Psycho Therapy

by Alan Spencer

  He wrapped his arms around her, sensing her emotional fatigue. Their memories had something in common. Heartbreak and violence.

  Edith continued her story, living down the tears. “Trent really did kidnap Fiona when she was three. The cops arrested him, but I didn’t press charges. Fiona wasn’t hurt. She was gone for two days. But in the machine, all my children were kidnapped, and each was murdered. They also came back as…as monsters to hurt me. Snarling demons with red eyes and demented claws. And then I’m behind Dr. Krone in the mausoleum. He’s removing a coffin, that Bruce Denning guy. I see desiccated bones. He unfolds another body in a towel and buries him there. Dr. Krone said a prayer over his father’s body, and he fled the cemetery after returning the coffin into the wall. He was crying, really upset. That’s why I stayed inside the place. I thought he was terrified to enter the mausoleum.”

  Craig pondered the memory he had of Dr. Krone, the doctor working with his wife in the asylum, and the numerous contraptions and early prototypes of the machine. He explained the details to Edith, and she was astounded.

  “So the Krones own insane asylums, and they were stealing victims as test subjects?”

  “I’m not sure how they were used, but I also had a shorter glimpse of another memory. I believe I was watching Dr. Krone’s father twisting out the brains from his patients. There were dead bodies in that room strewn all over the place.”

  Edith bit her lip, puzzled. But then her eyes lit up. “It makes you wonder why our memories are so terrible. Our past is twisted against us, and we’re attacked by our friends and loved ones. Who would wish that on anybody?”

  Craig smiled. “Someone who’s obviously criminally insane would enjoy that kind of shit.”

  She was snapped out her pitiful victim stance. “Dr. Krone is watching all of this. He has control, yes, but maybe he’s losing that control himself.”

  “Or he’s influenced by his victims.” He strained to think, parting the gray curtain over the facts. “Consider it. He’s had too many visions of insanity or he’s lived in the heads of the criminally insane one too many times. That’s who he’s been dissecting. If he’s lived in our heads like that, he’s done it with the straightjackets too. But we’re missing a big piece of information. How he uses the machine and the mental patients, we still don’t know. This is merely speculation on our part. That’s why we should check out the place. This machine is obviously dangerous, and I want to destroy it.”

  Edith’s jaw clenched. “He kidnapped us against our will. It’s obvious his bullshit about treating us for our problems is a hoax. He said I had a case of depression and alcohol addiction.” She eyed the scotch in her hands. “And maybe so, but none of this is for the bettering of me.” She tipped the bottle into her mouth again. “I’m obviously not cured.”

  “I agree,” he sighed, experiencing the same vexing thoughts. “I was originally going to visit a psychiatrist. I was court ordered to do so.” He cleared his throat and lowered his eyes. “I, um, slammed a barstool over my best friend’s body. I was drunk, unemployed, and desperate…”

  She touched his shoulder. “We’ve all been there. You’re sorry, I can tell.” She injected him with encouraging words. “Let’s escape so we can make up for lost time. It’s been at least two days. We’ll have a wild time, me and you—fast friends.”

  He laughed. “No shit. This’ll make for a great story, for anybody that’ll believe us. If we escape, we’re having the biggest party ever.”

  She stole another swig from the bottle to acknowledge the idea. And then her eyes skirted to the wall, and she placed the bottle on the counter, moving to the magnetic kitchen strip and taking the five-inch kitchen knife. He was disappointed the other knives were gone—perhaps other people had escaped the machine and taken them—and after rooting through the drawers himself, he came upon the best option—a rolling pin. He studied the upstairs and then the bottom stairs. He believed the cords from the machine traveled down, not up, but it was merely a guess.

  “I say we check out the basement first. The cords should lead there. I really want to bash the shit out of whatever makes that machine tick.”

