Fan Fears: A collection of fear based stories (19 page)

“Come on. This way,” he said, then retreated back into the dark. Brixton looked back at the streets, and then followed Kendon into the dark. He followed the teenager down the alleyway, past dumpsters piled high with garbage. They came to a recessed door at the rear of the building. Kendon knocked on it and waited. The door opened, spilling a dim yellow light out into the alley. A man came out, tall and slender, and obviously some kind of relation to Kendon.

“This is my brother, Richard," Kendon said.

Brixton held out a hand, but Richard kept his own in his pockets. He looked at the offered appendage then turned to his brother. “Come on, inside, quickly.”

Brixton followed the two brothers into the back door of the mortuary. As it was closed and locked behind him, he wondered if he had just made a huge mistake.

The back of the mortuary was a workspace office. A dull yellow lamp cast an eerie glow around the room. In one corner, an old wood desk, its surface pitted and stained from years of use, held a computer, its screen dark. In the opposite corner, a Christmas tree laden with lights and tinsel which seemed out of place in such a building devoted to death. Separated from the front of the building by a heavy cloth curtain, the back office was also the functional area of the mortuary. A row of rectangular drawers was set against one wall, a familiar sight to anyone who has ever watched a police television drama. In the middle of the room sat a stainless steel table, its bed recessed, a drainage hole at its foot leading down into the floor. Brixton stared at it, then at the two men.

“Take a seat,” Richard said, pointing to the desk in the corner.

Brixton did as he was told, his legs suddenly feeling incredibly heavy. Richard took a small stool and set it in front of him. Brixton noticed that he was wearing gloves, which he found strange, especially considering the heat.

Richard sat down, his face a flickering mass of shadows in the dim light. “My brother tells me you recently lost your wife.”

“Yes," Brixton said.

“He also said you had certain regrets. Things you wished to communicate to the deceased but were unable to in life.”

Brixton nodded, his eyes drawn to the gloves on Richards' hands. Everything else in the room seemed to fit apart from those. They had no place there.

“I can help you to achieve this. I can pass on those messages.”

Brixton sighed. “Look, no offense, but if you’re some kind of spiritualist, you can forget it and give me my money back. This isn’t what I had in mind.”

“No, rest assured, this is nothing like that.”

There was a calm assurance about Richard that made him willing to listen for a little longer.

“So what is it?”

Richard leaned closer, banishing some of the shadows from his face. “I have a gift. A real gift. Something that has been passed down through my family.”

“What kind of gift?” Brixton asked, unable to ignore the change in atmosphere within the room.

Richard said nothing. He removed his gloves and held his palms up to Brixton. “I can communicate with the dead by touch.”

Brixton stood. "I've heard enough. People like you should know better than to prey on people who are grieving. It's sick."

Richard seemed unaffected. He didn’t argue or try to fight. “Please, sit down. I understand belief isn’t something you can take on faith. A demonstration perhaps.”

Brixton sat down, still angry but also curious. “What kind of demonstration?”

“A question. Something specific. Something only your wife would know the answer to. If I could get the answer to such a question, perhaps then you would believe in my gift.”

"Alright, I'll play along," Brixton said.

There were a lot of things he wanted to ask her. Things that still nibbled away at him. Questions like if she had really had an affair, if she had been unfaithful to him. For the purpose of this, he wanted to think of something trivial. Something minor. He knew all about mediums and the way they would cold read their targets. Although he wasn’t certain it was the same kind of scam, he wanted to be sure. Something came to him, something that nobody else in that room other than him could possibly know.

“Alright,” Brixton said. “As a test. During our flight over here, something happened on the plane. What was it?”

Richard nodded and got off the stool. He seemed different somehow. Taller,
longer
. He walked to the drawers at the back wall. Brixton knew what they contained. He knew his wife was in one of them. Richard stopped beside one of them and stood, hands folded in front of him. "Come closer please," he said.

Suddenly he wanted no part of it. He wanted nothing to do with whatever Richards’s gift may be, however, he was still curious enough to go along with things for now. He stood and crossed the room, his legs heavy yet feeling like they would give out at any time.  He stood in front of Richard, the steel drawer between them.

“In order to do what I have to do, I need to put my hands on the body of the deceased. It will not be intrusive; I need only touch an arm. I need your permission to do so.”

"Why, I don't understand what you're saying to me,"

Richard spoke slowly, patiently, like a man who has had to explain this same procedure countless times before. “In order to connect the world of the living with the dead, it becomes necessary to form a physical bond. I am a conduit, a bridge between the two worlds. I channel this through my hands.”

“And you can ask them anything?” Brixton asked, unsure why he was so willing to believe such craziness.

"There are different levels. It depends on how willing the person is to divulge the information. A question such as yours can be answered by a simple touch. Other, deeper questions require a deeper reading, which is something, as a rule, I do not do. For your purposes, none of that will be necessary. I just need your permission to proceed."

Brixton looked at the steel drawer in the wall that stood between them, then at Richard. His throat was dry. He glanced at the Christmas tree in the corner of the office, then looked away. He couldn’t bear to think about it just yet.

“Okay, you have my permission.”

Richard nodded. “I’m going to open the drawer now. Please do not be alarmed. I did the best I could to fix her after the crash.”

Brixton didn’t reply. He was staring at the drawer, dull steel reflecting the hazy reds and greens of the lights of the Christmas tree. Every sense was alive, every emotion fighting for dominance. He watched as Richard slid the drawer open, revealing the purple body bag beneath. Brixton drew breath. He couldn’t see her yet, but to know he was in such close proximity to his dead wife made him feel nauseous. He closed his eyes and saw flashes of her bloody mangled face, which forced him to open them again. Richard had stepped away from the drawer. He was holding his hands up, palms out. It made Brixton think of a surgeon washing up before going into the operating theatre.  Kendon moved in front of his brother and unzipped the top of the bag.

