Dark Screams, Volume 1 (4 page)

“It's all right,” whispered the older female officer beside her. “You're safe now.”

Kara managed a twist of a smile. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

She'd taken the cell phone from Gavin's pocket and called the police. When they arrived, she'd given her story, how Ingrid had been the victim of a stalker. A stalker who'd claimed to be the brother of a boy Ingrid killed six years ago. Except it wasn't the brother. It was Kara's own husband. Her
abusive
husband—her medical records would back that up. He'd gone crazy when Ingrid reentered Kara's life. Accused them of having an affair. This had been his revenge. He'd played the stalker, kidnapped and beaten his wife and her supposed lover, and planned to murder both and blame it on Ingrid's “stalker.” Kara had stabbed him with his own penknife and escaped, but not before Ingrid paid the ultimate price.

“Kerry?” a voice said.

She looked up to see her neighbor walking toward them, Melody in her arms, the sleepy toddler blinking as she looked about. Kara smiled—a real smile now—and reached out, and the woman settled Melody into her arms. The officer and neighbor walked away to leave mother and daughter together. When they were gone, Kara leaned over Melody's ear.

“There's always a price, baby,” she said. “But never pay more than you owe.”

My name is Edward James Tolliver.

I am thirty-seven years old.

I was born and raised in Fresno, California.

I attended UC Berkeley and graduated from Haas School of Business with a degree in accounting.

I used to be a fairly successful CPA.

I have no living relatives.

I did not kill my wife.

I am not crazy.

I was married to Lorna for eleven wonderful years, I loved her very much, I don't care what the judge and jury said I don't care what Dr. Hilliard or anyone else believes I don't belong in this goddamn asylum I am not a murderer I am not I am NOT NOT NOT insane—

Calm.

Remain calm.

That's what everybody on staff here keeps saying. That's the reason for the daily drug cocktails. Patients must remain calm and in control at all times for the well-being of themselves and their fellow inmates.

All right. I'm calm. Just a teensy flare of temper there, that's all. To which I have every right, given the circumstances.

Where was I? Yes.

Now is the time for all sane patients to do their doctor's bidding.

Even if they don't want to. And I don't want to. I am going on record here, Dr. Hilliard, that you're forcing me against my will to engage in an unnecessary and pointless activity. I'm an accountant, it's numbers I'm comfortable with, not words. I told you that. I find it difficult to think of sentences to string together on paper; I told you that, too. And my handwriting has never been very good and the scratching of pen on notepad makes me twitchy. But you wouldn't let me work on a computer because their use is restricted and I suppose you're afraid I might try to sneak an email through to somebody. Who would I write to? All my former friends have deserted me; my court-appointed attorney doesn't want anything more to do with me. I'm all alone in the world except for my fellow sufferers in this miserable hospital for the criminally loony. And you, of course. Dr. Albert L. Hilliard, the alleged lunatic's adviser, confidant, and wannabe bosom pal.

“It's my considered opinion that writing a daily log would be excellent therapy for you, Edward.” Oh, really? Why? “It will allow you to order your thoughts, relieve tensions and aggressions, hopefully allow you to take the vital step of accepting responsibility for your actions.” Bullshit. But there's no arguing with you, is there? If I don't do as I'm told I'll never be marked “cured” and permitted to leave this hellhole. You've made that abundantly clear in our thrice-weekly mono-a-shrink sessions.

I wish I could make you understand that I don't need therapy, this or any other kind. I wish I could tell you the truth about the magic eyes—

No.

Scratch that, erase it, forget it. I'm not going to tell you because you wouldn't believe me, you'd only think I'm crazier than you already do. So don't bother to ask me to explain, I won't answer if you do.

You
are
going to read these pages, aren't you, Doctor?

Oh, I know you told me you wouldn't, that my “jottings” as you call them would remain completely private. But we both know that's not true. No locks on the drawers in my little bolted-to-the-floor desk or anywhere else in this cell of mine so there's nothing to stop you from coming in while I'm in the dining hall or recreation room or outdoors under guard and sneaking a look at these pages any time you feel like it.

Well, it won't do you any good. I am not going to accept responsibility for a crime I didn't commit in writing any more than I have verbally. No, sir, no, sir. I don't care what the law says, I don't care what society says, I am not a murderer and I'm as sane as you are. A good decent tormented but oh-so-sane man who deserves better than better than—

Oh, the hell with it. I'm tired. I don't want to write any more of this crap. I think I'll take a nap now.

Nurse Ratchet just brought me daily dose #2 of my zombie cocktail.

Calming meds, he calls them, a silly damn euphemism. I call them what they are, antipsychotic drugs, and I hate the way they make me feel most of the time. Dull-witted, listless, no appetite for food. Like an animated corpse would feel if it had any feelings at all. Do you have any idea how much I despise being treated like a dangerous psychopath, Dr. Hilliard? Well, I suppose you do. You're the one who prescribes the zombie cocktails, which means you're afraid I might run amok if I'm not under constant medical control.

