Dark Screams, Volume 1 (5 page)

Miss Pringle has begun to acclimate and assimilate. She still seems dazed at times, but her movements are no longer quite so zombielike and she is capable now of holding a reasonably coherent if lackluster conversation for minutes at a time. I seek her out whenever I can before and after meals and in what the staff euphemistically refers to as the garden though it's more difficult outside because of the constant supervision of the intern/guards. She likes me I think as much as I like her. She smiles whenever we speak now, sad lost smiles that touch my heart.

I hope we'll be good friends someday soon. I have no other friends in here, no one I can talk to without being deluged with loonybabble or psychobabble in response.

Dr. Hilliard seems pleased with my “progress” as he calls it, though he's still after me to “admit my guilt” because only then can there be true healing. Sorry, Doc. How can I admit to guilt when I'm not guilty? How can I be healed when I'm not sick?

I went for a short walk with Dorothy through the garden this morning. Very pleasant. We're on a first-name basis now, Dorothy and Edward. She really does seem to be coming out of her shell. Such a sweet girl. She must have been tormented beyond reason to pick up that cleaver.

To my surprise the amount or strength of the drugs I'm forced to consume daily has been reduced by an unspecified amount. Dr. Hilliard informed me of that at today's session and Nurse Ratchet confirmed it a few minutes ago by bringing different capsules to dissolve in my nightly cup of water. Well, hallelujah. Some progress is being made after all.

Oh God no not again not here not here!

It can't be but it is there's no mistake.

I sought out Dorothy in the recreation room after breakfast; she was modeling something in clay with her back to me and when I walked up behind her and said her name she turned smiling and I looked into her eyes but they weren't hers anymore, they were deep shining pools of blackness with horrors beyond description swimming in them—

Magic eyes.

Dorothy has been invaded as Lorna was.

I don't understand how it could have happened or why, all I know is that it did it did there is nothing on earth like the monstrous blackness of the magic eyes. I stared and stared into them and then I spun away and fled back here to my room terrified my head burning like fire.

What am I going to do?

Calmer now. But no less terrified.

I went to the dining hall for lunch but not to eat, I'd have vomited up anything I tried to force down. I went there to look into that sweet face again to be sure absolutely sure I wasn't mistaken. And I wasn't, I'm not. The face was Dorothy's face but the eyes were the same evil writhing ones I'd looked into earlier. Dorothy Pringle is dead. All that's alive in her body is one of the things with the magic eyes.

Now I know what I must do. I've known from that terrible moment of recognition this afternoon but I couldn't bring myself to admit it until now. Once again I have no choice. I must destroy the invader that destroyed Dorothy as I destroyed the one that took my Lorna from me and I must do it quickly. Tonight, late tonight.

I have no knife or access to one, inmates aren't allowed sharp instruments of any kind but I don't need a knife, I already have what I need because Dr. Hilliard made a slight miscalculation, a fortunate error in judgment when he insisted I write a daybook and provided the tools to do so. This pen has a felt tip but when thrust with sufficient force it will serve as well as a knife.

I won't have any difficulty getting out of my room. The locks on all the doors are nothing more than a way to keep the inmates segregated at night. The keepers don't worry about any of us getting out of our cells, why should they. The halls and grounds are patrolled day and night, an unscalable fence surrounds the entire asylum, there's no way anybody can escape. And I really do have a way with locks.

I'll let myself out at three a.m. Fitzgerald's dark night of the soul and make my way to Dorothy's room. The magic eyes will surely be closed at that hour, pretending sleep if not actually asleep so I won't have to look into their foul, crawling depths before I do what must be done.

Even if I'm not caught tonight I have no doubt Dr. Hilliard will find out I'm responsible. But it doesn't matter, the consequences don't matter. Only the destruction of the invader matters.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow oh God I'm so sick my hand is shaking so badly I can barely hold the pen.

I was ready to leave but I had to use the bathroom first and when I finished washing my hands I glanced into the unbreakable shaving mirror above the sink and it was my face that looked back at me but not my eyes oh not
my
eyes! Again once again I stared into the black roiling pools the evil swirling images the horrors beyond human endurance!

