by Dan Wells
It was another prisoner. Forman had built the new wall around someone, leaving only an eye hole aimed directly at his torture station across the room. The woman in the wall, mute and immobile, had been forced to watch everything Forman had done to Stephanie last night.
She’d seen everything I’d done in the room, too.
“Surprise,” said Forman, standing in the doorway. His gun was drawn and pointed right at me. “Shock, really. And both things most likely to shock you are right here in this room. Really, John, you didn’t even make it fun.”
“Who is she?” I asked, pointing at the eyes.
“An experiment,” said Forman. “An upgrade to the dungeon, so to speak. An intensifier.”
“To intensify what?”
“Two victims for the price of one,” said Forman. “I can get a similar effect downstairs, of course, but having one actually trapped in the wall adds a distinct touch of despair that I can’t replicate any other way. I’m kind of a connoisseur, as you may imagine.”
“Of torture?”
“Of emotions, John. Torture’s a method, not an end.”
Emotions. That was how he’d tracked me through the house, and how he’d read me so accurately the night before—because he wasn’t actually reading me at all, he was literally feeling the same things I felt. That was why he’d been so scared in the car, because I was scared; that was why he’d been such a wreck after torturing Stephanie last night, because he felt all of her fear—and the woman in the wall’s fear—at the same time.
“Understanding dawns,” said Forman. “You’re putting it all together now.”
“You feel what we feel,” I said.
Forman nodded, smiling.
“Could the other demon do that? Mahai, or whatever you called him?”
“Mkhai,” said Forman. “And no, he couldn’t—it’s not likely you could ever have killed him if he did, because he’d have known you were coming before you ever got in place.”
“You can read minds?”
“It’s not reading, John, it’s feeling—I feel exactly what you feel.” He took a step forward, the gun level and menacing. “If I feel anticipation then I know that someone nearby is waiting for something. Someone’s excited. Then I start to feel a little fear, and I know that whatever they’re waiting for is dangerous, and then I feel something darker—hatred, or aggression, and I know that whoever’s out there is planning to hurt someone because all of a sudden I feel like hurting someone. Which also means that if you ever get up the guts to use that thing,” he pointed his gun at the paring knife in my hand, “I’ll know it as soon as you do.”
I looked at the knife in my hand, then set it down on the dresser.
“If you feel everybody’s emotions,” I asked, “why do you hurt people? Wouldn’t you spend your time spreading happiness and joy and filling the world with good feelings?”
“Feelings aren’t good or bad,” he said, stepping closer. “They’re just weak or strong. Love, for example, is weak: someone loves you, you love them back, you’re happy for a while, and then it fades away. But if one of those lovers betrays the other, then you have a real emotion—then you have something powerful, something that leaves a mark you’ll never be rid of. Betrayal is the most delicious of all, but it takes a while to set it up, and fear can be just as intense if you know what you’re doing.”
He advanced on me slowly, smiling slightly. “You know fear. When you faced Mkhai you must have felt a fear more intense than most people ever know. Fear, betrayal, anger, despair—lesser emotions pale in comparison.”
I held my ground. “I’m a diagnosed sociopath, Forman,” I said. “Wringing intense emotions out of me is going to be a lot more trouble than it’s worth.”
“You’re not here for fun,” said Forman. “You’re here to tell me about Mkhai.”
“But you know more than I do,” I said. “You’ve known him for hundreds of years.”
“Thousands,” he said. “But forty years ago he disappeared, and now he turns up dead. You know where he’s been during that time, and you’re going to tell me.”
“And you’re going to torture it out of me?”
“Nothing you tell me under torture would be of any value,” said Forman. “You’ll tell me when you’re ready. For now, I think it’s time I introduced you to the rest of the toys.”
17
Forman tossed me a ring of keys from his pocket. “Unlock it. It’s the little round one.”
We were in the kitchen, and Forman was keeping his gun trained right on me. The gun interested me—Crowley/Mkhai never needed one, because he could turn his hands into claws. Could Forman do that? I had assumed that all demons were more or less the same, but apparently not; Crowley had been able to steal bodies, but this emotional thing was completely new. Did Forman also have a demon form lurking underneath his human one, or was his body structure more fixed than that?
I found the right key and opened the door. The smell from below was rank and bitter, like a sewer.
“What’s down here?” I asked.
“The toys,” said Forman. “Radha and Martha and . . . no, I think Martha’s gone now. They all look the same to me, especially after they’ve been in the basement for a few months.”
“Are you going to lock me down there too?” I asked.
“Well I can’t very well have you running around upstairs anymore, can I? Doors are expensive.” He shoved the gun into my back, a cold metal tube. “Now get down there.”
The stairs were steep and narrow, and I had to hold the handrail to keep from falling. There was a small, dirty window at the top of the far wall, but the light from it was faint and my eyes hadn’t adjusted to the darkness yet; I was completely blind until halfway down the stairs, when Forman flipped a switch behind me.
“Stop there,” he said.