“Are you sure you are ready to see?” he asked, looking across at Brixton, who could muster up only enough energy to nod.

Kendon returned his attention back to the bag and carefully pulled it back, resting the cloth just above the chest area of the body.

Brixton inhaled, then forgot to breathe out. He stared as the reality of the situation finally hit him. There were no mistakes, no confusion. His wife was dead.

Despite the horrors he had pictured in his head from the last time he had seen her in the wreck, Kendon and Richard had done an incredible job of presenting her as she was in life. She looked almost peaceful, eyes closed, skin pale. They had even managed to repair the ugly crack in her skull, and although it was still slightly misshaped, she was still recognisable. The only major difference was her hair. It was brushed back away from her face and looked different. He was about to ask why then realised it was because they had washed it. Probably to get rid of the blood and brains.

“Are you ready to proceed?”

Brixton looked at Richard. Something in him had changed. He was physically the same, yet somehow seemed bigger, more intimidating. Brixton nodded.

Kendon moved out of his brother’s way and took his place beside Brixton. “Don’t worry, he knows what he’s doing.”

Brixton couldn’t answer even if he wanted to. He was both mesmerised and appalled, horrified and intrigued. The yin-yang of emotions screamed around his brain looking for an outlet he was unable to provide.

Richard stepped forward, hands still held out in front of him. “Tell me again your question.”

Brixton tried to speak, his dead tongue and dry mouth making such a simple thing incredibly difficult.  “When we were flying out here to start our holiday, something happened on the plane. What was it?”

Richard stepped to the edge of the table. He put one hand on Helen’s forehead, the other on her shoulder, the contrast between the two skin tones something Brixton knew would never leave his memory. He watched as Richard closed his eyes and began to mouth words, his lips moving silently. Brixton looked at his wife. She was a shell, a thing on a table. As he looked at her, he found more new reasons to hate himself. He was about to call the whole thing off when Richard spoke.

“There was a man on the plane in the seats in front of you. He was a large man and was snoring. She says you were both laughing at him as it reminded you of her uncle.”

Up until that point, Brixton didn’t believe any of it could be true, but as Richard said the words, he felt his body weaken from the feet up. His legs buckled, and he would have fallen if not for Kendon grabbing his arm and leading him to the office chair.

“It’s okay,” Kendon said as he helped him to sit. “This happens all the time. When people realise this isn’t a game.”

Brixton looked at Richard, then at his wife and finally at Kendon. “What do I do now?”

“My brother has made the connection. Now you speak. She will hear your words through him.”

He looked at the table again. His pale wife’s body unmoving, Richard with his hands on her, eyes closed and waiting. Now that the time had come, he couldn’t think of anything to say.

“You must do it quickly,” Kendon said. “The connection can’t be held for long. To do so will cause the spirit to return to the body permanently and be trapped forever.”

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Yes you do, or you wouldn’t be here. Tell her now what it was you wanted to say in death.”

Brixton cleared his throat, and then looked at her, pale face in profile from where he sat. “I’m sorry,” he said, eyes stinging. “I’m sorry for doubting you, I’m sorry for saying those things I said. I’m sorry for not telling you I loved you before you died. I’m sorry for being a bad husband. I want you to know I didn’t mean any of it.”

He waited and watched. Richard opened his eyes and looked directly at Brixton. “She says you shouldn’t feel bad about the accident. She says you are to go on with your life and remember how things were before everything changed. She says she is also sorry. She says there are things she should have told you. Things you ought to have known that she wished she had said.”

“What things, what kind of things?” Brixton said.

He frowned, and shifted position, now placing a hand on each of her shoulders. “She said it doesn’t matter now. She loves you and that’s all that matters.”

“I want to know. Tell me what it is?” Brixton said, unable to control his anger. He watched as Richard moved again, this time pulling one of her arms out of the side of the bag. He lifted it to his face, smelling it, pressing his cheek against it. Brixton tried to stand, but Kendon put a hand on his shoulder and shook his head. Both of them watched, waiting for the answer. Richard lowered her arm, opened his eyes and took his hands off her.

“It is done. Finished.”

"What do you mean finished? She didn't answer my question?"

Richard went to the sink and started to wash his hands. “Trust me, Mr Brixton. Some things are better left unsaid. Sometimes, the secrets of the dead are better left that way.”

“What secrets? What did she tell you?” he was angry and upset as half-forgotten suspicions and accusations started to creep back into his mind.

Richard finished washing, and squirted some antibacterial gel on his hands, rubbing it into the skin. “Our time here is done Mr. Brixton. I agreed to let you speak to your wife and tell her how you feel. It is not my place to get involved with other matters of your life.”

“But you know don’t you? You know?”

Richard once again pulled on his gloves. “I can relay only what they choose to tell me. The dead bury their secrets deep. I am not one to go digging for them.”

“But you could?” Brixton said as Kendon returned to the body and sealed it back into its bag then closed the drawer.

“Please, say no more about it. We are done here.”

"She was hiding something. I've known it for a while, she denied it but… she wants me to know."

“Anything your wife wanted you to know would have been said.”

“I’ll pay you. I have more money. Lots of it.”

“I don’t want your money. I just want you to leave.”

“You have no right to hold this back from me. She was my wife. I deserve to know. I-”