Fan Fears: A collection of fear based stories (20 page)

“Mr. Brixton!”

The room fell silent as Richard approached. He crouched beside the office chair, eyes locked on Brixton, voice a low rumble. “You have no idea how this works. No idea what you’re talking about. Find out you say. You demand to know, you say. Do you know what that would entail?”

Brixton shook his head.

"I'll tell you what it would entail. For many years, I worked for the government. They would bring me people, bad people, and it was my job to extract from them what they knew. They were unwilling to divulge this information even in death, so I would have to dig deep and extract that information forcibly. Do you really want me to have to do that to your wife? To tear her apart and find out what you want to know? Do you want her to suffer again even in death?”

“No, of course not, I just….”

“Then let this go, Mr. Brixton. There has already been enough pain and suffering. The past should remain so. You now need to concentrate on moving forward with your life. The gift I have with my hands can also be a curse. Sometimes not knowing is better.”

“I was just-”

“Please just go.”

Kendon put a hand on Brixton’s shoulder. “Come on, I’ll show you out.”

Brixton let himself be led out of the same door he came in, too dazed and utterly confused to fight it.

FOUR

Christmas didn’t apply to those in the death trade. For Kendon and his family, it meant working every day, including Christmas day. Kendon unlocked the door to the low yellow building and flicked on the lights. Rows of display coffins lined each wall, each priced according to how luxurious they were. Kendon walked through the silent room of death beds and went through the curtain at the back of the building, almost falling over the Christmas tree, which was on its side. He grunted and reached for the light switch, flicking it on and illuminating the room.

The first thing he saw was the bag. It was screwed up in the corner by the back door, which was splintered and ajar. The remains of the woman were on the table, a snake of innards on the floor, chunks of flesh littering the ground around it. Her eyes had been plucked out, leaving just two glaring hollows. Kendon took a step back and bumped into his brother, who was coming in the opposite direction. The two of them stared at the mess in the room, open-mouthed and disbelieving.

“I wanted to know.”

They both turned towards the noise. Brixton was sitting in the office chair, his arms and clothing covered with blood. There was a three-quarters empty bottle of scotch cradled against his body. His eyes were wild, stubble face pale and gaunt. "You should have just told me. How could I go on and not know who she cheated on me with."

Richard put a hand on his brother’s shoulder and stepped into the room. Kendon went the other way, back into the front office to call the police.

"I told you to let it go, Mr. Brixton," Richard said, calm despite the destruction.

“I thought I might be able to do what you did. I remember you saying you had to look deep. I tried and nothing happened.”

Richard showed Brixton his gloved hands. “Like I told you, these are sometimes a curse. Not all gifts are ones which are wanted, Mr. Brixton. Sometimes they can cause more damage.”

Brixton took a swig from his bottle, then glared at Richard. “You should have just told me. None of this would have happened if you had just confirmed what I already knew. She’d been acting odd for weeks. I needed this for closure.”

“Your wife wasn't being unfaithful to you, Mr Brixton. She told me that willingly. She had never done anything to go against the vows of your marriage.”

“Lies. Everyone lies.”

“The dead cannot lie, not to me at least. I see through it. Everything I see is the truth.”

“You didn’t know her. She was up to something, I know it. It’s like an itch, one that won’t go away no matter how much you scratch it. Don’t you stand there and tell me she wasn’t lying. You have no right to protect her. Look at what you made me do.” He began to weep and took another drink.

Richard looked around the room and the parts of Helen which were scattered within it. He turned back to Brixton. “Your wife wasn’t being unfaithful to you, Mr. Brixton. She was acting strangely because she was pregnant and wasn’t sure how to tell you.”

Brixton couldn’t breathe. He blinked and stared at Richard. “What did you just say?”

“She was carrying your child. That was why she suggested the holiday. She was going to tell you here.”

“But I didn’t know. If I’d known sooner, I’d have been different.”

Voices filtered through from the front of the mortuary. Peters with his voice loud and booming as he came closer.

Richard crouched by the chair and laid a gloved hand on top of Brixton’s bloody one. “You see now when I tell you that some secrets are better left with the dead? There are some things that knowledge only makes worse. I wish you had listened to me, Mr. Brixton. I truly do.”

