the quiet would drive him mad, but it was the only solace he received, unless of course his mother was up and babbling about something, or Hanna was moaning and whispering for death to take her.

  Aaron’s time went on, never changing. The days were all the same, one horror mixed in with another. The man with the scar continued to plant his seed in Hanna, the whacko family hoping she’d get pregnant. Aaron was grateful the man was shooting blanks and laughed in their faces. There would be no demon spawn.

  But then the unthinkable happened.

  Eight months later, Hanna was with child. The family rejoiced, something he’d never seen them do.

  Unable to stand it, Aaron rammed himself against the bars that night, needing to escape the torment, knowing the girl he loved would be mother to another would-be monster.

  When he awoke the next morning, he was held down by the man with the scar and injected with something. His body went numb and he could not move. He then watched as his mother was taken from her cell and placed in front of him.

  Tabitha held his mom by her hair and placed a hacksaw against her throat. She smiled and ripped a deep gash across the tender flesh. What little life was left in Aaron’s mom showed through her eyes. She seemed aware. He thought he saw the slightest hint of a grin before the blood spewed and the light went out of her eyes forever. Her headless body fell forward and landed on him. The girl held up the head and cackled, then marched out of the room.

  Kelly’s corpse was left to bleed, stink and rot in his cell for three days. Aaron remained crouched in the corner of his cell, as far away from the body as possible, like a frightened little boy. He didn’t eat or sleep, having disappeared inward to a safe place far, far away.

  When his mother’s body was removed, his cage was cleaned thoroughly. Aaron was able to move around again, shaky but better until he noticed the new addition to the room. Resting atop the metal people-parts cabinets—where some of Hanna’s parts had been stored—was his mom’s head. The man with the scar had positioned the yellow fluid-filled jar so Kelly stared directly at Aaron through half-closed eyes.

  Aaron screamed, his mind cracking further. He cursed, spittle flying, and reached out to the jar. “You fucking animals! I’ll kill you all!” He continued on, his voice going hoarse, until he was depleted of energy.

  That night, unable to take any more, he begged to be killed and then rammed his head against the bars until he knocked himself out.

  He awoke with his hands tied to the bars behind him.

  “Now, we can’t have you hurting yourself, Aaron,” the girl said, “at least not until our new brother or sister is born.”

  Aaron remained this way, fed by hand, pissing and shitting himself until the day Hanna’s stomach was sliced open and a baby girl was born.

  A day later, his and Hanna’s heads sat in glass jars next to his mom’s.

  About the Author

  David Bernstein is originally from a small town in Upstate New York called Salisbury Mills. He now resides in NYC and is hard at work on his next horror novel. He is the author of the novels, Witch Island, Amongst the Dead and Damaged Souls and the novellas, The Tree Man and Apartment 7C.

  David writes all kinds of horror, from hair-raising ghost stories to gore-filled slashers to adventure-filled apocalyptic tales of terror. He loves hearing from his readers. You can reach him on Facebook, at www.facebook.com/david.bernstein.3. Visit him at his website: davidbernsteinauthor.blogspot.com or email him at dbern77@hotmail.com and follow him on Twitter at @Bernsteinauthor.

  Look for these titles by David Bernstein

  Now Available:

  Amongst the Dead

  Damaged Souls

  The Tree Man

  Witch Island

  Apartment 7C

  A witch’s curse from beyond the grave!

  Witch Island

  © 2014 David Bernstein

  Witch Island used to be feared. Even the bravest would not dare go there. Legend said a witch had been burned alive at the stake, and upon her death she cursed the town. Terrified residents performed rituals to keep her spirit trapped on the island where she was buried.

  Now, over a hundred years later, a group of high school seniors have decided to forgo the local graduation parties and have a small gathering of their own—on Witch Island. They don’t fear the legends. They scoff at them. But the group will soon learn these particular legends are nothing to scoff at. And Witch Island will prove far worse than they could have ever imagined.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Witch Island:

  Margaret Rivers awoke tied to an iron post in the midst of a small clearing in the middle of a heavily wooded area. Freshly cut logs, both thick and thin, lay piled at her feet. The pungent aroma of kerosene filled the air. Night had fallen; the villagers’ torches cast hundreds of dancing shadows along the tree line. There were only five people left from the throng that had taken her from her home. These were the executioners, the witnesses to her death.

  Her head throbbed from where she had been clubbed, but her focus remained. The villagers had killed her husband, her soul mate, then burned her house to the ground. Margaret closed her eyes, feeling the anguish of losing him, reliving his death. The entire town had been involved. She had been witness to mob behavior before, when her kind were the focus, which was the reason she and her husband had moved out of Manhattan.

  Margaret’s people were misunderstood throughout Europe and America, having to exist in secret. Margaret and her husband had hoped that moving to a remote hamlet, combined with living on the outskirts of town, would have been acceptable to the townspeople, allowing them to live their lives, flourish, and do so without fear. But even in the remote countryside, living on the edge of town and minding their own business proved not to be enough.

  “What have you done with Father O’Brady, witch?” a rugged-looking man with a full beard asked. He stepped forward, separating himself from the four other people with him.

  “I’ve done nothing to no one,” Margaret said. “It is you that have wronged me.”

  “Tell us where Father O’Brady’s body is,” the man continued, “so that we may give him a proper burial.”

  Margaret spit at the man. “You’re animals!” she screamed, her fierce stare landing on the face of each person standing before her. “You’ll pay for this. Murderers!”

  A balding man wit
h spectacles and a walking stick stepped forward. “Tell us where the good father is, and maybe the Almighty will have mercy on your soul.”

  “It’s your souls, and the souls of your children, that you need to worry about,” Margaret hissed. “I curse you all. Your god won’t save you from my vengeance.”

  “It’s no use,” said a woman with long blonde hair. “She’s in league with the devil. She’ll spew nothing but lies.”

  “You people are the devil,” Margaret said, trying to break free of her bonds. “Father O’Brady was—”

  The large man hurried forward and backhanded her across the face. “You shall not utter the good father’s name, witch.”

  Margaret raised her head, blood trickling from her mouth. “The father is a good man, unlike you all. I would never hurt such a person.”

  “Lies!” cried the blonde woman. “Burn her now, before she spells us and gets us under her control.”

  “Yeah,” said another man, holding his torch high. “Burn the witch and be done with her.”

  The burly man lowered his torch to the pyre, then backed away. “Now you can join Satan in Hell, witch.”

  Margaret cried out, her screams echoing far off in the distance. She prayed to the Good Mother, begging that her soul be absorbed into the forest and remain there until vengeance was hers. She had always practiced peace and harmony, to be one with the spirits of her ancestors, with nature, but her pain and fury were too great, and she wanted the murderers and their children to know of her suffering, of her loss, to know of her.

  The five villagers remained, watching Margaret burn alive. Her screams sent chills through them, even though the devil women deserved to die. When the flames began to falter, more wood was added to the fire, the flames burning higher and higher, until all that was left were the witch’s bones. The charred skull fell to the ground and rolled toward the onlookers. The jaw dislodged and tumbled away. The rest of the bones crumbled to the fire, where they lay until there was nothing but smoldering coals.