But asylum inmates have no free will, no say in what we're fed. When I first came here I tried various ways to avoid taking the drugs as I'm sure you know but none of them worked. Nurse Ratchet knows all the tricks. Now he dissolves the capsules in a paper cup of water and watches to make sure I swallow every drop. I threw the cup at him two or three times but all he did was mix another cocktail and threaten to put me in restraints unless I cooperated. He's a bully. You too, Doc, only you're much more subtle.

Of course I know Ratchet isn't his real name and he's a male intern/guard, not a nurse. I'm not stupid. I call him Nurse Ratchet because even though he doesn't let on I know it annoys him. Good. He annoys me, too, always so vigilant, always treating me with thinly veiled disdain. Screw him.

Screw you, too, Dr. Hilliard.

It felt good writing that. I think I'll make myself feel even better.

Screw you and the Cadillac you rode in on.

I must say I almost enjoyed our session in your office this morning. Usually I find them boring and repetitive and they leave me bitterly frustrated. As if you didn't know. But not today.

Did you realize I was watching you as covertly as you always watch me? Probably you did. You don't miss much I'll give you that. Except that is for the big issues such as my sanity though I suppose it's understandable you should be convinced I'm guilty of murder. You're society's tool and you have no genuine compassion.

I'm sure you can guess why I was watching you but I'll tell you anyway. To find out if you'd say anything to indicate you've been reading this daybook of mine on the sly. You didn't, not that I expected you to. Nary a hint of interest in what the magic eyes might be. Not even an oblique reference to anything I've written so far. You're such a cunning psychiatrist head doctor shrink mindsucker. You just sit with your hands folded and mumble about pressure buildups and psychotic breaks and taking responsibility and ask the same pointless questions about my childhood and my relationships with women and my marriage to Lorna while the recorder clicks and whirs and produces another tape for you to add to my file.

Ah, but you're not infallible. You may well slip up one of these days, just enough so I can be certain you've been invading my privacy.

Invading. Invader. That's what you are, Doctor, an invader like the—

Oh, no. Oh, no. I almost made a little slip of my own there. Wouldn't you like to know what kind of slip, the significance of the word
invader.
Sure you would because it's important, very important in a way you can't even imagine. You'd like to know and I'd like to tell you but I can't so you're not going to find out. I won't write it down and I won't let it slip to you in person.

Mum's the word Doc. Mum's the word for the duration.

Another of our sessions today and still no hint that you've been in my drawers.

Hah! Like Myrna Loy's line to William Powell in the first Thin Man movie: “What's that man doing in my drawers?” A real howler, Doc, remember? Well, no, I'll bet you don't. No plebeian you. You'd never lower yourself to watching old detective movies on TV, not Mr. High and Mighty Doctor Arthur L. Hilliard. What does the L. stand for anyway? Louse? Lickspittle? Wonderful word, lickspittle. Plebeian, too. A college education does wonders for a man's vocabulary.

I seem to have drifted off on a tangent. Damn drugs, that's what they do to you. They don't just keep you calm cool and collected, they screw up your thought processes, shorten your attention span so you can't concentrate. I think I wrote that before, I
know
I've said it to you any number of times during our sessions. Not that it does me any good to complain.

We were discussing you being in my drawers, secretly reading these “therapeutic jottings” of mine. You didn't even blink today when I said very casually and offhandedly that your suggestion to keep a daily log was working out better than I'd expected, that I was enjoying writing down all sorts of interesting thoughts and impressions. Didn't even ask me what they were. “I'm pleased to hear that, Edward. Now perhaps you understand why I believe it's a worthwhile form of therapy.” That was all you said. And when I said, “Aren't you curious about what I'm writing?” you just smiled in that supercilious way of yours and said, “Only if you want to share them with me. Do you, Edward?”

Well, we both know they've already been shared without my permission, you sneaky bastard. That being the case I see no reason not to repeat the inadvertent slips I made earlier. Grim little teasers you might call them.

Magic eyes. Invaders.

Meaningful, significant? Or do you think I'm trying to mess with
your
head? You'll never know.

Dammit, why don't you admit spying on me and get it over with. Be up-front for a change, be a man instead of a mindsucker.

How about it, Doc? As you're so fond of saying to me, confession is good for the soul.

I've taken notice, strong notice, of one of the new inmates. Miss Dorothy Pringle, Ward C, Room 9 at the other end of the hall from mine. She's young and rather pretty in a wistful, ethereal sort of way. Dark hair, delicate features, on the skinny side but neither flat-chested nor flat-hipped. To look at her you'd think she was a librarian or secretary or grade-school teacher, the kind of meek little woman who would never harm a fly. You'd never take her for a double murderess and a bloody one at that. The hospital grapevine has it that she chopped up her mother and father because they were too strict and kept her a virtual prisoner in their home. A modern-day Lizzie Borden except that she used a meat cleaver instead of an ax and gave them only a few whacks each. True?

I tried to talk to her today but she pretended she didn't hear me and walked away. Or maybe she really didn't hear me, she doesn't seem to be very aware of her surroundings. She reminds me of a puppy wandering around lost in a fog, I even heard her whimper once the way puppies do.

I'd like to screw her.

