Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror (2 page)

“
Oh
I see it alright, boy. You live there in that big place, all decked
out with luxury items, but you’re alone, ain’t ya? I can
see how lonely you are.”

I didn’t like this, and was about to tell him to
go fuck himself when he leaned close, unbearably so, and whispered to
me.

“
We
are all going to the same place.”

I genuinely thought he had meant to the same station on
the subway when he flipped the cardboard sign around and showed me
the words.

“
This
is where we are all headed, sonny. And ain’t nuthin’ you
can do to stop it.”

What came next is still confusing, as it all happened so
fast. I remember glancing down to the sign, reading the words crudely
scrawled on the cardboard with black marker pen.

End of the Road

Simple. To the point. I’d had enough of his shit
by then and I didn’t want to be caught up in some bullshit end
of the world debate, so turned away from him. I clearly heard someone
shout “LOOK OUT,” and immediately I felt it—a small
sharp pain in my neck. I thought he had pinched me, trying to grab at
me, but I could tell by the faces of the other passengers that it was
something worse. Their expressions were haunted, and for the first
time in years, I felt genuinely afraid. Some of the passengers moved
to restrain him as I pulled away. Now standing, I saw myself in the
opaque reflection of the window—it was then I realised what had
everyone so upset. The fucker had stuck me with a syringe, which was
still hanging out of my neck. In a panic I reached up and yanked it
free, holding it in my hands and not quite able to believe what had
happened. It’s funny that as filthy and grimy as he was, the
needle looked perfectly clean and sterile. The chamber was empty
apart from a few lingering drops of bluish liquid. I whirled on him
and screamed, more in rage than anything else. That was the worst,
hearing him cackle as they restrained him.

“
End
of the road, sonny! End of the road!”

God only knows what he stuck me with. I keep thinking of
all the fucked up diseases in the world; Hepatitis, Ebola, HIV. The
words keep spinning around my head, but I’m determined to be
ok. After all, I don’t feel ill—which can only be a good
thing. I’m tired of writing for now. I’m going to kick
back and wait for the doctor to come and give me the all clear. I’m
sure it will be soon.

January
15
^th

They kept me overnight for observation. As requested, I
pissed in a cup for them, which they took away for whatever tests
they do. They also took some more blood. That’s the thing with
doctors. No matter what ailment you have they always want blood and
piss. I asked about going home and what they thought was wrong with
me, but I couldn’t get a straight answer. I’m sure the
doctors know something they aren’t telling me. I can see it in
their faces. The way they shoot each other short, panicked glances.
The man in charge is a guy called Fredericks. He’s the one who
seems to be hiding the most. Earlier this morning he came in to do a
routine examination. There was a look in his eyes I didn’t
quite like. He looked afraid. On the other hand, maybe it’s
just my overstressed brain reading too much into it.

I
will
beat this.

Fredericks asked me again how I was feeling. I told him
that other than the itching needle mark and the stiffness from their
shitty beds, I felt fine. My own questions went unanswered, whilst
they went on asking theirs. The best they can give me is that it’s
“ too early to tell” what’s wrong. Fucking clueless
idiots. Why am I even telling you all this? I’m tired and need
to get some sleep. I need to let my body fight whatever poison is in
me until the incompetent staff get their shit together.

January
15
^th
(continued)

It’s now just after eleven o’ clock in the
evening, and I’m still here. I tried to eat earlier, pasta and
meatballs, but could only manage a few bites before I was sick. I’m
growing more worried about the situation now. Something is wrong; I
can feel it in my bones. Fredericks made a brief visit, and although
he did a better job to hide it, I could still see that scared
expression on his face. I demanded an update and he said my blood
work should be back in the morning. I’ll be making an official
complaint about this, that’s for sure. I think I’ll try
to get some sleep and hope for good news tomorrow. I hope that
fucking hobo suffers a slow and painful death.

Sunday

Rough night’s sleep last night—dreamed of
little soldiers in my blood fighting off whatever infection is in
there. I have a headache, and even though I feel hungry, I still
can’t eat. As I glance up from this paper, I can see my
breakfast cereal still untouched. I looked at myself in the mirror
today and realized why Fredericks looked so concerned. I look like
shit. My skin is pale and waxy, my eyes ringed and dark. I think the
puncture wound on my neck is infected. Its edges are red and itch
madly. I think it’s starting to spread. If they can’t
give me a straight answer today then I’m going home. I can’t
stand this place any longer.

Sunday
(pm)

Told Fredericks of my intention to leave and he said I
should reconsider, as they have discovered some irregularities with
my blood. I pressed him for more information, but as always he
clammed up and wouldn’t tell me. Still can’t eat. No food
now since Friday, although the gnawing in my belly tells me I’m
hungry. Also, my hair is starting to fall out. I run my hands through
it and it comes away in great black clumps.

What the fuck is happening to me?

Monday

I’m trapped here. I demanded to leave and
Fredericks told me that he wasn’t authorised to allow it. I
told him he had no right to keep me here and he responded by
promising to speak to his superior. Fuck him. I still feel like
shit—the headache is worse and I can feel myself growing
weaker. I’m so hungry, but even though they brought me a decent
breakfast (toast and boiled eggs), I couldn’t eat it. I tried
to force it down, but I couldn’t swallow without being sick.
The old fuck on the train jabbed me with something potent all right.
I’m tired, so very tired of all of this. I need to get out of
here. I need to get well. Fredericks tells me they are going to try
and get an IV drip in tomorrow to feed me that way.

