by James Bee
Sucking in a deep breath, Jason took one last look at the door. Should he try to do something to slow them down, to buy him some time? For what? A few more minutes wouldn’t do anything. Should I open it? Unlock the door and try to surrender? Why wouldn’t that work? The sober part of Jason’s mind, now firmly subjugated, knew there was no reason they would just kill him if he was posing no threat. They weren’t like him and Hank and the others. They weren’t murderers, killers. They couldn’t just strike him down in cold blood. It might be his best chance at survival. At getting out alive.
Yet he still took a step away. It wasn’t right. Jason took another swing of the booze. Last one. Turning away, he tried to put the door out of his mind. He had to face his past, like the others had done. Maybe he’d end up dead, as they had, but maybe not. Maybe he would face his demons and live to tell the tale. More than anything, curiosity was pushing him, mixed with a drunken belligerence. Mind made up, Jason strode unsteadily from the room, pulling the door shut behind him. He needed to cover his tracks, at least a little. The whole floor was a maze, and anyone following him would have to be on their guard, extra careful. Another crash, somewhat muted, rang out behind him. It wouldn’t be long before they broke in. Still, it would be long enough — it would have to be.
Jason knew where he was going yet wasn’t moving quickly. Some was the alcohol induced stupor, the rest was dread. The kind that would have enveloped him, pinned him in place, if not of the courage he had found waiting for him in the bottles. One of which he brought up to his mouth. Last one. He was drunk, and he felt strong. He was invincible. He was Stitches. No one fought him and walked away unscathed. Whatever was waiting for him would find out soon enough. One right hook and it’ll be over. It was the boast of a young man, unburdened by experience, unfettered by sense. He should have known better. He did know better. Yet he seemed to have forgotten or didn’t want to remember. A fight was coming, no matter what he did. Better to face it with confidence, bravado, than to cringe away. Fear would make him sloppy, slow him down. Something he couldn’t afford. That he knew. It was ironic in a way. After all of the time spent trying to rehabilitate him, all the classes, all the workshops, all the effort, it was fighting that had the chance to save his life. Maybe the only thing that could save him. And it was going to happen at Oakview, the supposed bastion of rehabilitation. Jason chuckled; it was almost funny. Almost.
Jason went through a door, then another, shutting both behind him. He hadn’t paid much attention to where he was going the first time, but he knew he was going the right way. The voices were growing more distinct, more urgent. Were they egging him on? Warning him away? The words were still too muted, muddled. Hell, they might have even been a different language for all he knew. It was like the background noise in a busy room, difficult to follow any one thread. It was making it hard to think, though the booze wasn’t helping much either in that regard. Or the blood loss. The pain in his side was growing, spreading. How long until it weakened him to the point that he was too diminished to fight? Jason was on the clock, and he knew it. He had to hurry or he was going to die. Although he was probably rushing to his death. Still, curiosity and defiance drove him on. Whatever was waiting for him had killed the others, Hank at the very least. Maybe he could get some revenge for his friends.
Jason paused, his hand hovering over the doorknob. If he went through, he’d be back in the strange hallway with the three doors. What would be waiting for him on the other side? What if it was nothing? Just an empty hallway leading to three empty rooms. He’d have spent what was probably his last few moments of life chasing after ghosts. Not like the rest of my life has been spent doing anything productive.
Still, Jason hesitated. He couldn’t bring himself to open the door. He was frozen, trapped. The urge to sit down, to collapse was strong, taking him over. How much longer could he fight against the booze and the spreading weakness? How long until he fell and didn’t get back up again? He and to go now, had to act while he still could. Just a little movement, just twist the knob and pull. Jason willed himself.
A crash from behind rang out, shaking the floor. Jason jerked his hand back and turned around, nearly falling over in the process. There could be no doubt as to what had made the noise. They broke through. They’re inside. It was now or never. It wouldn’t be long until they found him.
“Last one,” Jason said, putting the bottle to his mouth and taking a deep drink. Then he placed the bottle carefully on the ground and grasped the doorknob. A twist and a pull and the door swung free toward him.
Jason stepped through.
33
Chapter 33
The hallway looked the same as it had before, sterile and painfully white. Only one thing was different: the third door was open. Jason stared hard at the opening and the blackness within. I know I didn’t open it, I know I didn’t. Who did? No one else was in here. I would have heard them, Jason thought frantically, though he knew it was a lie. He could barely hear his own thoughts over the voices in his head. Someone must have snuck in, or the door could have opened on its own.
