White Walls
And
Straitjackets
DAVID OWAIN HUGHES
WHITE WALLS AND STRAITJACKETS
by
David Owain Hughes
Copyright © David Owain Hughes 2015
Cover Copyright © Kevin Enhart 2015
Published by Dark Serpent
(An Imprint of Ravenswood Publishing)
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher and/or author.
Ravenswood Publishing
6296 Philippi Church Rd.
Raeford, NC 28376
http://www.ravenswoodpublishing.com
Printed in the U.S.A.
ISBN-13: 978-1511575935
ISBN-10: 151157593X
FORWARD
By Ty Schwamberger
David Owain Hughes is one scary man! No, I’m not talking about his appearance, which is actually quite lovely. I’m talking about what’s going on inside his head. I think Hughes has one twisted way of thinking! Seriously. As I read any of his work, I’m constantly thinking there must be something wonderfully wrong with Hughes. Not only is he one helluva wordsmith, but can weave together stories that contains some brutally fun stuff!
I’ve read everything Hughes has written and with each passing tale he just keeps getting better and better. Which, is kinda scary all in and of itself, ‘cause he was already pretty damn good to begin with.
Are you up to the challenge of venturing into the mind of a true up-and-comer in the horror genre, today? If so, don’t say you weren’t warned... ‘cause you’re in store for the fright of your life. Seriously, take my word for it. Or don’t.
I highly recommend anything Hughes writes!
~Ty Schwamberger, author of DININ’, The Fields & Deep Dark Woods
Table of Contents
WHITE WALLS AND STRAITJACKETS
T.M.M
THE QUIET ROOM
MR. TICKLES
SANTA KLAWS
LIPS
CANVAS
STITCH
HOB’S
THE WORKS
02.00 AM
GRAPHICS
For Nicola - The love of my life.
White walls and straitjackets
The morning sun was bright as they left the house, and the main road deserted. Perfect. Their van was parked the other side of the road, so they didn’t have too far to walk with the bags.
“Come on Crystal, shift your fucking arse. We can’t hang around here all shitting day, woman.”
“Shh, Harry, or you may wake some of the neighbours. Please.”
“Do you want a broken jaw, slut. Do you?!”
“Please, Harry, I was…”
“Talk to me like that again, and you’ll be sorry. Now fucking shift it.”
She closed the front door with a hard thump, making sure it shut in place, before locking it with keys she had taken off the hook in the passageway.
“So we’re just going to leave that fucker dead up there?”
“What do you suggest then, Harry?” she said, trying not to sound as though she was being rude or funny with him. She saw him narrow his eyes at her. An icy chill rose through her body.
“How in fuck’s name am I supposed to think, when you’ve got them nipples pointing at me like I’m being accused of something?”
“Harry!” she said, smoothing her jutting nipples down under the fabric of her tight t-shirt.
“They’re like a pair of condemning eyes, woman.”
“Tut,” she said, giggling all shyly.
“You’re right, we should just leave him there – it’s going to be days before anyone finds him, and by that time, the bastard will have decayed into the floorboards.”
“We could torch the place?!” she suggested, all happy-clappy and smiling.
“Hmm, I don’t know if we want to be bringing that kind of attention right away. I say we drag him out to the woods and let the wildlife do its thing.”
“It’s a shame we don’t still have Hugo and Former.”
“The Rottweilers?” Harry asked.
“Yeah, they’d eat through anything.”
“True.”
“Ah, let’s just leave him here. Like you said, it’s going to be days before anyone finds him, and we’ll be long gone.”
He nodded. She smiled. They walked over to the van and got in. The slamming, thump, of their doors, thump, cut the morning silence like a chainsaw. Exhaust fumes pumped out of the van in dirty gray plumes, as the engine was kicked into life by Crystal.
“Where are we going to go now, Harry?” she asked, watching him sitting dead still as he thought about it.
“Porthcawl,” he said. “We ain’t been there for ages. The last time we were, all those fucking Elvis’s turned up, with their quiffs and blue suede shoes. Fucking arseholes.”
“Harry!” Crystal said. “Can we go and see my sister first? I haven’t been to see her since she was put away, and that’s almost eight years ago.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. She still in that nuthouse?”
“You know she is,” Crystal said, looking over at Harry who had lit up a cigar, and was chuffing on it. A smile on his face. “So, can we?”
“Yeah. Just get this piece of shit moving, before the police show up.”
“Thanks. Love you,” she said, leaning over and giving him a kiss on his cheek. He looked at her, but there was no sign of amusement on his face or in his eyes.
“Drive,” he said. “Now!”
She looked hurt – defeated almost. “Okay, my love.”
Crystal swung the van out of its parking space and travelled down Llwynypia. A car passed them every so often.
“Could these fucking roads be any rougher? They’re giving my arse a headache.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean, Harry.”
“Making your tits bounce nicely mind, love.”
She took her eyes off the road for a brief moment, and looked down at herself.
“Harry, you are positively a pervert.”
