by Shaun Hutson
He sat up as Harold swayed uncertainly in the chair.
The coloured porter was on his feet in an instant, moving around the desk towards his companion. Harold put one hand to his head and leant forward, taking the weight on his other elbow.
“Harold,” said Greaves.
The older man waved him back.
“I’ll be all right,” he said. “I just felt faint.”
Harold was shaking all over and a fine film of perspiration had greased his skin. He sucked in deep lungfuls of air and gradually straightened up but Greaves remained where he was.
“I think it might be best if you went back to your hut for half an hour or so, just for a lay down,” the coloured porter said. “And while you’re there, get something to eat. That’s half of your trouble, you don’t eat enough.” He put out a hand which Harold grasped, allowing himself to be helped up.
“Come on,” said Greaves. “I’ll help you.”
Together, the two of them made their way to the lift, descending to the ground floor. They headed for the main entrance without Harold speaking a solitary word. He stopped twice, worried that he was going to pass out but Greaves supported him. The senior porter suggested they see a doctor but Harold resisted the offer with a determination bordering on panic. So, slowly, they made their way out of the main building and towards the stretch of grass which led to Harold’s hut. As they drew closer, perhaps a hundred yards from the flimsy structure, the older man pulled away and stood, swaying uncertainly, his good eye looking as glazed as the false one.
“I’m all right now,” he said.
Greaves looked puzzled.
“I’ll just see you inside,” he said. “Make sure –”
Harold cut him short.
“No.”
There was a note of near pleading in the word and Greaves wrinkled his brow.
“Don’t come inside,” said Harold, then he managed a weak smile. “I’m OK. Really.”
Greaves did not move but he remained unconvinced.
“I’ll be back on the ward at quarter past eight,” Harold promised, nodding vigorously. “Quarter past eight.”
He turned and headed for the hut, tottering drunkenly until he finally reached the hut. Greaves watched him through the darkness his eyes fixed to the small dwelling, waiting for the light to be put on inside. The hut remained in darkness. The coloured porter stroked his chin thoughtfully. Perhaps he should go and check on Harold anyway.
He began walking towards the hut.
Less than ten yards further on, he slowed his pace then finally stopped. No, he told himself, Harold must be allowed some privacy and, after all, he had promised to be back at work in less than forty-five minutes. Greaves stood a moment longer, his eyes riveted to the hut. Still no light came on. The senior porter sucked in a deep breath then turned and headed back towards the main entrance. His mind was full of unanswered questions the main one being, why would Harold not let him inside the hut? What was he hiding? Greaves administered a mental rebuke for himself. Harold probably had nothing to hide. He was probably just ashamed of the fact that the hut was a bit of a shambles. Nevertheless, as he reached the main entrance to the hospital, Greaves looked round once more, expecting to see a light coming from the hut and he was mildly disturbed when he saw nothing.
His curiosity was aroused and, as he made his way back up to his office, he became more and more convinced that Harold was hiding something. Perhaps he’d been stealing? Greaves swiftly dismissed that particular notion. For one thing there was nothing worth nicking in the hospital and, secondly, Harold probably wouldn’t have the intelligence to pass for a thief. It was probably a quite innocent reason, Greaves told himself as he reached his office. He sat down and sipped his tea which was now stone cold. He put the kettle on to make a fresh cup, glancing at his watch.
It was 7.46. Harold would be back in half an hour.
Greaves waited for the kettle to boil.
Harold stood in the darkness, his back to the door of the hut, his eyes closed. He finally crept across to the window and, squinting out, he could see Greaves as he stood and watched and then finally turned and left. Harold had breathed an audible sigh of relief at that point. He didn’t reach for the light switch but moved furtively in the gloom, making his way into the kitchen. He stood staring at the cupboard door for long seconds, the cupboard beneath the sink with its sliding door. With a shaking hand he reached out to open it then swiftly withdrew, the breath catching in his throat. The cuts on his chest began to throb and he took a step backward.
The hissing began.
He placed both hands to his temples as his headache seemed to intensify, the voices fluttering inside his mind like dialogue from a half remembered dream.
He moved towards the door.
Harold knelt and opened it, sliding the cupboard opening back an inch at a time, recoiling from the rancid odour of mildew and something stronger. Something more pungent and cloying. The stench of decay. It wafted out of the cupboard in an almost visible cloud making Harold cough.
He had covered the three foetuses with the blanket and now he could see their dark shapes moving slowly beneath the material.
Words came into his head, words which he had heard before. Mutterings and commands which he knew he must obey and which, now, he found himself wanting to obey.
The kitchen knife was still lying beside the sink, its blade dull with rust and dried blood and Harold’s groping hands closed around the handle. He swallowed hard, listening to the words which whirled around inside his head, making him dizzy. His ears were buzzing and he was finding it difficult to focus on the three writhing shapes beneath the blanket but, finally, the feeling diminished somewhat and he reached for the loose corner of the material, pulling it back to expose the trio of creatures beneath.
Harold gaped at them, the breath rasping louding in his throat as he inhaled the rank air. At first he thought he was mistaken but, on closer inspection he realized that his first reaction had been correct. There was no mistake.
