Spawn

by Shaun Hutson

  He hesitated, his hands suddenly trembling and he gripped the handrail of the trolley until his knuckles turned white. The noise inside his head grew to a fresh crescendo and it sounded as if someone were holding two gigantic sea-shells against his head such was the roaring in his ears.

  He could see the furnace through the open door, its great metal door yawning open to reveal the blistering flames within, competing with the ever-present hum of the generator. Harold’s world had become one of noises and he closed his eyes momentarily before walking on towards the room. He could already feel the heat from inside. He bumped the door open with one end of the trolley.

  Brian Cayton turned as the door opened. He recognized Harold and smiled.

  “Hello, Harold,” he said, reaching for a pair of forceps which lay on the trolley which he himself stood next to.

  As Harold watched, he saw Cayton grip the forceps and clamp them around the limp and dripping form of a foetus which he took from a receiver. Its head lolled back as if the neck had been snapped and Harold saw blood running from its tiny mouth.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded, stepping towards the other porter who was still holding the tiny body before him, trying not to inhale the rank odour which it gave off.

  “You know what I’m doing,” said Cayton, a little impatiently. “I’ve just come from pathology.”

  He held the foetus closer to the hungry mouth of the furnace.

  “You’re going to burn that child,” said Harold, flatly.

  The smile faded from Cayton’s face.

  “Yes. Of course I’m going to burn it.” He paused, fixing his gaze on Harold’s good eye. “Besides, it isn’t a child.”

  The words inside Harold’s tortured mind finally burst through the fog of indecision like diamond bullets.

  “Stop it,” he said, moving closer.

  Cayton raised a hand to ward him off.

  “Look, Harold, I know it’s not very pleasant but it’s got to be done,” he said, forcefully. “Christ, you’ve done it yourself, what’s the big deal?”

  Harold felt searing pain inside his head and he blundered towards the other porter who stepped back, bewildered. Then, suddenly, he turned and tossed the foetus into the flames.

  Harold screamed. A high keening wail torn raw from his throat, the wild ululation of a creature in pain. He crashed to the ground heavily, pulling the trolley over with him. His last conscious thought and sight, one of the foetuses being devoured by the ravenous fire. He rolled onto his back, vaguely aware that Cayton was heading for the door.

  “I tried to stop him.”

  Words pounded in his ears, low guttural raspings, thick with power.

  “I tried, I . . .”

  Pain. Agonizing, white hot pain, filled his head for interminable seconds. Mercifully, Harold Pierce blacked out.

  Maggie Ford yawned and reached up to massage her neck, allowing her head to rest against the rear wall of the lift. There was no one else in it and Maggie slipped one foot out of her shoe, flexing her toes. Her feet were killing her. Come to think of it, she ached all over.

  “A good hot bath when you get home,” she said aloud, suddenly embarrassed with herself when the lift doors slid open, the car having bumped to a stop without her even noticing.

  She saw Brian Cayton standing there, his face flushed, a thin film of perspiration on his face.

  “Doctor,” he gasped, jumping into the lift. “Can you come down to the basement straight away? One of the other porters has collapsed.”

  She was going to protest but the concern on the young porter’s face was such that she decided to remain silent. He jabbed the basement button and the lift dropped the remaining floors. When it came to a halt at its appointed place, Maggie found herself running behind Cayton, so infectious was his anxiety. She followed him to the furnace room, immediately struck by the foul odour of soiled linen and the blistering heat which poured forth from the still open metal door. She saw Harold lying prone beside the overturned trolley, arms outstretched.

  “Go and get help,” she told Cayton. “Get someone to help you, we’ve got to get him up.” Even as she spoke, she slid back the lid of one eye and shone her penlight on it mildly repelled by the feel of the cracked skin beneath her fingers but she administered a swift mental rebuke to herself at her reactions, now more concerned when she realized that Harold’s pupil didn’t react to the light. She tried again, feeling mildly foolish when she realized that it was the glass eye she was gazing into. She repeated the procedure with the good eye, relieved to see that this time there was pupilary contraction. Even as she pocketed the penlight, he began to stir. He tried to sit up but Maggie restrained him.

  “Just take it easy,” she said, softly and the initial look of fear on Harold’s face was replaced by one of pained bewilderment.

  He found himself looking into the face which he’d seen earlier. That beautiful thin face framed with the brown hair. Her soft hands were touching his wrist, feeling for his pulse.

  “Why do they do it?” he croaked.

  “Do what?” she wanted to know, checking his pulse against the second hand of her watch.

  “Burn the children.”

  She looked puzzled.

  “They burn babies in there,” Harold said, tearfully, motioning towards the furnace.

  Maggie understood and was thankful that, at that precise moment, Cayton arrived with another porter. On her instructions, they helped Harold to his feet and supported him to the lift.

  “Shall we take him to casualty?” asked Cayton.

  Maggie shook her head.

  “No. Take him to my room on the fourth floor. I think it’s time someone examined him.”

  All four of them climbed into the lift and, in seconds, it was rising.

  Twenty-Five

  Harold sat on the edge of the couch, fidgeting uncomfortably. He watched Maggie as she crossed to her desk and selected a number of implements with which she obviously intended to perform the examination. He didn’t know what the things were although he had seen one or two of them many times during his spell in the hospital.