Richard stood and let Peters and his men into the room. Brixton didn’t fight as he was handcuffed and led away. He deserved it. He glanced over his shoulder as he was taken through the curtain. He saw Richard, gloved hands clasped in front of him, Kendon at his side. Behind them, the remains of his wife ravaged and violated at his own hand. It came to him then that somewhere in the room, was also likely the tiny nugget that was his unborn child which he had discarded in his frenzy and quest for answers.

He stepped on something that crunched underfoot, snapping his attention back to the present. He stared at the plastic star which had fallen from the Christmas tree, its glitter-covered surface now in broken pieces. He knew this time of the year would never again be one for celebration or joy. It would always be the day the man he had been had died along with his wife. Something in his mind snapped, he felt it break. It was then that he started to scream. He didn’t think he would ever be able to stop.

BONUS STORY TWO

APARTMENT 11

Fifteen.

Fifteen years since I last left this place. A hundred and thirty-one hours, four hundred and eighty-seven minutes since I last saw the outside world. That’s a long time. A long time to think. A long time to wonder. A long time for the human brain to create and invent scenarios. This flat is my sanctuary and my prison. My curse and my gift.

Funny thing, the human brain. It contains one hundred billion neurons. One hundred billion divided by the number of years I have been stuck here is six point six billion.

Sixty-six was the year I was born in a quiet little council house in Leeds.

Leeds has five letters.

Five times three is fifteen.

The numbers always win. They are always right.

One hundred billion neurons within the brain. Several of mine faulty, changed. Agoraphobia. Its definition is the fear of being in open spaces or large crowds. I fit that definition, but I have a good reason. My brain has somehow become rewired, and forces this isolation on me. The one thing I felt forced to do in order to keep people safe has now entrapped me. Nature finds a way to keep up the balance, though, and the things it took from me it replaced with something else. Something special.

I spend my days writing. When I have my weekly shopping delivered I also request two notepads. I write at approximately twenty-eight words per minute, which, granted is a little below average, but enough for my needs. I use pads of A4 paper, each of which contains fifty sheets of lined paper with a vertical pink margin line on the right.

Twenty-eight subtracted from fifty is twenty-two.

That was how old I was when the accident happened. That was how old I was when I got my gift. That was my age when life gave and took away in the cruel way it knows best.

I’ll get to that in good time, though. First I have to go back. Back to when I was a child. Back to when I can explain how I came to be in this situation. I’ve told this story before, countless times. It is within the notepads I have already filled, but with nobody to listen, I see no harm in telling it again. It will, at least, serve to show you how everything comes back to the numbers. If nothing else, at least, they tell the truth.

Seventy-one.

Nineteen seventy-one in England. Unemployment is at an all-time high. Arsenal have beaten Liverpool 2 -1 in the FA cup final. Scottish Formula one driver Jackie Stewart has won the Monaco Grand Prix.

Nineteen seventy-one.

Nineteen

Nineteen plus one makes twenty.

I was ten when it all started. Ten taken from twenty is ten again.

Ten is an important number.

Seventy-one minus the number of years since I last left this place comes to fifty-six.

Fifty-six is how old my father was when he first raped my sister.

She was seven.

For three years it went on. Seven plus three is ten. My age when it all started. Ten is an important number.

Thirteen is said to be an unlucky number.

For my father, it was exactly that.

Thirteen was the number of times I stabbed him with the knife as he mounted my beloved sister one too many times. Seven in the back, three in the side and three in the balls for good measure.

It took him eight minutes to bleed out.

When he was begging me to stop he said my name ten times.

Ten is an important number.

There were seven people at his funeral, which, as you know, was the same age my sister was when he started his vile attacks.

Seven people there and seven letters in funeral. An anagram of funeral is real fun.

Real fun was what I had when I watched him die.

Nobody cried at my father’s funeral. Not a single one.

My father was a sick son of a bitch.

Eight is the number of years I was in the psychiatric hospital after the attack.

My doctor’s name was Ethan. My sister was called Erica.

Both begin with the letter E.

E is the fifth letter of the alphabet.

Five times three is fifteen.

Fifteen is the number of years since I last left this place.

Fifteen is also the number of minutes since I hit the man over the head who was trying to break into my home. Fifteen is also a very important number.

Fifteen.