It's been more than two years since I had sex with Lorna. I was never unfaithful to my wife in the eleven years we were married, did I tell you that, Doctor? I'm sure I must have. Completely faithful, hardly even looked at another woman in all that time. We had a very healthy sex life and two years is a long time to go without. All the drugs Nurse Ratchet keeps feeding me have lowered my sex drive, no doubt on purpose, but it hasn't killed it completely. I'm sure I can still perform under the right circumstances.

Yes, I really would like to screw Miss Pringle.

And I think I will.

With her consent preferably but if she won't give it soon I'll have to take matters into my own hands so to speak. I'm good with locks, did you know that? They were a hobby of mine when I was younger. I can get out of this room anytime I want, believe that or not. Late some night I'll slip out when I'm sure the hall is empty and hurry to Miss Pringle's room and before she knows what's happening I'll be in
her
drawers.

See, Doc? See what you and Nurse Ratchet and the rest of your miserable minions have reduced me to?

I've just returned from another session with the mindsucker. Not a word about Miss Pringle or my threatened late-night attack on her. There certainly should have been if he's reading these pages, he wouldn't let such a blatant statement of premeditated assault pass without attempting to talk me out of it or at least addressing the subject. Would he? Is he that cold and unfeeling, that remiss in his duties?

No. No, I don't think so.

I'm beginning to believe he wasn't lying to me after all and this logbook really is private.

I managed to get Miss Pringle's attention just after lunch long enough to hold a fifteen-second conversation with her. It didn't amount to much, an exchange of only a few words each, but she favored me with a ghost of a smile before she wandered away.

She's such a sad person. Pathetic, really. I like her in spite of her having filleted Mom and Pop and the zombie state she exists in now. There's no doubt in my mind she had just cause for picking up that meat cleaver, as I had just cause to do what I did two years ago. If there is sufficient justification for a violent act and in my case if not Miss Pringle's the person who commits it knows right from wrong no matter what the law and the shrinks say, then that person is not—I repeat, not—crazy.

I feel a kinship with Miss Pringle and I want to be her friend. Her friend, nothing more. I never had any intention of attacking her in her bed, what I wrote was a test calculated to smoke out Dr. Hilliard if he really had been reading these pages. I would never force myself on a woman, I would rather be chemically castrated than commit rape for sexual gratification or any other reason. I am not the monster everyone in a position of authority in this place believes me to be.

Hilliard still didn't react to my bogus threat at our session today. So now I'm convinced my privacy has not been invaded. What I set down here is for my eyes only.

I must admit that Hilliard was right about the positive effects of writing a daybook. It does tend to release tension and focus the mind though my thoughts would have better clarity if it weren't for the damn drugs. For a long time I refused—no, I was unable—to think unemotionally and with a certain amount of clinical detachment about the magic eyes and that day in the home I shared with Lorna. It was all too painful, too horrific, the details encased in a fog like the one poor Miss Pringle wanders in. Now I've regained some perspective. Now I feel I can examine the events objectively and that it would be a good idea to do so by setting the facts down here.

First and foremost I did not kill Lorna. I would never have harmed her, never never never.

But I did kill the thing that killed her. The real murderer, the monstrous thing that invaded Lorna's body and took it over and destroyed her.

The thing with the magic eyes.

Demon? Incubus? Alien entity like the ones in the
Body Snatchers
films? I don't know, I can only hope and pray it was the only one of its kind. All I know is that on that morning two years ago I looked into the face of my wife lying beside me in bed expecting to see Lorna's beautiful gray eyes when they opened and what I saw instead my God what I saw instead! The shock was devastating, the terror all-consuming. Impossible to believe yet impossible not to believe.

Magic
is the word that came to me as I looked into the eyes that stared out at me from Lorna's face, a blacker magic than any ever conjured up by a human sorcerer. Deep shining pools of blackness with unspeakable horrors swimming in them, changing and shifting like images in a devil's kaleidoscope, each one more terrible than the last. Pure living evil. Like peering into the depths of hell.

When I recoiled and shouted, “What in God's name are you? What have you done to Lorna?” the thing that had been my beloved wife laughed at me. Laughed! And when I babbled out what I saw it laughed again then pretended to pout then grew angry and accused me of having absurd hallucinations. I cringed and fled but I couldn't stay away, I was drawn back in the glimmering hope that I actually had been hallucinating. But I hadn't, I wasn't. The magic eyes were even more obscene the second time I stared into them.

I had no choice then. Lorna no longer existed, she had been consumed by whatever had entered her body and the knowledge filled me with a savage need to avenge her, to kill the hateful invader before it could do God knows what to me and others. I took the knife from the kitchen and blinded one magic eye and then the other, covered the blackness and the evil images with crimson.

I know how all of this sounds. Of course I know. That's why I didn't tell the truth to the police or my public defender or the judge and jury or any of the court-appointed psychiatrists who examined me or Dr. Hilliard once they put me in this asylum. They would not have believed me. They already considered me a criminal psychopath; the truth would merely have convinced them they were right and made my ordeal even worse than it was and has been, ensured I would be kept locked up with no possibility of ever being released.

Lorna. Lorna. I miss you so. I hope and pray you're at rest and in heaven if there is a heaven and that you know that what I did I did because I loved you.