  It was warm in the office, the gentle hum of the radiator reminding him of the furnace room. The walls were a brilliant white, the snowy expanse broken only by one large picture window to his right which looked out over much of the hospital below. The room itself was sparsely decked out, containing three hard chairs, a large desk and the couch upon which he now sat. There were filing cabinets against the far wall, each drawer marked with red labels bearing letters. On the desk itself there was a small pile of books, a pencil holder and a clock. The ticking seemed unnaturally loud in the silence.

  “When was the last time you had an examination, Mr Pierce?” Maggie asked him, turning back to the couch.

  Harold smiled weakly.

  “I don’t remember,” he said. “You can call me Harold if you want to,” he added, falteringly.

  Maggie smiled and asked him to take off his overall which he did. Beneath it he wore a slightly off-white shirt, the cuffs fraying and worn. She asked him to undo his sleeve which he also did, being careful not to pull the material any further than an inch or two from his wrist, ensuring that his forearm was still covered. Maggie took his pulse once again and scribbled something down on a piece of paper.

  “How long have you been working here, Harold?” she asked him, reaching for the opthalmoscope, flicking it on and testing the tiny beam of light against the palm of her hand. Satisfied, she peered into his one good eye, adjusting the implement until she found the correct magnification.

  “About eight or nine weeks,” he told her.

  As she leant close to him he could smell her perfume. Just a vague hint but nevertheless detectable. She smelt so clean and fresh and, as she peered through the opthalmoscope, her silky hair brushed the unscarred side of his face. He felt a peculiar tingle run through him and his breathing quickened slightly.

  “Have you ever had blackouts before?” she wanted to kno
w.

  Harold shrugged.

  “I don’t think so.”

  She asked him to take off his shirt.

  A look of panic flashed across his face, as if she had just asked him to jump from the fourth storey window. He quivered, the breath catching in his throat.

  “Why?” he asked, agitatedly.

  She smiled, surprised by his reaction.

  “I want to check your heart and lungs.” She was already reaching for the stethoscope.

  Still he hesitated, dropping his gaze momentarily then looking up at her with something akin to pleading sparkling in his eye.

  “I’m all right,” he told her, his voice cracking.

  “Please, Harold,” she persisted.

  His mind was racing. What would she say when he took it off? Should he leave now, run out of the room? But then, he knew that they would come for him and when that happened. . . He pushed the thought to one side.

  “Harold, please take off your shirt.”

  With shaking hands, he began to undo the buttons, pulling the bottom free of his trousers. Maggie took the sphygmomanometer from its metal case, preparing to test his blood pressure when she’d finished the chest examination. She tugged the cuff open, the velcro rasping noisily in the silence of the room.

  Harold pulled his shirt free, balled it up and held it on his lap, his body trembling.

  Maggie turned to look at him.

  She swallowed hard, trying hard to disguise her horror at what she saw. Harold sat impassively, his eyes closed as if ashamed of the sight of his body.

  His chest and arms were covered by numerous raw, angry cuts. Some had scabbed over, others were purple knots where the scar tissue had formed, only to be picked or cut away later. Dark, vicious welts covered his arms from the wrist to the elbow and the parts of his torso and limbs not disfigured by the multitude of sores and wounds were milk white. He had obviously lost a lot of blood from the cuts. One or two were festering, a large one just below his left elbow was a suppurating cleft in the mottled flesh. The most striking thing about the wounds, however, was their positioning. Each seemed to be a measured distance from the next, almost like carefully carved tribal scars. His chest was a patchwork of crusted flesh and dried blood, one nipple having been sliced in two. It was so badly bruised it was black. And that was the curious thing about all the cuts. Around each one was a dark area which, if anything reminded Maggie of a love-bite. It was as if the skin on Harold’s body had been drawn between someone’s lips, the suction causing the resultant discoloration of the flesh.

  “Where did you get these cuts?” she asked him, her voice low and full of muted fear. Fear? Yes, Maggie told herself. Spidery fingers were playing a symphony along the nape of her neck and she felt the hairs rise in response.

  Harold didn’t answer, he just continued gazing down at the floor.

  She moved closer, taking hold of his left wrist, anxious to get a closer look at the numerous gashes. He pulled away from her, his breath coming in gasps.

  “Did you cut yourself like this for a reason?” she wanted to know.

  He opened his mouth to speak, thoughts still whirling around inside his head and now, he began to hear the familiar voices growing in volume as he fought to find some kind of explanation for the shocking appearance of his upper body.

  “I think I should call Dr Parkin, let him. . .”

  “No.” He practically shouted at her. “No.”

  “Something has got to be done about these cuts, Harold,” she said. “Now, will you please tell me how you got them?”

  “I . . . I dream,” he mumbled.

  “About what?” she asked him, taking his left arm in her hand and, this time, she encountered no opposition. She probed the edges of the nearest gash with a wooden spatula, withdrawing it when Harold winced.

  “I dream about different things,” he said, vaguely, gazing ahead as if he were addressing someone on the other side of the room.

