The small television was propped on the counter next to the microwave. The volume was down, the screen filled with actors he vaguely recalled. He didn't have much time for TV these days. It was Jacobs who insisted on bringing it in—to relieve the boredom, he had said. A cracked pair of goggles lay on the floor nearby.
"Great." He planted hands on hips and shook his head.
Forrester retrieved an overturned chair, returned the table to its rightful place, and sat down. The purple tint to his goggles was disorienting when he glanced sideways. Maintaining his composure, he held his eyes straight ahead, watching the door to the bathroom."Jacobs." He slid his hands into his coat pockets. "I know you're in there. We need to talk."
Cursing rose from the far side of the bathroom door.
A bead of sweat formed on Forrester's brow, rolling into a bushy eyebrow.
"Come on, Jacobs, let's talk," he coaxed.
Porcelain smashed inside the bathroom.
Sighing, Forrester dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief from his pocket.
The door opened inwards, awkward on its splintered timber frame.
Standing in the doorway, with one leg saturated, was the disheveled form of Jacobs. His stringy hair was plastered to his head.
"Pissed yourself," Forrester muttered.
Jacobs' lab coat splayed when he stepped into the common room, revealing a ripped shirt. His chest was scratched. The smell of faeces clogged the air.
"Soiled yourself, too," said Forrester.
Edging closer to the table, Jacobs met his gaze with frantic, blood-shot eyes. His hands were hidden behind his back.
"What happened?" Forrester looked him up and down.
"You know what happened!" Jacobs spat.
Forrester studied him, fresh beads of perspiration on his face the only sign of his concern.
Jacobs' lip twisted into a snarl, betrayed by the slight quiver of his chin. Like Forrester, his face had broken out in sweat.
"That damn buzzing!" Jacobs pressed his palm over an ear and screwed up his face, leaving his other arm behind his back. Something metal scraped on the ground. "I've gotta get outta here!"
"Were you watching TV again?"
Something wavered in Jacobs' eyes but was snuffed out. He nodded and looked away. When his gaze fixed again on Forrester, the snarl returned.
"Mr. Morgenstern isn't going to be happy about this mess, Jacobs," Forrester lectured, as if to a child. "You've met the people he sends to clean up messes."
Jacob's didn't even flinch, clearly too far under the machine's influence to care.
"Why did you watch the TV when I told you not to?" Forrester asked, almost rhetorically. "Where were your glasses?"
"Why do you care?"
"Fool! You've been here a few weeks! You know what the machine does."
Jacobs muttered something, a guttural word that never made it to Forrester' ear.
"How does it feel?" Forrester leaned forward. "With the selective targeting, I never see the results."
"Can't you hear the humming? Make it shut up! Shut up shut up shut up!" Jacobs grimaced and balled his fist over his ear again.
Oblivious to Jacobs's rant, Forrester fancied he really could hear the humming, despite the soundproofing in the staff room. Jacobs was right. Everywhere he went, the hum, or its phantom, was his constant companion: the legacy of such close proximity to the machine.
"Yes." Forrester closed his eyes and strained for the hum. "That's how it gets into your system. The resonance built up through the TV. Tell me, were you watching Channel Four?"
Jacobs didn't reply. He just stood there, lost in his own inner world, scowling and staring though him from across the table.
Forrester felt calm settle on him as he, in turn, studied the younger man, even when Jacobs revealed the fire-axe from behind his back.
"I bet you didn't know," Forrester said, "the machine has a one hundred percent success rate with the test subjects. Within an hour of watching certain channels, usually Four, every subject, every single one of them, murdered their friends and loved ones in the most barbaric ways imaginable. It has other side-effects as—"
The axe whistled through the air, biting into the tabletop mere inches in front of Forrester. He flinched but remained seated, searching the frenzied eyes of his colleague for any signs of redemption. Watching Jacobs rip the axe from the table with violent force, eyeing him like a snack, he knew nothing human remained.
"Stop!" Forrester produced a tiny remote control from his coat. "One press of this button and the guards will be here in ten seconds."
"That's a pencil, you psycho!" Jacobs screamed, in the throes of delusion. Leering like an untamed beast, he raised the axe again.
An explosion rocked the room from beneath the table, driving Jacobs back mid-swing. He thumped to the ground, losing his grip on the axe. It clattered along the floor.
A powdered hole was obvious in Forrester's coat pocket when he rose from his seat. Removing the gun, he walked in solemn procession over to the prone body of his colleague. A pool of dark blood seeped onto the floor from the hole in Jacobs' side.
Jacobs clutched at Forrester's leg, wrapping vice-like fingers around his ankle and squeezing. Forrester kicked out in pain but was unable to shake the man's grip.
"It's not too late," Jacobs stammered through gritted teeth. "Fight it."
Glazing over, Forrester absently dropped the pencil from his trembling hand. It rattled on the floor before rolling into the expanding tide of blood.
Forrester blinked. His purpose was clear once more.
Two more shots boomed through the common room. Rocked by a series of spasms, Jacobs relaxed his grip. Blood ebbed from the bullet wounds in his chest, soon mingling with the original pool of blood by his hip. The room had filled with the smell of gunpowder.