All three of the foetuses were growing.
Twenty
Winston Greaves glanced at his watch, drumming on his desk top with his free hand. It was almost 8.35 p.m. Where the hell was Harold? He had promised to be back on the ward by quarter past eight. Greaves chewed his bottom lip contemplatively. Perhaps the other porter had just returned and gone back to work without letting him know. Greaves pushed the thought to one side. No. Harold would have come up to the office first, to let him know that everything was all right. Greaves stared at the bottom of his own empty mug. Perhaps everything wasn’t all right. Harold had looked ill, maybe he’d been unable to return to work. He might even need medical attention of some kind.
Greaves sat for five more anxious minutes then he got to his feet and headed out of his office towards the lifts. He reached the ground floor asking a number of other staff members if any of them had seen Harold. None had. Greaves exhaled deeply. Obviously he had not returned to the main building. Not sure whether to be angry or anxious, Greaves headed for the main doors, intent on finding Harold. He must still be in his hut after all. Perhaps he’d just fallen asleep. Was he really ill? These and other thoughts passed through the coloured porter’s mind as he crossed the expanse of grass which led to the small dwelling where his companion lived.
There was still no light on in there.
Greaves wondered how Harold would react to his appearing at the hut this way. Would he refuse him entry as he had done earlier? Maybe he did have something to hide. If that was the case, Greaves told himself, he would find out what it was.
As he drew nearer the hut he became aware of how quiet it was. The darkness seemed to envelope the tiny hut like a black velvet glove, shutting out all sounds too. Greaves slowed his pace as he approached the door, straining his ears to pick up the slightest hint of movement from inside. It remained as quiet and forbidding as a tomb. For the first time, Greaves became aware of the cold, not just the ever-present chill in
the air but a deeper more numbing cold which seemed to seep into his bones. He shuddered and glanced around him. Trees nearby swayed gently in the breeze, the beginnings of a mist swirled in the hollows of the field beyond the hospital grounds.
Greaves knocked hard on the door of the hut.
No response.
He knocked again, tapping his thigh with the flat of his other hand.
Nothing. Just silence. And the cold.
“Harold,” he called, knocking again.
This time he knelt and tried to see through the key- hole but it was too dark inside the hut. He clambered to his feet and moved across to the window, cupping both hands over his eyes as he pressed his face to the soiled pane. He narrowed his eyes and could just make out a dark form on the bed. He banged the window but the shape on the bed remained immobile. He returned to the door and twisted the handle.
It was locked.
Perhaps he should go back and get help. For a moment he considered the idea but then decided that he should deal with it himself if possible. He didn’t want to get Harold into trouble unnecessarily. Greaves put his hand on the door knob and twisted it again, this time throwing his weight against it. The lock was old and rusted and it came away with relative ease. The subsequent momentum sent Greaves stumbling into the hut itself. He almost fell, only retaining his balance by hanging onto the door. Then he gently pushed it shut behind him, immediately aware of the appalling stench which filled the hut – a pungent, nauseating odour which made him gag. It seemed to have no source but to be permeating the entire hut, oozing from the woodwork like sweat from pores.
He flicked the light switch. The bulb flickered, buzzed irritably then blew out. Greaves fumbled in his overall pocket for his lighter. He flicked it on and held the small flame above his head. It cast a pool of weak orange light and, in that sparse illumination, the porter saw the shape on the bed was Harold.
Greaves crossed to the prone body, his mouth dropping open.
Harold lay on his back, one leg drawn up foot resting on the bed, the other stretched out so that the heel of his shoe was touching the floor. One arm lay across his stomach whilst the other hung limply at his side. Greaves stepped closer, seeing the dark stains on the floor, on the bedclothes. He realized that it was blood and, as he leant over the older man his foot brushed against Harold’s outstretched arm. The knife fell with a dull clatter and Greaves almost shouted aloud. The blade was slick with blood too. There were pieces of plaster lying on the bedside cabinet and some soaking cotton wool. The crimson gore on it looked black in the darkness. But it was Harold himself who gave Greaves the biggest shock. The coloured porter leant as close as he could, staring at the vicious cuts on his companion’s chest, one of them still weeping blood. The others were in the process of sealing, their ragged edges held together by congealing gore.
“Oh God,” murmured the porter and he reached out to touch Harold’s shoulder. He could see the man’s torn chest rising and falling but he could solicit no reaction from him. Greaves prised open the unconscious man’s eyelids and held the lighter close. Its flame sparkled in the glass orb. The pupil of the good eye contracted. Greaves pressed a tentative index finger to the older man’s jugular vein and felt it pumping.
I’ve got to get help, he thought. He flicked off the lighter and headed towards the door.
Something fell with a crash in the kitchen and Greaves spun round.
“Who’s there?” he said.
Silence.
He moved towards the other room, once more flicking the lighter on, using its meagre light as a guide. His own footsteps sounded heavy and conspicuous on the wooden floor as he advanced.