  She sprinted down the hallway, impelled by an idea she didn’t share with him. Craig chased after her, growing paranoid with each step. There were closed doors and any one of them could harbor Dr. Krone and Rachael. Edith was already in the room she came from, where she was held captive to the machine. She tried to saw through the cords around the box, but the effort was wasted. They were impenetrable. Craig bashed the steel box. The connections didn’t even dent or harm the surface.

  Edith was frustrated. “This is bullshit!”

  Craig cut her off. “Let’s search the place out. This isn’t getting us anywhere. This thing has a power source. We can destroy it.”

  She was the first out of the room, finally embracing the idea, and Craig was fast at her heels.

  The Krone mansion tour began.

  The Basement

  The basement stairwell was the same cherry oak color as the floors upstairs, but a rubber mat was placed over each step. The rubber was dented and scraped, a lot of heavy objects lifted up and down these stairs. The mother-of-pearl walls were marked up as well, black scuffs, and dents, and minor scrapes. The stairs winded down for two stories. There was no light source so far down, and they were descending into pitch. He grew stiff, anticipating somebody grabbing him. The shadows played tricks on his eyes, and he pictured forms bending and walking toward him. He held fast to the rail for support, steadfast and braced for an attack.

  “You still there, Craig?”

  Edith was beside him, practically hip to hip.

  A hollow breath. “Yeah.”

  Their words echoed, traveling down a far-reaching corridor. The air turned colder. It also contained substance. The air was heavy. The smell was faint, and his nostrils worked overtime to identify it. Iron. Copper. Expired meat.

  “It smells dead,” she complained. “Should we be going down here?”

  “Whatever or whoever’s down here will come after us eventually, whether we’re hanging out in the kitchen or coming after them upstairs. Besides, I don’t hear anything.”

  The stairs ended. Craig almost tripped, overcompensating his latest step. He touched a bare wall. It was ice cold like metal.

  Edith reached out to him, clamping her hand on his forearm so hard it almost pushed him up against the wall. “I don’t like it here.”

  “Just relax. I’m here. It’s best to keep your ears open. Listen.”

  He was convinced the walls were steel. Condensation formed on sections. The bad smell increased in potency. Edith was correct. It smelled dead. Death was near, and none if it was imaginary.

  The corridor was long and continuing. He kept walking. He was now in pure darkness, the color of moonless woods. He realized how exhausted he was. His eyelids wanted to close. It was an effort to force them open. The drumming of his heart, the climbing of his pulse, and the break of sweat and the cooling of that sweat kept his fatigue at bay. The sandwich he ate digested painfully in his stomach.

  Craig regretted not taking a drink of the scotch.

  Edith bickered, “How long does this fucking hall go on for?”

  “I’m not sure. Shhh. Keep listening.”

  Was the corridor long, or were they just taking short strides? She reached out for him again. She breathed loud through her mouth, panting. She was panicking.

  Then she suddenly fled the other way. “I can’t do this—I’ll wait upstairs!”

  He reached out for her and missed. “Wait!”

  There was no stopping her. Her steps were tinny against the floor. They faded softer and softer until they were gone altogether. He was alone in the dark. Craig reached out for the wall, his only compass. And that’s when his finger graced a light switch.

  Craig turned it on, an instinct. The corridor was flooded with white light. It reflected off the stainless steel walls so white it was purple, and he was tempo
rarily blinded. He shielded his face and waited. Moments later, he adjusted to the harsh beams. There was one long single fluorescent panel channeling down the hall’s ceiling. Underfoot, the floor was still the same wood with that strip of rubber.

  “What in the hell is this place?”

  “Who in God’s name knows?” A hand touched his back.

  “Ah—Jesus Christ!” He backed against the wall, raising the rolling pin. “Stay back—back!”

  Edith yipped, shielding her head in case the weapon came down to bash her. “Oh, I’m sorry—sorry!”

  Craig’s pulse pounded so hard he clasped his neck to subdue his racing nerves. He sucked in breaths and kneeled down to allow the blood to rush to his head. Edith patted his back. “I’m so sorry, Craig.”

  He replied, “You—scared—the—poop—out—of—me.”