“Ha-ha, I know, slut.”
“Can you get me the map from the glove box?”
Harry opened the small compartment. A load of paper and rubbish spewed forth. Amidst it all was a book.
“What’s this?” Harry demanded. “Been keeping your anal porn mags in here again, Crystal dear?”
“I don’t have things like that,” she stated.
“Then what is it, and where did it come from?”
“I don’t…”
“Hmm, it’s a book of stories and illustration,” he said, cutting her off. He started giggling and slapped his knee. “Some pretty sick shit in here, ha-ha.”
“Read me something then, Harry. I like a good story.”
“What’s this? Jacka-fucking-nory, tell me a goddamn story?”
“Sorry, I was only asking…”
“Okay, settle down. Nothing to wet your thong over. I’ll give you a story.”
“Great, but can…” the map came flying over at her, hitting her in the face.
“There, find your own fucking route.”
“Thanks.”
“The first story…Do you mind knocking that fucking rustling off. I’m trying to talk to you here, bitch!”
&nb
sp; “Okay Harry, calm down, please.”
“Well, do you want me to read to you or not?”
“No, no, I do.”
“Right. The first story is called “T.M.M…”
T.M.M
He checked the time on his watch from the glow of his mp3 player – nine forty-five. The bitch was forty-five minutes late already. He was beginning to get eager, hunched down in the tiny space with the darkness crushing him. But still, never mind, because he had his music and perturbed thoughts to keep him company whilst he waited for his prey.
Only the one earphone was being used, and that was in the left. He wanted the right free as it was pressed almost tight to the thin slats in the louvre door of the walk-in wardrobe. This was so he could hear her enter the room. God, he was so excited. He’d stalked this slag for the past four months, studying her every move, creeping in her shadows, watching her from every bush and window on her daily routes to work and friends and family houses. This was the longest he had let one live, and he was going to fucking love cutting her into tiny little sections, he thought; dissect her like a biology frog.
His bag of sharp implements lay by his side on the carpeted floor, amongst her things: boxed clothes, toys from her childhood, photos, shoes and so forth. He’d had his nose in her clothes many a time in the past few weeks, sniffing at their crotches: trousers, shorts, panties, anything he could to try and catch the whiff of her womanly juices. God, if only she knew what he’d been doing in her room whilst she and her parents were at work. Well, the parents would not be of a problem tonight, not ever again…
He’d disposed of them around an hour ago: Shelby had throttled the mother with cheese-wire whilst she’d been knitting in her rocking chair in front the fire. She’d wriggled like a virgin he thought, sitting in the oppression of the darkness. The family cat had also been sleeping in front of the roaring blaze; he’d booted the tom into the hungry flames and watched it writhe in agony. Its ginger fur had cracked and smoked in a most impressive manner. Shelby smiled a grin to end all grins. The father had been upstairs shaving, not hearing a thing. That had left him open to an agonising attack from behind, taking a swift couple of blows to the kidneys, before having his face rammed into the mirror he’d been using. Then the throat had been slit open by a jagged shard of glass. Shelby had taken a mental image of the man dying, choking on his own blood, before coming to a gargling crescendo. The clean up had been the hardest part of the job.
Shelby wrung his hands together there in the shadows of the closet, and licked his arid lips as he retraced his steps over the killings and the way in which he had disposed of the bodies...he’d simply dumped them in the cubby-hole under the stairs, stacking them neatly in one corner and covering them with coats. He’d carved his pseudonym into them before he had done so: T.M.M, along with a flattering music note which he always etched into the victim’s necks. The Police had still not made out his calling card, but that was fine. They were stupid.
He turned his head now, and glanced through the slats – “I Know Where You Live” began to pump out of the mp3 player; the song, and the album had helped inspire his killing spree, along with other music and musicians – not just Alice and his twisted death metal. A small lamp was aglow by the side of the Queen-size bed. And on top of the duvet was a stuffed toy alligator. Around its neck was a tag of some sort. A cold shudder slid down Shelby’s back, for the toy had not been there when he’d walked into the room almost two hours ago; he was sure the thing had not been there. Looking at it stare back at him with its beady black eyes, and chalk white teeth bearing threats of, I’m-going-to-eat-you-all-up-Shelby, gave him the chills. His scrotum began to shrink under the dutiful eye of the soft green reptile – yummy-yummy – sadistic killer for lunch. He heard it snap.
Shelby could not contain his thirst for curiosity – it killed the cat Shelby, remember? But he couldn’t help himself. He began to slide his back up the wall, and got himself into a standing position, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the toy. He unplugged the restricting earpiece, and let it dangle like the other one. The words spilt from both unoccupied plugs and pounded the empty sounding wardrobe, seeping out through the slats, filling the room like a thin mist of words,
I watch from my car.
I make sure you don’t go far.
I know when you sleep.
Don’t like the company you keep.
When you’re at work, I’m in your room, on the bed, and you don’t know.
I go through your things.