The room below lit up with a harsh, yellow light, and four filthy, emaciated figures curled in on themselves like shriveling weeds. They were women, dressed in rags; three of them were hiding their faces. The room was made of bare concrete, with a sewer pipe in the corner that the women had been chained to, and a series of hooks hanging from the ceiling. The floor looked like it was also concrete, covered with a layer of dirt, refuse, and blood. In the corner was a layer of wooden boards topped with a trio of squat metal barrels.
“These are my toys,” Forman whispered in my ear. “These are the ones who survived the early tests. Our mutual friend Stephanie is not likely to join them.”
“Why not?”
“She’s too weak,” said Forman. “I’ll grow tired of her very, very quickly. This one, however, is my favorite.” He pointed at the woman in the far corner—the only one of the women who dared to look back. She stared at us angrily. “Look at her,” said Forman, “practically chomping at the bit. I have to get back to the station, but . . . there’s time. Take the keys and bring her to me.”
“I’m not helping you.”
Forman shoved me forward with the gun, knocking me off balance. I clutched at the handrail, barely catching myself, but he slammed the grip of his pistol down on my fingers and they opened involuntarily, letting go of the handrail. I fell down the stairs, cracking my head solidly against the wooden stairs and then knocking the wind from my chest as my spine hit the hard cement floor.
“You will not talk back to me again,” said Forman evenly. “That is a lesson the other toys have learned well.”
I raised myself to my knees, groaning, and sat there for a few seconds to let my head stop ringing. I grabbed the end of the handrail and climbed to my feet.
“Very good,” said Forman. “Now bring her to me.”
I walked across the room, stepping carefully to avoid piles of garbage and scattered cans of dog food. Each woman shrank back as I passed. They were dangerously skinny and caked with mud and dirt; their clothes were ripped and tattered, exposing scarred skin stretched tight over bony ribs.
There were four women here in the basement, and at least
two more upstairs; the entire house was a pit of terror and loathing that was almost palpable, even to me. How could Forman stand it? From what he’d told me upstairs, his emotional mirroring wasn’t something he could just turn off—it was always on, and he would always feel everyone around him. That was probably why he stayed on the stairs and sent me down for a victim; he’d be so scared down here that he’d be almost useless.
Could I use that against him?
The woman in the corner stared at me as I approached, like the cat in the warehouse. Her skin was dark, though I couldn’t place her race exactly. She looked a little older than Lauren, but given her condition I couldn’t be sure.
“It’s you, isn’t it,” I whispered, kneeling down in front of her.
“Go to hell.”
“Who’s the woman in the wall?” I asked.
The woman looked at me warily. “Who?”
“Upstairs,” I said softly, unlocking her slowly to draw out the conversation. “There’s a woman trapped in the wall.”
“Which wall?”
I paused. “In the torture room.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You have to have seen her.”
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“I’m John Cleaver.”
“Not anymore. You’re one of us now. Or maybe something different.” She narrowed her eyes. “We’re just toys; you’re a pet.”
“Don’t dawdle, John,” called Forman.
“Listen,” I said, “what’s your name?”
“Radha.”
“Radha?”
“It’s Indian,” she snarled.
“Fine,” I said, “now listen—we don’t have a lot of time. I think I can kill him, but I need your help.”
“You’ll fail,” said Radha, “and he’ll take it out on us.”
“He’ll take it out on me.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” she hissed. “You broke down his closet door and who knows what else up there, and who’s he punishing for it now?”
I shook my head. “He’s not going to punish anyone,” I said. “Now, how does he come to get you when I’m not here? How did he get the others?”
“Why do you care?”
“Just tell me—can he come down here?”
She snorted and looked behind me. “He’s right there on the stairs. He can do anything he wants.”
“Yes, he can, but does he?” I stared straight into her eyes, trying to get her to focus. “I need to know if he’s ever come down here before, and what happened.”
She looked over my shoulder. “He’s getting impatient.” Her fingers brushed a nasty set of scars on her chest.
“Answer me,” I pleaded.
“Of course he comes down here,” she said. “You think we just go up on our own?”
“Does he get scared when he comes down? Does he look jumpy, or does he tremble, or anything like that?”
“Why would he possibly be scared of us?” Radha asked. “He’s got a gun, and we’re all in chains. How does an idiot like you possibly expect to stop him?”
She was almost snarling with anger. Aha.
“It’s you,” I said, looking quickly around. “You’re angry, and he focuses on that.”
“I’ve got a lot to be angry about,” she said.
That’s why Radha was his favorite—she was strong-willed and angry, and he could use that thread of anger to keep himself going when anybody else’s fear would make him run away. That’s why he ran away from Stephanie last night—she was all fear, so he was too. He’d come to me to calm down.
“You can’t let yourself get mad,” I said. “You’ve got to be terrified—so do I. It’s the only way.”
“He’s coming,” said Radha.
“He can focus in on one emotion and push the others away. That’s how he found me in the house, even with all of you down here throwing out interfering signals. He can push those all away—”
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“I’m saying that I think you’re right,” I said. “He is using me as a pet. He’s using me to calm down after he hurts the rest of you.”