  “What do you see in these dreams, Harold?” she asked him. She was using the conversation as a means of distraction while she got a better look at the cuts on his body. The one below his elbow was undoubtedly fresh. She wiped some sticky liquid from it with a piece of gauze and prodded the torn flesh but, this time, Harold didn’t react.

  “Fire,” he said, flatly. “I see fire.”

  “Can you tell me more about the dreams?” she asked.

  “I killed my brother and my mother,” he said, almost as if it were a confession. “That was why they put me away.” The smile that he flashed at her caused her flesh to rise into goose-pimples. Maggie wondered just how deeply Harold’s apparent obsession with the disposal of abortions, and his insistence on calling them “children”, went. It made her wonder just how much more he could cope with. The wounds on his body were obviously self-inflicted, perhaps, she thought, as some kind of bizarre revenge against himself for the crime which he felt he’d committed.

  “How did your mother and brother die?” she asked.

  He told her, and the significance of the fire, the destruction of the embryonic creatures, immediately fell into place.

  “I dream about them sometimes,” he said. “I dreamt about the furnace room once, I. . .”

  He felt a stab of pain inside his head and the voices were there, loud and commanding.

  “Tell me about the dream,” Maggie said. He swallowed hard, his tone lightening somewhat.

  “I don’t think I remember now,” he told her. “It’s best if I don’t talk about it. I don’t like to think about it.”

  Maggie nodded, pressing the stethoscope to his chest. His heartbeat was slow. When she took his blood pressure she found it was a fraction lower than normal. Harold may have appeared to be anxious and disturbed but none of his bodily signs showed anything to back that up. She told him to put his shirt back on, dressing the worst of the cuts first.

  “Can I go now?” he asked.

  “If you’re sure you’re all right,” she said. “But I’d still feel better if you’d let me call Dr Parkin in to have a look at you.”

  He refused, tucking his shirt back into his trousers and pulling on his overall.

  “I’d like you to come back and see me in a couple of days, Harold,” Maggie told him.

  He nodded, still eager to leave.

  “Why don’t you go and lie down for a while.”

  “I feel much better, thank you.”

  Maggie shrugged. They said brief goodbyes and Harold left, closing the door behind him. He walked slowly down the corridor, the voices inside his head buzzing agitatedly.

  “I didn’t say anything. I kept the secret,” Harold whispered to empty air.

  “Will you hurt her?” he wanted to know.

  The voices continued to speak and Harold listened intently.

  Maggie sat down at her desk and ran a hand through her hair. Outside, grey rain clouds were gathering and the first fine particles of drizzle were beginning to coat the window like early morning dew on a spider’s web. It was gloomy in the office but she did not switch the lights on, merely sat in the deepening shadows, lost in her own thoughts, the vision of Harold’s savaged body still vivid in her mind. What could drive a man to inflict such damage on himself, she wondered? She looked at the phone on her desk for a long time, pondering on whether or not to ring Harold’s old psychiatrist. Perhaps if she knew more about his background she would better understand why he had done what he’d done. She drummed restlessly on the desk top, her eyes still fixed on the phone then, finally, she got to her feet and crossed to the window, gazing out at the approaching banks of grey cloud.

  If he had dreams, nightmares, she reasoned, then maybe the cuts had been inflicted whilst he was in the dream-state. She had heard of people lifting objects in their sleep which they would never be able to move while awake. Perhaps the same principle applied in Harold’s case. What he could not bring himself to do in his waking state, he found the subconscious strength to do during his dreams. Namely the self-muti
lation. She exhaled deeply. It was too simple an explanation. The cuts seemed too carefully spaced, there was nothing random about them. Unlike other psychotics who, given a sharp instrument, would carve themselves up just for the hell of it, Harold seemed to have chosen the spots where he inflicted the damage. It was almost as if he had been guided.

  Maggie shook her head, trying to dismiss the thought. For one thing, Harold, as far as she knew, lived alone. He had few friends and certainly no enemies. And, as for the theory of him inflicting the wounds in a psychotic orgy of masochism – well, that didn’t tie up because, although he may be mildly disturbed, Harold was certainly not psychotic.

  She crossed back to her desk and glanced at the clock.

  4.11 p.m.

  What really puzzled her was the dark, bruised area around each cut. If Harold was a haematophile and thereby obsessed with the drinking of his own blood then the bruises on his arms could be easily explained but, she thought, that seemed unlikely.

  Besides, it still wouldn’t explain how his chest came to be in the same state.

  Maggie chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully, already determined that if she had not heard from Harold in two days’ time, she would personally go to his home and find out just what was happening to him.

  Twenty-Six

  Judith Myers got up from her desk, smiling happily at the other people in the room, anxious to disguise the pain which was gnawing at her stomach and groin. She tried to tell herself that it was muscle strain. She’d been away from work for too long and now bending over a drawing board all day. . .

  The idea quickly vanished as she felt a searing jab of agony in her side. She stood still in the corridor for a moment, leaning against the wall, feeling as if someone had kicked her in the side. She put one hand to the throbbing area and felt it gently, the pain seemed to recede somewhat and she hurried down the short flight of steps which would take her to the toilets.