The touch, the smell, what joy it all brings…
Shelby’s breathing became ragged rips of inhalation and exhalation. He faced the slats square on and slid the door to one side, still keeping his eyes fixed on the gator. His mouth snarled which revealed prefect teeth.
“Gonna get ya now, Mr Big Bad Gator,” Shelby said, and smiled as he took one step out of his hidey-hole, tucking the earphones away into one of his side pockets of the combat jacket he wore. He also removed a small knife from his other pocket. The blade was four-inches in length when pulled from its channel, and erected. The steel snapped into place with a snick. “Gonna rip your stuffing out, Mr. Gator and pad my gerbil’s cage with it; Mr. Tinks will be most happy. Then afterward, I’ll use my steel to hollow out your owner, Mr. Gator. Let’s see how much fucking smiling you’ll be doing then, big boy.”
His boots made the boards creak as he crossed the space between him and the bed. He picked up the cuddly toy by its thick, squashy neck and looked at the plastic tag hanging from the collar.
“Ain’t that the fucking cutest thing you saw?” Shelby flicked the name tag over, and spied the nickname on it – Mr. AC. “I wonder what that stands for, ‘angry croc,’ maybe.”
He laughed at his own stupid joke and was about to plunge the tip of his knife into the belly of the toy, and draw out the stuffing which made up its guts, when he heard the front door slam shut – she was home! Shelby firmly placed the reptile back on to the bed and scurried to his hideout – he just made it as Silvia Croft came bursting through her bedroom door. She was straddling him, the punk with slicked hair and cheap shoes.
Shelby had seen them together a couple of times over the past few weeks; he worked at Alliance Carpets in town and lived near Shelby’s own home. The air in the area was immediately smothered with his sissy aftershave which had a spicy aroma to it, Shelby thought, and that pissed him right off. He felt like stalking out there right now and slamming his knife into the punk’s back. But that would take away the joy, for tonight he would have two for the price of one to punish, kill and deflower.
Cheap Shoes was eager, too eager as he pushed Silvia back on to her bed. The skirt she wore rode up her body, revealing her pert arse, and Shelby’s favourite panties. They had little cherries on them. He’d sniffed them many a time in the past as they lay sunny side up on the floor next to the bed. Her bare legs made Shelby moan, but not too loud. Not that they would have heard – as she was panting and her lover was clawing at her legs, making grunting sounds in the progress as he tried to pull her knickers free.
“Slow down, Gary, we’ve got all night,” she said, lightly pushing at his shoulders.
But this didn’t seem to cut any ice with him, as he continued to grope and claw her, burying his face in between her clothed breasts.
“The dude got the fucking horn, big time,” Shelby mouthed. “This should be interesting. That’s if he can get his cock out of his trousers before he erupts in his pants.”
Silvia started to yield to Cheap Shoes’ animal-like ravishing, and embarked on undoing his jeans by firstly loosening the belt, then tugging them down his scrawny legs – boxers and all. Then off came her clothes. It was not long before they were entwined in knots of passionate kisses, and he was deep inside her. Her short raven hair matted flat to her skull with sweat, his forehead glistening as he rammed her again and again. The headboard was in sync with Shelby’s galloping heart as he watched on, listening to his music in one ear, whils
t keeping the other free to hear their moans of pleasure. Now’s the time he thought, catch them by surprise. He picked up his small bag of tricks by his side, and was about to slide the wardrobe door back, but he was stopped by a sudden outburst from Silvia.
She was squealing like a pig having its throat cut open. Shelby looked out at the couple, and he could see her driving her head back into the pillows, embracing a thunderous orgasm.
“Cheap Shoes has done me proud,” Shelby mouthed. “But his fucking days are over.” As he was about to go out into the open once again, Shelby witnessed Silvia plough her forehead into Gary’s face, cracking his nose, which exploded like a popped water balloon. He tried to get off her, but she locked her legs behind his back, and writhed under the fountain of blood that descended on to her – rubbing it into her naked body – lapping at it like a cat. Gary could do nothing but hold his busted nose, and shake his body violently, trying to disengage. But she had him tight. When she finally got bored, Silvia struck him in the oesophagus, once, twice, three times before it crushed under her karate-style chop. He gargled and choked on his own blood and did the jig of the dying before finally slumping down dead on Silvia. She opened her legs and pushed him off her. She reminded Shelby of the Black Widow. Then she spoke, and Shelby thought he’d been punched in the guts as he struggled for air.
“Did you enjoy that – Shelby? I know you are there.” She got off the bed, walked to the end, and picked up Mr. AC. “This guy here keeps an eye on the room whilst I’m not here – he’s got a little camera behind his eye. Don’t be scared, you can come out, I won’t hurt you – much.”
Shelby watched as the naked girl dropped Mr. AC, and opened a drawer to the dressing table by the side of her bed. She produced a knife, a kukri, from its depths. He backed away from the slats until his back met the wall, and the words that seeped into his ear from the mp3 player almost broke him:
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