Still, Jason couldn’t look away. Couldn’t tear his eyes free from the open doorway. It was like he was a kid again and he’d forgotten to close his closet before turning the lights out and getting into bed. He’d stay awake half the night, staring at the impenetrable blackness. He’d thought that if he took his eyes away for one moment, the monsters would rush out and get him. Yet as long as he looked, as long as he didn’t bring his eyes away, he was safe, and nothing could get through.
This time it was different. Even as Jason looked, something stirred in the room. He could see movement getting closer. The light only penetrated a little ways into the room. A small rectangle on the threshold. Someone or something was inside. Jason gave a strangled cry as the person came into view. It can’t be. IT CAN’T BE.
Jason watched himself walk out of the dark room to stand under the bright lights of the hallway. It was him. There could be no mistake. He’d stared at that face every night, watched it sink and degenerate under the weight of his alcoholism. Watched as his skin sagged, grew pink, and splotched. He’d seen it happen, bit by bit.
Only the face that was staring at him wasn’t his anymore. Hadn’t been for years. This face was still in his early twenties, invincible, before the abuse had caught up to him. This is how I looked that night. The night of the fight. The thought slipped through Jason’s stunned and overwhelmed mind. What did this mean? How could this be? Had he finally gone crazy? Had he snapped? Maybe seeing Hank dead had done it, broken his mind. The booze and the blood loss were causing him to hallucinate. He’s not real. He can’t be.
The other Jason didn’t move. Just stood, staring at him. Jason couldn’t tear his eyes away. Couldn’t move. He just kept staring. He’d forgotten how he’d looked. How strong his arms were, not an ounce of fat on him. Lean and hungry for a fight. Slowly, Jason brought his eyes up to meet the apparition’s. The look was there. The challenge, the choice that was hardly a choice at all. The specter wanted to fight. Needed to. Jason could feel the hunger, the thrill, rising in him. His knuckles itched, and he felt strong. The pain in his side was fading away, receding from consciousness. No. You can’t win. You’re too old, wounded, and drunk. You remember what you were like back then, Jason told himself. All he had as an advantage was the weapon clutched in his fist. One good shot, one hard punch, and it would put anyone down.
A slow smile spread across the face in front of him. The other Jason broke eye contact, looking down at something in his hand. Jason followed his gaze down, though he knew what he would see. His old knuckle duster lay in his palm. Shit, Jason thought, an unfamiliar sensation spreading through his body.
Fear. He’d never felt it before a fight. Especially not after he’d been drinking. Yet he felt it now. Felt it taking a hold of him. He had to get out, had to escape. He was going to get beaten to death. He was going to die. Jason reached out backward to grasp the knob of the door behind h
im. Grasping the cool metal, he prepared to twist and make a run for it. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. It was wrong. He came here for a reason. If he left, the police would just end up killing him anyway. Was it better to die by his own hands? Jason took his hand off the doorknob and stepped forward. The other Jason didn’t move. Just kept staring. Staring and smiling.
“What do you want!” Jason screamed. “Why are you here?” The apparition didn’t answer, didn’t move. “What do you want from me?” Jason’s heart was pounding, harder than he’d ever felt as adrenalin thundered through his veins. He had to do something. He looked around the hallway, but there was nothing he could use as a weapon. Nothing that would save him. Why did I leave the gun behind? Why did I do that? Should he wait for the other Jason to make a move, or should he attack first, get the advantage? If this really was him from all those years ago, then he was wiser, smarter. This is insane. How could I be here? It didn’t make sense, and yet it explained everything. Everyone else had come across this horror themselves. Their past murderous selves. Jason knew everything tied together, even as his mind reeled. They had died the way that their victims had because they were their victims. They had become them. Hunted, scared, vulnerable. They had felt what it was like just before they were killed. They’d been put in their victims’ shoes, and in that moment had known everything.