  “I noticed the lights came on, and I waited at the edge of the stairs for you. I got so excited, I didn’t think about warning you I was coming.”

  His breathing calmed. He started the search again. Down the hallway, two steel doors looked back at them. Craig didn’t hesitate. He ran to them, praying they would open. He wanted answers about the machine as much as he wanted the damn thing pummeled.

  He reached out for the door and pressed his hands against the steel bar to open it.

  Edith gasped and shielded her eyes.

  Craig kept his stare glued ahead of him.

  Upstairs

  Edith pounded her fists against the doors. “You’re kidding me.”

  The door wouldn’t budge. There was no window or peephole to see through to the other side. They were locked out of the room.

  She huffed. “The smell’s coming from that room. Surely there’s something important behind there.”

  He slammed his wood roller against the door, releasing his disappointment. The attempt was as ridiculous as it was fruitless. “Maybe the locks are automated. I don’t see a keyhole anywhere. This place is secure.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “So what do we do now?”

  “Upstairs,” he decided. “It’s the next best option. We could still find a way out. Perhaps there’s a window without bars. It’d be a jump. I’m guessing it’s a two-story drop. You could turn an ankle or break a leg. The risks aren’t worse than staying here. We’re in agreement, I’m sure.”

  Edith nodded. Her mouth was slightly open, on the verge of words. She wanted a better plan. Craig considered it lucky Dr. Krone or Rachael hadn’t located them. There wasn’t a bend of a wooden beam or even the house settling. He hated the deep silence, being so quiet he could hear his ears ring. Edith wore a disgruntled face. The place loomed around them like a prison ward.

  “The machine turned our best memories into nightmares,” he began to speak for the sake of talking. He aimed to inject some morale back into them. “It reiterated the fact my dad was a huge asshole to my mom. He cheated on her on a regular basis. Perhaps there’s a disease for chronic libido. My dad would be the poster child. I didn’t really bond with him either. The closest he ever got was when I joined the Boy Scouts. Two weeks into attending meetings, we went on a weekend campout. My dad ended up punching out the scout master. I guess the man made an off-the-cuff remark about how he slept around on my mom, and he bloodied his nose. No charges were pressed, but my days as a Boy Scout were over.”

  Edith narrowed her eyes and busted out laughing. “Your dad sounds like the assholes I’ve dated. Over-macho, their fists ready to pummel anybody, and dicks ready for discharge.”

  She leaned into his shoulder and muffled her amusement. “Let me put it like this, I’ve punched a lot of men in the private area in my time. I know it hurts, so damn it, I take advantage. I guess God figured men were assholes, and they needed an off switch.”

  He laughed so hard it hurt. “Are we sure we want back out there? I’m unemployed. I’ll have to look for a job. Jesus, I’ve been a snowplow man, I’ve worked performing oil changes at a Jiffy Lube, I’ve been a fucking janitor mopping up kids’ puke with kitty litter and a dustpan, and I was most recently a garbage man. I was fired for singing on the job—literally. My coworkers didn’t like the song “Born in the USA”. I guess being drunk and missing half the garbage on my routes had nothing to do with it. I puked on my boss’s desk when he fired me. That bastard won’t forget Craig Horsy.”

  She gave him a high-five. “Good for you. But you’re a lightweight. I worked in a coalmine when I was sixteen. I put up with old men looking at my ass and shaping my tits through my uniform. And I was actually a security guard for a time, guarding storage units for overstocked retail stores. I broke into one of the compartments, stealing cigarettes and beer—oh, and a television and boom box. Of course, I was fired. Oh, I’ve cleaned the floors of a hospital. I sanitized patient rooms and washed dirty linens. That was a shitty job.” Her face was solemn, and her eyes glazed over with the warning of tears. “But I’d do anything for those three girls. They’re everything. I could wade knee-deep in shit for eight dollars an hour, and it wouldn’t matter.”

  “I’m changing a few things when I escape this place,” he said, pouring his heart out to her. “I seriously have to have a chat with my mom. I have to know if she cheated on Dad—and if so, good for her. She deserves happiness. And Alice…”

  “Who’s Alice?”

