Asylum - 13 Tales of Terror (13 page)

As the storm raged and they sheltered in the darkness, it was as though they were the last two people left alone on earth. Suddenly she was swept into his arms and he carried her effortlessly back to the lounge. She held onto him and nestled her hot breath into his neck. She felt his strength as he held her and she left her inhibitions outside in the storm. She knew that there was something strange about this man; she didn’t know him, and yet she felt closer to him than anyone she had ever met before. She wasn’t a woman prone to flights of romantic fancy, but here, she felt outside of the real world, as though the usual rules and practices did not apply. Her mind buzzed with a thousand questions as he laid her down before the dancing fires flames. She wanted to laugh at the sheer ridiculous nature of the cliché, but here in the moment it was the most natural thing in the world. She felt his pounding heart as his chest mashed against hers. Her thoughts fluttered with a momentary panic as his skin felt arctic cold, and then his lips were on hers and she surrendered willingly.

The night passed slowly and entirely in each other’s arms. She spilled her life’s tale in between their amorous tussling. By the time the dawn light was approaching she felt as though she had always known Michael. She knew that she had done most of the talking through the night. She had told him everything about herself, but he was still largely a mystery to her. His reticence to talk about himself was as endearing as it was infuriating. She knew that he had not been simply fishing as he had first claimed, but she also knew that he would tell her in his own time. As the morning light brushed the horizon they finally fell silent as she rested her head on his broad chest. The lullaby of his heartbeat sang her to a blissful deep sleep.

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The next morning was bright, dry, and clear, and Donald Crowley was making his rounds. Donald owned four holiday properties in the county and the one in Freshwater East was causing him the most concern, as it was the most exposed to the elements. The storm had been the worst that he could ever remember in his 58 years, and he could only hope that the house was still standing.

He drove his 4x4 through the flooded roads until he reached the cliff top turning. His heart jumped a little as he saw that a large tree had blown across the driveway. The thick branches and foliage gave testament to the power of the storm and he couldn’t see the small building. Donald was a pessimistic man by nature and he felt that his fears had been entirely justified. However as he parked and walked closer he could see that the house was only obscured and was still standing fully intact. He did a quick visual take and could see some damage around the well-kept garden that looked only superficial, and a few slates were missing from the roof.

He walked to the front door and saw a silhouette moving behind it. He banged on the door loudly enough to wake the dead. The door opened slowly and he was greeted by a sleepy mess. Bed-head hair and morning breath soon gave way to a puzzled lopsided grin.

“Can I help you?” The sleeping beauty asked.

“Well you can start by telling me what the hell you are doing here,” Donald snapped.

“I beg your pardon,”

“This is my house and I don’t take kindly to squatters.”

Michael stared at the landlord, “What are you talking about? Brittany Nicholls rented this house three weeks ago!”

“No,” Donald said patiently, “Brittany Nicholls rented this house some three years ago.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Michael demanded, “I was with her all last night.”

Donald stared back hard, “Son are you alright?” He asked in a soft low tone. “Brittany Nicholls drowned herself three years ago. She was a writer from the states; she had some kind of breakdown after her book failed or something. She rented this house from me. She seemed nice enough, but a little quiet. Then one day she took herself off to the beach, walked out into the ocean, and drowned herself. It was real tragedy, such a waste; such a beautiful young woman, such a waste,” Donald said with a tear in his eye.

“No, no,” Michael said disbelievingly. He turned and ran back into the house; his eyes could not comprehend how the inside had altered so much since last night. The wallpaper that had been pristine was now limp and dirty and the carpets looked grubby and flat. The fireplace that had warmed and framed them both so beautifully last night was empty and cold. The whole house seemed hollow and empty, as though devoid of anyone living for some time.

15.

BLACKWATER HEIGHTS

“So who was he?” Martin asked Jimmy when they were outside the room and back in the deserted corridor again.

“He was part of a smuggling crew. Their boat went down off the coast and he was the only survivor and washed up on Freshwater East beach.”

“What were they smuggling, drugs?” Martin asked excitedly.

“Nothing so exotic,” Jimmy smiled. “They were bringing in pirate DVD’s from Amsterdam.”

“Oh!” Martin said disappointedly. “So how did he end up here?”