And now it was his turn. Jason rolled his shoulders, as he always did before a fight. He was stiff as a board, all over; even the booze couldn’t help him with that. His gunshot wound hurt, but more than the pain was the weakness it would bring. It would sap at his strength. Jason knew that if it were him, he’d try to hit it as soon as possible. If he got hit there, especially with the brass knuckles, it would be over. He’d fold like a cheap suit. He’d have to protect the wound, as well as his head. Footwork would be everything. Staying out of reach, dancing and dodging punches. Something that would have been difficult enough sober, but now he had little chance. It’ll come down to a slugfest. Us throwing haymakers until someone drops. And it’ll be me. That’s the whole point of this, isn’t it? That I get to experience it myself. That in the end I destroy myself. The others were caught off guard, murdered. But I gave my victim a choice. He chose to fight me. Poetic. Well. No point in drawing this out.
Jason took a step forward, fists up. He’d been told that his fight had ended with the first punch he’d landed. If he could attack first, maybe he’d have a chance. Maybe. Another step forward, and still the other Jason stood still. Could he be part of my imagination? Am I just dreaming him up?
Yet as Jason took another step, the specter sprang into action. His hands went up, mirroring Jason’s. Instead, he stepped backward into the dark room behind. Two more steps and he vanished from view completely. Jason stopped, confused. What was going on? He had never run from a fight. Never in his whole life. Why had the other Jason retreated? It didn’t make sense. Must not want to fight in here. But why? What’s so special about that room? Jason stepped forward cautiously, aware that it could all be a trick. A way to get his guard down. Trick him into coming closer, where he could be seen, but he couldn’t see into the room. That didn’t seem right, though. He had never jumped anyone. They always knew a fight was coming, at least. Always had some choice. Running was an option, always a choice. Though for him it wasn’t particularly enticing.
Jason turned and looked back to the door behind him. Soon enough it would open, the police would find him, and his choice would be made for him. Instead of a fist, it would be a bullet. He didn’t stand a chance against that. But what was better? The room was terrifying to him, dark, uninviting, but still … familiar somehow. Going back the way he’d come would be suicide, albeit by cop. This place would have them on high alert, their fingers practically squeezing the triggers already. All he would do is add another death to their conscience. And who knew better than him what that would do to someone? How the guilt could fester and manifest later. He didn’t want to put that burden on anyone — he wouldn’t. Yet the prospect of stepping into the room filled him with dread. Once I go in, I won’t come out. He was frozen, trapped between two terrible choices. Yet he had to choose, soon, or even that freedom would be taken from him.
From behind the door, muffled sounds trickled in, hard to hear but real. Jason moved over and locked it. It wouldn’t keep them long, but maybe just long enough for him to make his choice, to find his courage. How had it been for the others? he wondered mildly. Had they even known? Mac seemed to have figured it out. Had he run at the start? Seen himself with the knife and fled, only to be tracked down and slit open anyways? What about Hank? Jason hoped it had been fast, that he hadn’t seen it coming. Somehow he doubted it. They must have caught a glimpse, just long enough for everything to make sense. Had they been as scared as Jason was? Probably.
A bang at the door behind him put an end to his musings. Voices yelled orders, still strangely muffled. They found me. My time is up. He only had moments now. Walking over to the third door, he stood at the threshold. Now that he was near, strange smells and sounds washed over him. Familiar but out of place. That sounds like music, he thought, mystified. Sniffing deep, he could smell sweat, vomit, and beer. What? There was no time to ponder as the door behind him shook from a violent blow. He had to go now. No time to think. No time to get his courage up. He was under pressure, and he had to fight. Maybe he would win. If that was even possible. What would happen after, he had no idea. Probably wasn’t much point in thinking about it. The door shook again. Go! Now! he willed himself. One more deep breath. Jason clutched his knuckle duster, for comfort more than anything. He was as ready as he was going to get. It was all he knew, right? Fighting. It was all he’d even been. All he could do. His knuckles itched, and there was only one way to scratch them.
The door behind him shook, half open. A voice in his mind screamed. One voice, drowning out all the rest. A voice that Jason knew. His voice. Screaming at him. Yelling one thing, over and over again. One number. The words filtered slowly through the fear and the alcohol.
The knuckle duster fell to the floor with a ringing clang. Jason took a step backward and turned his back to the door and the darkness. As he did, the strength that had been buoying him fled. A groan escaped his lips as he collapsed to his knees. Arms trembling, he raised them over and behind his head. The door shook again, for the last time. Another blow and it swung open.
Jason closed his eyes as the lights washed over him.
THE END
About the Author
James Bee lives in Port Moody, Canada. You can follow him on twitter at @jameslikesbooks. For more information on upcoming novels, visit him at https://jamesreads.blog and sign up for his newsletter.