But the thing that invaded me does not have full control yet I'm still able to think I still have the will to function. No choice again no choice but to do what must be done and do it fast fast fast before it's too late.

First blind Dorothy's magic eyes.

Then blind mine.

I was chained to him by the throat.

Picture this:
an underground vault that's big—really big—like the inside of a church. Running the entire length of that vault is a twenty-foot-wide channel of fast-flowing water. The water is black. The sound it makes is the roar of an angry beast. I'm lying there, staring at him. Around my neck is a steel collar. Running from the collar is a chain that's ten feet long. The other end of the chain is padlocked to a steel collar around the neck of the man that lies unconscious on a concrete slab. The stranger's got the muscular build of a pro wrestler and long wild-man-of-the-woods hair. He wears one of those all-in-one white paper suits that murder suspects are given when their clothes have been taken away to be examined for their victim's blood. Even though he's asleep he radiates BRUTAL. Terror turns my blood to ice. I look up at the lights bolted to the curving brickwork that forms the ceiling and ask myself aloud:

“How did I get here?”

The man's eyelids snapped open to reveal blazing eyes. They were storms of rage. He lurched to his feet and ran.

“Stop!” I yelled. “Stop! You'll break my neck!”

The Goliath kept on running. The slack went from the chain that connected my neck to his neck. It snapped tight so violently sparks flashed from the links. The next moment, I found myself being dragged across the floor, my entire body skittering across the concrete. The pain in my neck was so vicious I screamed. All I could do was grip on to the chain with both hands and submit to being hauled along.

Goliath hurtled through that huge underground vault, which channeled the river. My shouts and the bellow of rapids echoed back at me. The man in the white coverall didn't even seem to know I was shackled to him. He'd almost reached the end of the vault when he noticed something to his left. Changing direction, he thundered into a side chamber built from the same bricks that oozed damp and slime. Of course, I kept yelling and, of course, he either couldn't hear me or ignored me. Then I saw what Goliath had found.

A guy of around fifty stood with his back to the wall. He wore a high-visibility vest in Day-Glo yellow. Maybe he worked on maintenance down here. When he saw Goliath, his eyes bulged in horror. He was terrified of the beast-man hurtling toward him, dragging me by the chain.

The man in the hi-viz vest didn't run away. He couldn't. He'd been chained to the wall. All he could do was scream—that's what he did. Loud and piercing enough to hurt my ears.

Goliath seized the man's face in one huge, meaty hand. Then he smashed his victim's head against the brickwork. Not just once, but over and over. Sweet God in heaven, the force of those blows shattered bone. Blood splashed outward in a sunburst pattern of crimson streaks. The skull stopped being a skull. Instead, it resembled a soft, floppy thing, like an empty cloth bag, and it steamed in the cold air.

Vest guy slumped down dead, supported only by the shackles fixed to his wrists. One eye shone whitely through an ugly mess that was red, and wet, and dripping. Goliath stepped back, nodded in the way men do when important work has been done, and done well—and that's when he turned and looked at me.

I'd been commissioned to take photographs for a newspaper article called “Leeds After Dark.” So I'd headed out at night to capture images of those city streets, teeming with people as they headed to bars, or restaurants. I clearly remember heading toward the train station, intending to photograph revelers making for home. That's the last thing I did remember until I woke to find myself in that huge crypt of a place, with its surging river, and—most alarming of all—discovering that I'd been chained to nightmare man.

Moments later, he'd murdered a guy chained to a wall. I felt sick. Goliath had destroyed the man's skull. This had to be the worst thing I'd seen in my entire life. Even after death the corpse twitched. The dead man's dentures slipped out through his bloody lips with a wet plopping sound and fell onto the floor.

Now Goliath looked at me, and I thought,
I'm next.