  “She’s an old friend. The machine put her in the mix. I’ll put it this way, I left her at a time when she needed me the most. There are so many things I wanted to say to her, but it’s been years. I didn’t have the guts to apologize to her, but now…”

  “You don’t have to tell me. We’ve both experienced enough heartache.” She stepped forward, continuing to search the mansion for an escape. “Let’s go upstairs, like you said. We’ll find something, and if not, we’ll watch our asses and figure out a better plan.”

  He led the two-person expedition. The trek was easier now that the corridor was lit. Craig peered behind them again into the basement, checking for anything that could come out at them. The double doors were still shut. The barriers contained secrets, but for now, it was best to move on. The authorities could dismantle the property and the machine. He wanted nothing to do with it now that he was free of the damned machine.

  Edith extended the knife, ready to plunge into a throat. He clutched the rolling pin. His stance was absent of the promise of violence. A blunt object had little sway over the unknown, especially in Dr. Krone’s mansion.

  They walked up the stairs, the rubber mat absorbing the impact of their steps. Upstairs, the kitchen and the living area was still unoccupied. He kept his eyes on the upstairs staircase. Each stair was draped in darkness. The lights were off upstairs. He sighed, frustrated he would be walking down a blind alley.

  “This is it,” he said. “Are you okay with this?”

  “We have to do it, but I don’t have to like it.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  She was eager to complete the staircase, and he lagged behind, having to double his strides to keep up. He didn’t want to be alone in this place. The darkness hid Edith, but her general outline was visible.

  The upstairs area was set up as a large square. The window on the end of the hall revealed it was nighttime. He also noticed the steel bars over the window.

  “Fucked again,” Edith spat. “We can’t catch a break.”

  That left them one choice. “We have to hunt the two of them down before they find us.”

  “Are we the only two victims in this mansion? Maybe there are more of us here. Why would there only be two of us here?”

  He reached for the nearest door, curious by what she said. “Then let’s open these doors and find out.”

  The nearest door was unlocked. Opening it, he stared into a black box. He traced the wall with his hand for the switch. Once it flickered on, he recognized the room.

  The Waiting Room

  He was across from the door painted into the wall. The fake door in the waiting room. Dr. Krone’s stu
dy was wide open, but it was missing the man himself. The fish tank’s aeration device hummed, the cichlids oblivious to the things happening around them. He kicked open the receptionist’s door. Inside, there was simply a chair, a small refrigerator, and a pile of Cosmopolitan, Elle, and People magazines. The room stated the obvious—this wasn’t a psychiatrist’s office. How many people had slept on that plastic-covered couch unknowing of what demise was in store for them?

  Craig kicked the coffee table over. “How long has this been going on? I know Dr. Krone and his dad kidnapped victims from the asylum, but what about random people on the streets? I relived it on the machine. He kidnapped me from my apartment. I was so confused, I played into his scenario.”

  “It’s not your fault. We’re victims, and they’re the criminals. Anybody could wind up here. This was definitely well planned.”

  “That it was!”

  Gun smoke clouded the room. The pound of the bullet was deafening, and Craig swore he thought his heart stopped a full three seconds before ticking again. Edith was shot in the chest. She landed on the floor, losing her stance, and she cupped the blood that spilled from her chest wound. It glowed a violent neon, the bleeding red hole a bubbling geyser.

  Rachael clutched on to a smoking Desert Eagle pistol. She wielded it like a practiced gunner. “Stay where you are, Mr. Horsy.”

  He kneeled down to Edith and cradled her in his arms. She gurgled on blood. Her lungs were filling up. Draining whiter and whiter, the life in her flesh was seeping out the bullet hole. Desperate eyes froze on him. Fix it, they begged, make the bleeding stop.

  She edged him close to her lips, holding him by the collar. The whisper was barely audible, like a tickle to the skin. “Find Alice and make it up to her…whatever it is you did wrong…make it up to her.”