“Well, word got back to Brittany’s parents and her mother flew over to meet with Michael. He was under arrest for the DVD racket at the time but she bailed him out. I guess that he must have been convincing in his story about Brittany, because her mother had her father pay for the charges against him to disappear, and then for him to come here for treatment,” Jimmy explained.

“So did her mother really believe that he had spent the night with her dead daughter’s ghost?”

“I doubt it. I think that maybe she just appreciated the story. Maybe she got to feel close to her daughter for a short while and felt like she owed Michael something for his time.”

“I’m guessing that her generosity cost a fair amount of money,” Martin wondered aloud.

“No doubt,” Jimmy said as his leathery hand reached out for another door handle, “But money’s not the only way to pay a bill,” he winked mischievously.

16.

METHOD ACTING

Gerald Dayton was twenty seven, tall at six feet two, lithe and athletic; his features were serene with an almost feminine grace. He was blue eyed and pretty in a way that made the women swoon when he was standing sixty feet high on a movie screen.

Gerald was the UK’s leading man; he was an actor of dubious repute amongst his peers. He was typically found in romantic comedies opposite increasingly younger women and his charms were sufficient enough to require very little acting ability. It was a career that he was handsomely rewarded for, but it also carried very little in terms of respect. Gerald craved reverence for his abilities; he was an actor who had been seduced by fame and fortune, leaving his dreams of credibility far behind for the sake of a bank balance and a flashbulb. But all that was changing; he had taken a decision one night at some party. He’d been surrounded by vapid scantily clad women and elderly men fighting against the dying of the light of their middle age. The air had been thick with the aromas of hair dye and Viagra and a sudden clarity had overtaken his senses. A parting of the seas had appeared before his eyes, and he’d realised just where he was and just what he was doing with his life. He slowly remembered his dreams of being an actor, not a film star; of being in films and not movies.
No more
, he’d thought to himself as some slutty teen had gyrated on his lap for the hope of an extra role in a non-existent upcoming movie. He’d left the puzzled faced girl and the party, ignoring the glassy eyed stares full of pharmaceutical and alcohol buzzes.

He’d fired his agent and the agency that represented him despite their wails and pronouncements of his impending failure. He had burned every bridge he had in the industry, not that he had many left to begin with. He had insulted, reneged, and abused everyone in his former life, happily playing the part of the apex in his industry. As far as Gerald was concerned, it was his right and his obligation to be the star. He was rightly ordained in his position and he had made full use of his power. He cared little for those around him and he cared less for their feelings. In order to sever his few remaining ties, he had happily been cruel to others in order to be kind to himself. He could picture the interviews that would fawn over his resurrection into the bravest and most highly regarded actor of his generation. From that moment on he had thrown himself into the deepest waters of his craft.

The only man that he’d had to annoyingly keep on the payroll was his manager Thomas Butler. Thomas had been with him since the very beginnings. He was an earnest man, thick of girth and thin of hair. Thomas was somewhere in his mid to late fifties by now, Gerald imagined, and the industry had treated him and his cash cow well. Gerald knew that Thomas was always one opinion that he could at least rely on, as Thomas had never been afraid to speak his mind. Thomas had never been sold on Gerald’s career path; he had always voiced the thoughts that the rom-coms should only be a stepping stone and not the final destination. But Gerald had been far too busy enjoying the trappings of his life to care about respect or craft, and secretly he felt that Thomas had failed him with the direction that he had taken.

“Thomas,” he’d grated down the phone, his head still thumped from the party’s intake.

“Gerald?” Thomas’ voice had answered thick with sleep, “Christ boy what did you do now?” He said, his waking voice jumping with alarm.

Gerald looked down at his wrist; the time told him that Thomas could only assume the worst of a phone call at this hour. “Calm down old man, there are no dead hookers for you to be concerned about, no car crashes, no overdoses.”

“Then what the hell are you calling me at this ungodly hour for?” Thomas snapped.

“I think it’s time.”

“Time for what?”

“Time to start work.”

“Oh great, have you got some new man meets girl, blah, blah, blah, that I haven’t seen yet?”

“No.” Gerald’s voice was calm and strong, “I mean real work Thomas, real work.”