She didn’t seem to catch on. Did she not know that he absorbed emotions?
“What does that mean?” she demanded.
“It means my plan won’t work,” I said. “I need to find another weakness—”
Something hard and fast-moving hit me in the side of the head, and my vision exploded in a flare of white. I fell to the ground, clutching my head, and I heard Forman’s voice above me, indistinct against the buzzing rush that filled my ears. I struggled to rise, but he kicked me hard in the stomach and I rolled over, doubled up in pain.
“Didn’t she warn you not to plot against me?”
I coughed harshly, then rolled onto my side and threw up.
“One thing I’ll thank you for, though,” he said. “You actually made Radha hope, just for a second, and that made her subsequent disappointment much sweeter.”
I coughed again, clutching my stomach with one hand and wrapping my other arm over my head.
“Get up,” he said. I didn’t move. “Get up!” he shouted, and fired his gun. The noise was deafening, and some of the women shrieked at the sound. I wasn’t hit; it must have been a warning shot into the wall.
I heard the woman nearest me whimper, and I thought about all the fear that must be flowing into Forman. I looked up and saw him smiling, almost leering, his eyes wide. He looked drunk.
It was like a drug.
“Now get up,” he said. I struggled to my knees and he kicked me again, softer this time—just enough to let me know who was in charge. I paused on my knees, gasping for breath, and raised myself to one foot, then the other. I stood for a moment bent over, my hands on my knees, trying to breathe deeply and ignore the pain.
Radha was silent, shrinking back against the wall. In spite of all her anger, apparently she’d still learned not to antagonize him directly.
“Pick this up,” said Forman, dropping something on the ground before me. It was my pocketknife.
“Pick it up,” he said again. I stooped and picked it up. “Since you and Radha have become such good friends,” he said, “why don’t you get to know each other a little better. Cut her.”
“No,” I said.
He kicked me in the back of the knee and I fell over again, dropping the knife to catch myself.
“I have already told you that you do not talk back to me,” he said. “Now stand up.”
I retrieved the knife and climbed back to me feet. Radha was staring at me ferociously, her dark eyes narrow and her teeth bared.
“I’ve read your psychological file,” said Forman. “You’re obsessed with death. I also happen to know, thanks to our conversation last night, that you’ve already killed one person, and I imagine the memory of it has been festering in your gut for months. You’re probably desperate to hurt someone again.”
Radha’s face was hard and set, like a mask of death. Her hands were curled into fists.
“I’ve spent my life studying people like you, John, and I know exactly how you think.” Forman was behind me, but his voice filled the room. “You dream about hurting people. You torture pets. You pull the wings off of flies. That’s all she is, John—she’s a fly; she’s an insect. She’s a nothing. Cut her.”
She was staring me down, but her eyes were wider now; her gaze was less straight. She’d thought I was on her side, but doubt was creeping in. She was starting to fear me.
Somehow, the blade on the pocketknife had come unfolded in my hand. I held it up and watched the reflected light shine and run and drip off it like honey.
The knife felt so . . . right. Strip everything away and this is who I was: a man with a knife, feared and respected, free to do and say and be anything I wanted. Months ago I had been in this same situation—this exact pose—holding a knife to my mother, watching her squirm and knowing that I could do anything I wanted. I had bee
n a god, just as Forman had been a god, and I had thrown it all away. Why? So I could force myself into an ill-fitting mold and live the rest of my life as a painful lie? So I could spend my days in isolation and my nights in a losing fight with my own nature? I’d wasted sixteen years trying to be somebody I wasn’t, and all that time I’d been asking the wrong question.
Instead of ‘how long could I keep this up?’ I should have been asking ‘why should I keep this up at all?’
Radha could see it now—some change in my eyes or my hands or my body that let her know I was going to do it. She was scared now. She knew how much I wanted to cut her, to open her up, to hear her screaming just for me.
For me? Or for Mr. Monster?
I hadn’t thought about Mr. Monster for days. He used to fill my mind like an infection, duplicating and growing, but now I hadn’t even thought about him since . . . since the night I killed the cat in the warehouse. Which meant he hadn’t disappeared at all, he’d just blurred so fully into my own consciousness that I had become him completely. John had virtually disappeared.
I held up the pocketknife, staring at it intently. There were so many options, so many blades and tools: a can opener, a saw, a corkscrew. I wanted to try them all. I wanted to feel her muscles tense as I pressed the knife into her back, to hear a whimper of pain, soft and terrified. It’s who I was.
But it wasn’t who I wanted to be.
I put a finger on the back of the blade and slowly pushed it closed: up, over, and down. It snapped into place.
“John . . .” said Forman slowly. What was he feeling from me?
I held out the pocketknife, closing it tightly in my fist, looking straight into Radha’s eyes. She was hard to see, as if my eyes were blurred. I was crying. I dropped the knife, and as it fell it tore a gash through my soul, cutting Mr. Monster away like a massive tumor. I was wounded—I was broken in half—but I was me again.