Forrester shook off the twitching hand and stepped away before the blood could touch his shoe. He stared at the body, all the while pocketing the gun and circling well clear until he reached the door.
In moments, he was free of the staff room and standing in front of the machine. Caressing the finish of the sleek central hub, he was surprised to find it warm to the touch.
"That was number six. They're going to be asking more questions before they send the next tech." He stroked the black metal. "One of these days, my sweet, it will just be the two of us."
The machine hummed to him as Jacob's said it would, corrupting every corner of the complex with its sinister song.
* * *
The Black Door
The invitation was embossed in ink the stain of darkest midnight. The card itself was pressed from the finest paper, imprinted with ornate silver swirls and designs. That alone spoke volumes. In a way, more than the message itself:
Dr. Innes,
Your presence is requested for a most unique and profitable offer.
Appropriate dress is required.
An address was written on the back, a place somewhere in the inner city. The bank cheque for ten thousand dollars that fell from the envelope piqued his curiosity but did nothing to dampen his apprehension. Not a name, nor any other indication as to who was inviting him was supplied. There was no time, no date, and no logic to the whole thing. He'd simply found the envelope under his front door that evening. Other than the address, he had absolutely nothing to go on.
He spent much of that evening deep in thought, curled up around a glass of red that he barely touched. He sat on the couch and stared at the card on his coffee table but came up with few answers. He laid his life out before him, taking a mental tally of all the things he'd said and done in the hunt for clues.
None of his friends would set up such an elaborate joke. There were one or two noses he'd put out of joint but that was years ago—besides, they wouldn't part with so much money for a sting. Life was humdrum, especially without Kathy. Only his practice offered light and shade and possibility to his life. And Amanda, with her promise of something more.
&nb
sp; "I'll never find the answer here." He palmed the invitation and glanced around his living room. Plush modern furniture gleaming with soullessness stared back at him.
The grandfather clock, a construction of brass and smoky timber, ticked in time with his thoughts. The swinging pendulum was the only movement in the room, capturing his eye and holding it. The ticking mimicked some inner longing.
Free. Dom. Free. Dom. Free. Dom.
The clock hands reached to the ceiling in surrender. Midnight drew near.
It only took him a few minutes to change. Unsure of what was appropriate dress, he opted for his best suit, one he wore only on special occasions. He donned a plain white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck. He chose not to wear a tie, in case the event called for something less formal. That way, he covered all his bases. Before grabbing his keys and heading out the door, he stuffed his Glock into his belt.
He'd bought the gun after one of his patients, a violent schizophrenic, began stalking him. Letters turned up at his office, written in blood—disjointed threats and ravings, mostly. He had been treating the guy, Stephen, for almost a year without success before things turned ugly. Stephen had abandoned his meds and blamed him for the voices when they returned.
If he hadn't bought the Glock, he'd probably be dead.
The whole episode was one of the major reasons Kathy left. It was a trigger, an excuse. She had been looking for a way out for months. The psycho with the knife was as good an excuse as any.
He slipped into the front seat of his silver BMW and grunted as the pistol dug into his abdomen. He shifted position, removed the Glock, and tossed it onto the passenger seat before revving the engine and speeding off into the night.
The city lights sparkled off the hood and slid into his eyes as he cruised through the streets. The effect held him in thrall. With his window lowered a crack, the wind stole its way into the car to snatch at the invitation in his shirt pocket. He pressed his hand over his heart to still the fluttering card. Free, the air hissed as the power window slid closed, freeeeeeeee.
As he neared his destination, he slowed until he came to a halt across the road from a line of townhouses. He found himself in the oldest part of the city. The houses were crammed together but still maintained an old world dignity. The frosty breeze and hour of night had forced everyone into the comfort and safety of their beds. He remained in the car studying the street. After long minutes, not a solitary car had passed by.
He paid careful attention to the row of houses and the cars parked on the street. The line of European sedans, interrupted by the occasional sports coupe, told him everything he needed to know about the residents. The iron balustrades were immaculately maintained. Each house kept a well-groomed courtyard of hardy domestic shrubs and flowers—with the exception of the address that was his destination.
All the other townhouses in the street had a small set of stairs rising out of their courtyards and opening onto a raised veranda. He checked his invitation and confirmed his objective was the only staircase that disappeared downwards. The stairs were enclosed by a wrought-iron fence and led down to a basement level between two of the nicer homes. From his vantage point, only the top of a very sturdy-looking door was apparent.
He scooped up the gun and stuffed it into his belt before stepping onto the street and heading for the stairs. With a casual wave, he pointed his key ring at the BMW. The double beep and flashing of the indicators was an intrusion on the stillness of the night. Even the footfalls of his leather shoes, normally so unobtrusive, thumped like iron-shod boots.
Static electricity shocked his fingers on contact with the metal as the gate swung open. Thirteen steps later, he found himself face to face with the front door.
It was even heavier than he'd first guessed, made of hardwood and girded by strips of dark steel. A solitary iron ring dominated the centre of its face. He swung the iron knocker, sending baritone shudders through the wood.