He heard breathing. Faint, mucoid breathing which seemed to grow louder as he paused in the doorway of the kitchen. He held the lighter higher. It was beginning to get hot and he changed hands as his eyes scanned the tiny room. A plate lay shattered close by. There were drops of dark fluid on the enamel of the sink. Greaves crossed to it, his nostrils once more filled with an unbearable carrion stench. He dipped a finger in the dark fluid and sniffed it.
It was blood.
There was more of it on the door of the sliding cupboard opening beneath and Greaves knelt, pulling the door back as far as it would go. A blast of almost palpably rancid air gushed out and he had to fight hard to prevent himself from vomiting. He saw the blanket inside the cupboard, the dried blood caked on it. He reached out to touch it.
The first foetus seemed to roll into view from a darkened comer of the cupboard.
Greaves opened his mouth to scream, his eyes bulging as he saw the monstrosity. It pinned him in a hypnotic stare, its own black eyes glinting with a vile lustre. There was blood around its mouth and on its chest – even on the minute, shrunken genitals.
Greaves tried to back away, the lighter falling from his grasp, but he was unable to tear his horrified gaze away from the foetus’s twin black orbs. He saw the second one drag itself into view, its own eyes focusing on him too. He reached back to grip the door jamb in an effort to pull himself away but his hand closed over something soft and jellied. He shrieked and looked down to see the third of the creatures. Greaves had grabbed its arm. He hurriedly pulled his hand away, noticing the trail of blood which the thing had left behind when it had dragged itself from beneath Harold’s bed.
He was trapped. Pinned by their gaze, he was a prisoner of his own crippling terror. Now he felt the pain begin to build behind his eyes and at the base of his skull as the three abominations concentrated their fearful powers on him. It felt as if their eyes were burning into his head, like black laser beams they bored through his skull to his brain. He moaned and put both hands to his head in an effort to stop the pain which was growing more intense by the second. He tried to shut his eyes and blot out the insane vision before him but he couldn’t and now he felt blood running from his nostrils. Filling his ears. Even his tear ducts seemed to swell and burst until he was weeping crimson. The pain in his head reached unbearable heights. He felt his legs go numb. He opened his mouth to scream but his tongue felt thick and useless, as if it had been injected with novocaine. Blood gurgled in his throat. His hands dropped from his head as he lost the use of them and finally he could only sit and watch, through a haze of red as the three creatures made one more concerted effort against him. Both his temporal arteries seemed to swell, pulsing madly for agonising seconds. His eyes seemed to swell and protrude as if pushed from the inside. But, somehow, Greaves managed to roll onto his belly and, using his legs as a means of propulsion, he pushed himself away from these nameless monstrosities. Into the other room he crawled, past the still motionless form of Harold, until he reached the door, the pain now reaching heights beyond endurance. Greaves managed to haul himself upright and, with a despairing moan, he flung the door open and staggered out, tottering drunkenly towards the beckoning lights of the main building.
He was almost there when, in a blinding moment of incredible agony, the veins and arteries inside his brain ruptured with so much force that most of the frontal and temporal lobes were destroyed. Winston Greaves collapsed but his body continued to jerk spasmodically for a few moments even after his death.
His body was found the next morning by an ambulance driver and the autopsy revealed that Greaves had died as the result of a massive cerebral haemorrhage.
Harold took the news of his friend’s death badly. So badly that he spent his day off lying in bed but he did not sleep because, all the time, inside his head, the voices whispered.
It was to be a long time before he recovered from the news of Winston’s death and the loneliness which he had thought banished now returned with numbing intensity.
Twenty-One
The onset of night brought about contradictory feelings within Paul Harvey. He welcomed it because it hid him and cloaked his furtive excursions from the farm. But he feared it too because it brought memories. Night had, in the past, always been a time of fear for him. The time when his father and mother would fight or w
hen, in later years, he would be dragged from his bed and beaten, forced to bear that reeking stench of stale whisky and tobacco in his face as his father shouted at him.
Harvey hated to be shut in. It was another legacy of his childhood. His bedroom door was always locked from the outside, and this practice continued right up until his father died. There was no chamber pot in his room and, more often than not, he would be forced to urinate out of the window if he awoke during the night. Before he understood that trick he would simply wet the bed or do it into one of the drawers. Consequently, the clothes inside stank most of the time. However, whichever course of action Harvey had taken it had brought savage retribution from his father. During his troubled years at school, Harvey had been quizzed by teachers and taunted by his fellow pupils about the cuts and bruises which he bore almost all the time but, of course, he never dared to divulge the truth of how he sustained them.
His hatred of enclosed places had intensified during his stay in Cornford prison. The fact that he was kept in solitary, for the sake of the other prisoners, made things worse. But now, to a certain extent, he was free to wander the open fields and hillsides of Exham for the first time in his life and, with night now draped across the countryside like a shroud, he did just that.
As he stood at the top of a hill, the lights of the town glittered invitingly below him and Harvey gripped the sickle tightly as he made his way down the incline. An owl hooted close by but Harvey ignored its cry.
The town beckoned and Harvey did not refuse its call. He felt no fear, just a peculiar feeling that was something like exhilaration.
The woods on the outskirts of town swallowed him up.
Twenty-Two