While the giant had been busily mutilating his victim's head I'd managed to get to my feet. Of course, I couldn't run away because I was shackled to him. And I sure couldn't fight the guy, either—he was a walking slab of muscle. All I could do was wait for him to make the first move. He lurched forward, keeping those fiery eyes of his locked on to my face. The chain went slack between us. He reached out and, oh, yes, I thought about the way he grabbed vest guy's face and broke his skull against the wall. The thick fingers flashed through the air straight at me. I swore they made a whistling sound, they moved that fast. Then he did a strange thing. He felt the collar and the padlock that secured the chain to my neck. At the same time, the fingers of his other hand explored the padlock and collar around his neck. His eyes scanned my face as he did this.

It's like he believes my face is a mirror, and he's seeing his own reflection.
That observation was followed by another one that felt red-hot and dangerous inside my head:
He's insane. He's a psycho. See the white paper suit? He must have escaped from prison.
Yes, I was sure that was the truth, but it still didn't answer the biggest questions of all:
Who brought me down here? Why did they chain me to Goliath? What's expected of me?

Goliath stopped groping the metal fastenings around my neck.
Here it comes: He's going to kill me.
My terror felt like a ball of ice that was growing bigger and bigger inside my chest.

The big man, however, suddenly lost interest in me. He strolled back through the vault. I grabbed the chain as he took up the slack to prevent myself from being yanked forward by my neck. Clearly, I must follow, or I'd simply be dragged along anyway. He approached the river. Once there, he knelt down, leaned forward, and scooped water with the palm of his hand. I heard the loud slurping even above the roar of all that black water shooting by.

As I waited for him to finish, I realized that if I was going to survive I'd have to keep my emotions under control. It was vitally important that I use every ounce of willpower to keep my cool and NOT panic. The guy in the yellow vest had screamed in terror. Had that triggered Goliath's rage? I just didn't know. Keeping calm, however, seemed the best option, because no way could I tackle him with my bare hands. We were chained neck to neck by ten feet of hard steel links. I'd have to use my brains to get out of this alive. Or those brains of mine would end up smeared all over the wall like those of poor, dead vest guy.

That thought had a strange effect on me. I wanted to laugh out loud. Or did I want to start crying? Either way, my throat twitched as the sound tried to escape.

Keep quiet,
I told myself.
Do nothing to provoke him. Try and be invisible. Remember when he seemed to be looking at you as if you were his reflection in a mirror? Maybe he's so crazy that he doesn't even view you as an individual. What if he sees you as merely part of himself? That could be the key to you getting out of here in one piece.

Goliath still scooped water from the channel and slurped.
Murder is
thirsty work.
I had to push my fist against my teeth so hard they creaked. Bizarrely, I felt an overwhelming need to laugh out loud.
Nerves…it's got to be nerves. Examine where you are, occupy your mind.
JUST DO NOT LAUGH.
Because laughing will be the DEATH of you.

So while he guzzled that disgusting-looking water I focused on my surroundings: a curving brick roof twenty feet above my head. The river entered through one archway and exited at another. There were no lights in the tunnels beyond the archways, so the water rushed from darkness into light, then back into darkness again. The underground chamber was downright sinister. There were formidable iron structures at either side of the river, along with pipework and machinery. Was this a pumping station? If so, then this place would most likely be located beneath a viaduct in Leeds that's known as the Dark Arches. This is where rain and groundwater flowed after being collected and channeled by the city's drains. So that put the town directly above my head. There'd be cars running along roads up there, people walking to pubs, lovers embracing on street corners. All that activity, just a few feet above the brick ceiling.
And here I am: a prisoner. Chained to Lord Nightmare. I hope that drain water makes him sick. No, may it choke him.
For a moment a kind of madness gripped me.
While he's kneeling down drinking, push him in. He'll drown. He can't hurt you then.

Thankfully, a shot of common sense came my way.
Yeah, but what happens to me? I'm chained to him. I'd be pulled in. I'd drown, too.