The next month had been a depressing realisation that he could have all the best intentions in the world, but they counted for nothing. The real scripts for real films were scarce on the ground and he felt like the mouse that frittered away the summer without preparing for the harsh winter ahead. It was a sobering time for him as opinions about his name, face, and ability were found to be held in rather lower than expected esteem amongst the acting community. Gerald was small on the blame for himself and large on the blame for the inadequacies of those around him.

He was about to give up all hope of redemption and return to his aging path when his life was turned around by an A4 brown envelope plopping noisily through his letterbox. He had scooped up the envelope inquisitively It was heavy and hand delivered; the writing on the front was scrawled with his name and a one word title “Disturbed”.

Gerald had spent the following two days immersed inside the padded contents of the mysterious envelope. There was a script that hadn’t merely grabbed his attention, it had thrust the jagged edges of a shattered pint glass into his face and torn the flesh from his bones. The script was dark and disturbing. It was provocative and seemed monstrous and yet simple to film. There was no name attached to the script and no return address. The pages were merely signed “The Director”.

Gerald had fallen in love with the very concept; the filming would take place in a guerrilla style, and as such, the cameras would never be seen. There would be no extras in the backgrounds, only unaware members of the public and their reactions would be captured on film for the most realistic look possible. The story - such as it was - was described as a deconstruction of the human mind and spirit. The main character - that would remain nameless throughout - would be a crumbling consciousness; a man becoming lost beyond the boundaries of reality itself.

Gerald felt genuinely excited and terrified in equal measures. The script was bloody and provocative and it was something that would appeal to the auteur. He felt desperate to embark on the project and had immediately called Thomas to get the ball rolling. Despite there being no contact details for “The Director” contained in his package, Thomas had promised to see what he could find out. Gerald had hung up the phone imbued with a fresh sense of purpose and direction.

Two weeks later Gerald got the call from Thomas.

“Well I won’t tell you that it’s been easy my boy,” Thomas told him in a tone that Gerald found excruciatingly patronizing. “But I’ve got you the role, though God knows why you’d want it. Have you read this script?”

“Of course I have,” Gerald had snapped impatiently, secretly wishing for the time to come when he could add Thomas to the fired scrapheap. “I wouldn’t expect the likes of you to understand a piece of art like this.”

“The likes of me!” Thomas had spluttered, “Forgive me oh great thespian, but wasn’t your last movie about a talking dog that farted musical tunes?”

Gerald hadn’t bothered to engage in such a conversation. “When do we shoot?” He asked tersely.

“You get your shooting schedules on a daily basis. Each day’s will be delivered through your door. You’ll never meet the director or any cast or crew. Dammit Gerald, this whole thing sounds too weird to me. I know that you’re looking for some kind of credibility, but this is surely going too far.”

“Just give me the rest of the details,” Gerald had yawned.

“Fine,” Thomas sighed. “The scene filming will take place without the knowledge or consent of those around you. You will interact only with fellow actors; you’ll do the scene, and the reactions of the public around you will be genuine. With some of these scenes Gerald, I’d suggest getting the hell out of there quickly afterwards. I mean after some of these scenes you’ll be lucky not to get arrested or have to deal with some have-a-go hero.”

Gerald’s mind buzzed with thoughts of infamy. His acting would be considered so realistic as to evoke terror, so brave as to risk incarceration.

He awoke the following morning with a child’s Christmas morn enthusiasm; he rushed down the stairs to find the brown envelope waiting for him on the doormat. The A4 sized package held his hopes and fears for his future and he could only stand and stare, savoring the moment.

Two hours later he was prepped and prepared, dressed for the part in scruffy torn jeans, a thick sweatshirt and heavy black overcoat; his wardrobe having been sourced from a local charity shop for authenticity. His character’s background was largely blank and it was to be his job to fill in the details. He knew that he was to be a deeply disturbed individual, prone to blackouts and violent outbursts - a man who had fallen through every safety net in the system and who was now a dangerous ticking time bomb of fury. The first scene was to be in a local pub. He was to approach his fellow actor in an aggressive manner and instigate a physical altercation. He had a detailed description of the actor, but he knew that he would never see the cameras rolling, and everyone else in the bar would be unaware as to the true nature of his intentions.