The door glided open without a sound. It opened onto a short corridor lined with mortared stones that suggested the interior of a mediaeval dungeon. Flaming torches lined the walls, hooked in by metal rings, further enhancing the ancient feel. He stepped through, ready to greet whoever had opened the door.
No one was there.
Unease crept through his veins. When the stakes relied on some prank or intellectual game, he could calmly walk into the bait. This ... this was something different. The set-up was too elaborate, too genuine. His hand gravitated towards the pistol as he walked on.
The place smelled like a rusted antique. Several metres ahead, the corridor was sectioned off by a ceiling-to-floor black velvet curtain. With the torch light flickering in his eyes, he moved toward the curtain.
A thud echoed through the hall.
He swung around, gun in hand, to find the entry door closed. He jogged back and tried to open it but there was no handle or lock, only a metal ring, identical to the one on the outside. He tugged on it with one hand but it refused to budge. After stuffing the gun back into his belt, he pulled on the ring with both hands. Again, the door remained steadfast. He struggled with the door several more times, investing every fibre of his strength into the task. Panting hard, he soon gave up and slumped his shoulder against the door.
The barest of breezes taunted him from beneath the door. He focussed on the chill toying with his lower back as he steadied his breathing. Soon, he was chanting a self-esteem affirmation he taught his clients. He rediscovered his composure and rose to his feet.
He looked again at the door, at the ostentatious and useless ring, and gritted his teeth. "Friggin' door!" He kicked at the wood again and again. Each impact resounded throughout the hall.
Moments passed until he regained control and a steady hand. He turned his back to the door, fumbled for his Glock, and then strode toward the curtain, smoothing his hair as he went.
When he grasped the curtain's edge, he found it greasy and bristly at the same time, like mould and moss combined. He ripped it to one side and stepped through with his gun held ready to fire—and stopped.
Before him was a modest room. The floor and walls were of the same rough-hewn stone, and more torches lined the walls, but his eyes were drawn to a woman, dressed in the most elegant black dress he'd ever seen, who was seated to his left. A long veil covered her head. To his right was another cushioned seat, empty. Both seats faced away from him and the curtain—towards the door.
An imposing door, the colour of obsidian lost in a shadow's heart, dominated the far wall. The door held no features other than its intense colour, the darkest shade of black. Decorative stones surrounded the door, each marked with a different symbol or rune. A thin band of gunmetal steel was wedged between the stones and the door, also etched with countless inscriptions.
"Good evening, Dr. Innes," The woman's voice was like silken sheets drenched in ice, but there was a croaky edge to it, a touch of dust. She rose to her feet yet didn't face him. Instead, her gaze remained fixed on the black door.
"Call me Craig." He was grateful his words came out in a steady, even tone.
She turned to face him. She was tall and thin, easily his own height, if not a little taller. While the veil and dress covered her completely, her clothes hugged her form and suggested well-proportioned curves, although some bones, bulges really, seemed to jut out a little too far. A rib here, an elbow there. "I'm so glad you could accept my invitation."
"Uh, yeah. Invitation to what, exactly?"
"You will discover that soon enough."
"How about you cut the bullshit, lady? Tell me what's going on." He waved the gun at her.
"All in good time. Please, take your seat." She gestured with a gloved hand toward the empty seat.
Her calmness, even in the face of his bravado with the gun, unnerved him.
She resumed her seat, gazing at the black door as though he weren't there.
Shadows played along the crevices between the stones as Craig calculated his options. He withdrew the invita
tion and glared at it before crumpling the card and tossing it to the ground. His mouth tightened into a thin line, he tensed his grip on the pistol until his knuckles turned white, and after a final moment of indecision, he took the seat.
He stared at the woman as she, in turn, stared at the door. Both she and the door made his skin crawl. It was as though they were moulded from the same source.
The door was too tall one moment, then too wide the next, as if it changed dimensions to suit a capricious mood. The runes scratched into the stones and metal frame crawled at the edge of his vision like squirming maggots. When he glanced back, they were locked in place. In the periphery, the lady, too, stretched and shrank according to the same whim ruling the door. When he looked at her, she was the same dimensions as when he first set eyes on her. Even then, she seemed too spindly. He couldn't put his finger on it. The whole spectacle churned the pit of his stomach.
"So what's this all about?" he asked, diverting his eyes from the door's clawing and stretching.
"It is a challenge, Dr. Innes."
"Craig."
"Craig." Condescension edged her tone.
His eyes sought purchase on something that would provide relief from the awful instability of the runes. His gaze settled on a knee-high wooden table, the only other piece of furniture in the room, which was nestled near the lady's feet. A small security monitor sat atop it, facing her. Silent grey static filled the screen, casting an unnatural pallor over her face.
"What do I have to do?" he asked.
"It is simple, Craig. You must step through the black door."
"No way, lady, I'm not going through that thing." He raised the pistol again.
The door distorted momentarily, snagging his attention. The blackness devoured all light that touched it, a void without reflection. The metal frame, however, shimmered with an internal glint that had nothing to do with the firelight in the room. The glimmer ran up the right side of the frame, then darted along the top to die as it hit the corner.
Apocrypha Sequence: Insanity Page 3