Monday
(pm)

Spoke to Fredericks’ boss. Like everyone else who
comes in here now, he wore one of those damn hoods and biohazard
suits. He told me that I was—

Just now, as I was writing the above entry, my thumbnail
fell off. All of it. I’m looking at it right now. The flesh
below where it once was is black and painful to the touch. What the
hell is this? I tenderly touched my other ones and they also feel
loose, as if I could just slide them straight off the skin if I
wanted to. I’m afraid now and need help. I’m hungry, so
hungry. I need to fight this. I WILL fight this. Nails or no nails,
it won’t stop me from telling the rest of the story.

Now where was I?

Fredericks’ boss is a man called Richards. He’s
a big man with flabby cheeks and glaring little eyes, and he had a
pompous air about him that I disliked from the start, but I was too
tired and too weak to give him the verbal dressing down I had
intended. He told me I was potentially contagious and would not be
allowed to leave. I told him he couldn’t do that, but he wasn’t
as easily intimidated as Fredericks, and quick as a flash he
corrected me, saying that he could and had. The room is now under
armed guard. Still nobody will tell me what’s wrong, but I can
feel whatever it is getting worse. I try not to think about it, but I
get the feeling my body is losing the fight. The rash on my neck has
now spread onto my chest and back and shows no sign of slowing. It
itches all the time and is now weeping a thick clear liquid, flecked
with tiny slivers of yellow pus. I’m also bald now, apart from
a few stubborn strands that still cling to my skull.

So hungry.

Tuesday

Drifted in and out of sleep and lost another three
fingernails during the night. They just peeled away without
resistance. Still not eaten and have lost a lot of weight. I can see
the shadows of ribs poking through my skin. A nurse came in to take
more blood today. (What the fuck do they do with it all???) She was
escorted by two burly doctors who watched me carefully, even though I
didn’t try to resist. The needle went in easy, but my blood
came out in thick, congealed lumps, accompanied by a horrific stench.
The nurse screamed and hurried from the room. I just laughed. Good
God, I’m tired of these people. I just want to be left alone.

Wednesday

Lost more nails. Toes this time. Drip wouldn’t go
in. Blood too lumpy. I’m an Auschwitz cliché; just skin
and bones and haunted eyes. Can’t be bothered writing. Too
hungry to care.

Thursday

Feel a little better today. The perpetual headache has
faded slightly, but yesterday it was brutal. I can feel the bones
protruding out of my skin, but still can’t eat. Twice now they
have tried to get a drip into me, and both times with the same
result—the horrible congealed blood and rotten pus stench was
all they got. That smell has somehow ingrained itself in me, but it’s
not so bad once you get used to it. My skin is turning purple at the
joints and somehow feels loose on me, like it’s sliding over
the few muscles that haven’t yet wasted away. Fredericks made a
brief stop, poking his hooded head into the room just long enough to
say they had some test results and that he would be by later to fill
me in. I probed to see if the news was good or bad, but he didn’t
answer—and to be fair he didn’t have to. His sombre look
told me all I needed to know.

So hungry.

Friday

So Fredericks tells me I’m dead, and have been
ever since I came in. How’s that for a diagnosis? I wouldn’t
believe him if not for the evidence. He hooked me up to one of those
heart rate monitors, and sure enough, there was no response. My skin
came away as he pulled the sticky pads off my chest. He screamed. I
laughed. It didn’t even hurt.

He looked at me as if I was some kind of monster, and
who could blame him? After all, I’m rotting away as I lie here
in this sterile white walled room! First my nails, now my teeth. They
are loose and two of them fell out today.

So hungry you wouldn’t believe it.

I dreamed of my father last night—of eating his
flesh and drinking his blood—and woke up with my mouth
watering.

Sunday

hungry
hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry
hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry
hungry

Wednesday
???

No nails. No teeth. No hair. Skin rotten. Nothing hurts
anymore though. That’s good, but I’m still hungry.

Thursday

Did I read somewhere that blood was blue and not red?

Red.

Blue.

Blue.

Red.

Dead
.

This is not a hospital room anymore. It’s a zoo
and I’m being watched—observed. After all, nobody has
seen a genuine living dead man before ha-ha! The rash that started on
my neck now covers my gaunt chest and face, and my skin has turned a
bruised shade of blue-grey. I think my organs have begun to settle,
to liquefy inside me, because my stomach is bloated, like a blister
needing to burst. I jabbed this pen I’m writing with into my
stomach to see what would happen. It went straight through with no
resistance and the relief was immediate. No pain though. Just that
lumpy, streaky yellow fluid and that rotten-death stench. The old man
was right. End of the road. End of the road. He stuck me good, that’s
for sure.

Hungry. So damn hungry.

I’m drooling all over the paper.

Friday
???

Eaten at last. Fredericks has only himself to blame. He
leaned too close while he was examining me, and I couldn’t help
myself. He didn’t scream for long. God, it was divine... I’m
feeling much better, and now that I have his keys, it’s time
for me to leave.

I can smell them out there—the cattle going about
their business in the corridors.

“
We
Serial Killers are your sons, we are your husbands, we are
everywhere. And there will be more of your children dead tomorrow.”
- Ted Bundy

Roberts
knew when he was going to die. It didn’t scare him; instead, he
felt a liberated sense of freedom that made the long and tedious
hours in his cell bearable. Huntsville prison was the oldest state
penitentiary in Texas. The red bricked building where Roberts was
spending his last hours was known as
The
Walls
, and was a three story imposing
structure with a clock on the front. (As if time mattered in such a
place.) It could pass for a school, if not for the bars on the
windows and the large sign outside proclaiming its purpose.