He sank deeper into himself as he walked, testing the limits of his concentration and ability. His un-named alter ego was a man of deep dark corners, shadowy depths that would be blacker than coal. He shortened his breath to shallow pants, he clenched and un-clenched his fists, digging his nails deeply into the flesh. He was normally a fairly placid man by nature, but he could be spiteful and cruel especially when he wasn’t getting his own way on set. He took that childish behavior and magnified it, allowing every frustration of his life to grow exponentially. He felt anger towards every co-star who forgot their lines, every intern that couldn’t get a lunch order right, and every director who didn’t know how to shoot him. He felt the rage grow like a putrid monstrous baby in his own hateful womb; he seized the fury as he reached the pub and stormed inside.

The bar was busy; jostling punters baying for barmaids’ attentions, thrusting notes in the air as a siren’s call. He immediately recognised his fellow actor. The man was dressed exactly as described; a sea green suit that stood out from the crowd and a hackneyed red rose protruding from a lapel.

Gerald pushed his way through the throng; he set aside his cultured and civilized mind, because the no name stranger had no time for niceties. The script was vaguely ambiguous in order to illicit the most natural of performances, seeking to draw a reality out of actors, as yet unseen.

He shouldered the other actor as he reached him. The man was considerably smaller than him, and his drink spilt over his revolting suit.

“What on earth?” The man stammered.

Gerald whirled on the man in a flash and grabbed him forcefully, sending a cascade of shirt buttons clattering to the floor.

“What you say?” He snarled angrily.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” the man mumbled convincingly.

“Yes you fucking are,” Gerald said calmly, adding a creepy grin.

“Look I don’t want any trouble,” the man whined.

“Oi” a burly barman shouted over, “Take it outside ladies.”

Gerald snatched the now empty glass from the man’s hand. It was supposed to be sugar glass, and so he swung it carefully onto the man’s head. He was relieved to find that the glass crumbled easily under his fingers as it made contact. The suited man fell a little too theatrically to the floor and Gerald cringed inwardly at the less than natural response. His spirits lifted when a woman nearby screamed at the fake blood that the other actor had secreted and then let loose. Gerald kicked the fallen man in the stomach, pulling the action as much as he dared. The man looked up at him and winked as a crowd had gathered around them. Gerald didn’t pull the kick as much the second time and the man grimaced rewardingly.

Gerald barged his way through the crowd before the bouncers could reach him. He knew that if he was arrested then the whole project would be revealed and finished before it could really begin.

He reached the outside and disappeared off into the shadows, his heart pounding with adrenaline and his mind was buzzing with the possibility that this could really work. The audience’s reaction in the pub had been real; he had seen eyes full of fear and excitement.

He was lost in thought when running footsteps suddenly caught up with him and he span around to face his follower; the character’s anger must have been still on his face.

“Hey, easy,” the actor from the bar said holding up both hands nervously.

“What the hell do you want?” Gerald barked.

“I just wanted to say great scene,” the man grinned through his fake blood. “I wasn’t sure about any of this to start with. Strange packages in the post, flash mob acting, but that was great. Did you see their faces? It was brilliant.”

“Well then, why don’t you just piss off before someone sees us talking and you ruin it all?” Gerald snarled menacingly.

The man skulked away sheepishly whilst he mumbled something under his breath.

Gerald watched him go and filed away his anger with the idiot for his next scene. Apparently the idea was to film all of the similar scenes to tonight’s one after the other with increasing violence and depravity. After all of the scenes were finished then they would build the story and fill in the gaps in a more conventional manner. Gerald should be fully immersed into his character by that point.

The following morning Gerald woke with a heavy funk lying over him. He embraced the emotion and let it fill him completely. He grumped around the plush apartment, waiting for the envelope to appear. Finally the sound of the letterbox rattling broke through his bubbling anger and he rushed to greet his nourishment.

Over the next week he played out several acts. Not all scenes were violent; some were just simply downright embarrassing. He had run naked through the park scaring women and small children. He had launched into a screaming fit about the links between Christianity and a race of alien beings determined to infiltrate the upper echelons of international governments. The list was seemingly endless and he had prayed on more than one occasion that he was not on the end of an elaborate practical joke.