So this must be part of the drainage system under the Dark Arches. The pumps no doubt kicked in when there was heavy rain. The river's exit tunnel was covered by a grille, acting as a filter to trap debris. I noticed a steel frame had been bolted to the roof, while hanging from that was a huge metal claw the size of a car. This claw must be used to keep the mesh clear of fast-food cartons, sticks, cans, and all the crap that's washed down from the streets. In fact, a pile of tree branches and a jumble of debris formed a mound on the concrete floor close to the exit tunnel. That must be where the claw dumped whatever it grabbed from the water. That planted a seed of hope. Maybe maintenance workers would come down here to operate the claw. They'd find me and the man-monster. In no time at all, the police would be here. I'd be guided to safety with a blanket around me and a cup of hot coffee in my hands, while Goliath headed to jail. That optimistic thought made me feel warm inside.
Yes, maybe, just maybe…

The killer grunted in a satisfied way. He'd liked his sewer juice, because no doubt there'd be some of that in there, too. He stood up facing the river and pulled down the zipper of the blood-spattered coverall. I kept absolutely still. I didn't look as he urinated. After zipping up again, he lay down flat on the concrete and closed his eyes.

“My God.” I whispered the words aloud in amazement. “He's going to sleep.”

Remaining absolutely still, I waited. He lay there on his back as if he'd settled down onto a comfy mattress. And, yes, his chest began to rise and fall in that steady way, which indicated he'd fallen asleep—actually fallen asleep here in this noisy, wet cavern of a place.

I immediately attacked the padlock that was fixed to the steel collar around my neck. If I could force it open, or pry apart a link…

“It's no good. You won't be able to free it.”

The woman's voice shocked me so much I thought my backbone would snap right out. My head swiveled as I searched for her.

“Here,” she hissed, “on the other side.”

I saw a green box on the far side of the culvert. The box, which probably housed machinery of some kind, stood about five feet in height, and there, above it, was something that I hadn't expected to encounter down here: a woman of around thirty with short black hair. She wore a strapless dress and makeup for a night out. She was clearly frightened and extremely wary as she peered back at me from above the casing. The way her head and the upper part of her body were visible hinted that she stood on something on the other side in order to get a better view.

She angled her head as she studied Goliath. “He is asleep, isn't he?”

“As far as I can tell,” I replied. “Who are you?”

“One of you, I suppose. A prisoner. Look.” She raised her hands, revealing that her wrists were manacled together. Another chain fastened her to the metal casing.

“My name's John.” I whispered, because I didn't want to wake the murderer. Even so, the roar of water flowing through the vault meant the whisper had to be a loud one, otherwise the woman wouldn't hear me.

“I'm Katy.”

“How long have you been down here?”

“Just over three hours.”

“Who brought you?”

“I don't know. One moment I was near the bus station, the next thing I knew I was waking up here, chained to this box.”

“Did you see who brought me here?”

Instead of answering, she asked nervously, “Are you sure he's asleep?”

“Goliath? Sleeping like a baby.”

“How do you know he's called Goliath?”

“I don't.” I shrugged. “Though it seems as good a name as any.”

“Kill him. Kill Goliath.”

“How?” Her sudden demand to slaughter the guy shocked me. “I don't have a weapon. And have you seen the size of him?”

“You've got to.”

I glanced at splashes of blood drying on his face. Had Katy seen the death of vest guy? A moment later came confirmation that she had, when she told me that she'd watched Goliath drag me along by the chain before going crazy and smashing his victim's head to bits against the wall. Katy knew the guy was dangerous. She'd clearly decided that the only certain way to prevent our violent deaths was to terminate Goliath's life. Yet putting an end to Goliath wouldn't be easy.

Meanwhile, I tried my earlier question again. “Katy, did you see who brought me down here and who chained me to him?”

“Sorry. When I heard sounds I hid behind this box thing. By the time I dared look again you were lying on the floor near him. Goliath. I was going to call across to you, but when he awoke I was too frightened. I don't want him coming across the river to get me.”

“That's understandable.”

“He's still asleep, isn't he?”

I checked Goliath. The steel collar around his neck glinted as his chest rose and fell. “Seems like it.” I moved closer to him, stretching out my hand, ready to touch his leg, then thought better of it. Even so, the chain links that connected us together made a rattling sound and his head moved sharply, suggesting that he'd heard something other than the water gushing along its channel. And yet his eyes didn't open and soon that rhythmic rise and fall of the chest indicated pretty clearly that he continued sleeping.