I wrapped the rope around each wrist fifteen times before I tied him to the chair. He’s been unconscious now for almost ten minutes. Ten is a very important number.

Ten from fifteen leaves five.

Five minutes until midnight.

Midnight is struck at twelve.

Tomorrow is the twelfth of the month. The twelfth was also the date my sister committed suicide.

She was eleven.

Eleven when she decided it was easier to jump off the roof of the multi-storey car park than have to deal with the psychological nightmares of what had happened to her. Eleven was how old she was when she realised she was broken beyond repair.

There were six people at my sister’s funeral.

Plenty of tears were shed.

My sister was a beautiful human being.

My father was fifty-six when he died.

Five plus six equals eleven. Eleven is how old my sister was when she killed herself because of what my father had done to her.

My father mocks me even in death.

The man who broke into my home is starting to wake, his eyes filled with that vacant half focus of someone who had recently had his brain rattled. I look around and see my flat as he will see it. The newspapers which I have kept over the years- yellowed mountains reaching from floor to ceiling in haphazard towers in every available space. A lifetime's worth of clutter exists here, a home no more than a rabbit run of corridors made from junk and clutter which I can’t bear to part with. I can’t recall the colour of the carpets. I can’t recall the shapes of some rooms. It’s a distant thing to me, how this place would look without all of these things I surround myself with.

My intruder is awake now and moaning, blood starting to dry in thick clumps in his greasy hair. It looks like tar.

I tell him not to scream, that nobody will bother us here no matter how much he shouts. I tell him to be quiet and let me think. He listens, seeing in my eyes that I’m deadly serious. He knows I’m in control and does as he’s told.

Midnight. The birth of a new day.

Twelve times two is twenty-four. Minus one each for me and my intruder, and that leaves twenty-two.

Twenty-two is the age I was when I first got my gift. Twenty Two is an important number.

My intruder is agitated, and starting to panic and make noise. I ask him again to be quiet. This time, he doesn’t listen. Fear will do that every time. I’m forced to hurt him. I don’t want to do it, but I have no choice. I imagine my father and his pale, bloodless face nodding in approval as I hit the man again in the head with the skillet, silencing those noises and bringing out a fresh torrent of blood from his wound.

I ignore the mocking sneer of my dead father, and the expression that says the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I ignore it and whisper my apologies to the unconscious man.

Twenty-two.

Twenty-two when it happened. Crossing the road, minding my own business. Not my fault. The driver was drunk. He claimed he didn’t see me. It still didn’t stop him from driving off and leaving me for dead in the gutter. Twenty broken bones.

Twenty-two minus twenty leaves two.

There were two people in the car, just like there are two people here in my flat.

Twenty-two was my age when it happened. Twenty-two is an important number.

I don’t remember the pain. I was beyond that. I remember faces, swimming in and out of my consciousness, their expressions telling me all I needed to know. I was in a bad way. I remember a priest. He gave me the last rites there in the road. I was dying, but I wasn’t afraid. I couldn’t feel it.

I didn’t die. Sometimes I wish I had. Instead, I spent seven months in the hospital and rehabilitation.

Seven was the age of my sister when my father first raped her.

The same number of people who were at his funeral in which nobody cried.  The word funeral contains seven letters. It is also an anagram of real fun.

Real fun wasn’t something I had during my rehabilitation. That’s when the pain I was spared during the accident was delivered to me with interest. It was also where I discovered my gift.

Depression is a real thing.

Depression affects one in five people in the United Kingdom.

One and five is fifteen. Fifteen is the number of years since I last left this place. Fifteen is a very important number.

Fifteen percent of all people diagnosed with clinical depression die from suicide.

I slit my wrists on the thirteenth of October.

Thirteen for the number of times I stabbed my father when I decided I had to kill him because I couldn’t bear to hear the sounds when he was raping my sister.

Fifteen percent of all people with clinical depression die from suicide.

I wasn’t one of those people.

My gift saved me, although I did try.

The pain as my blood spattered onto the floor. Bright red on stark white. The instinctive grip as I grabbed at the three-inch cut I had made in my wrists, blood welling up between my fingers as I waited to be taken away from this awful place.

Then warmth.

Light.

Then my wound stopped bleeding. Then my wound was gone.

Then I realised I was still in this awful place.

My gift. My curse.

Twenty-two when it happened.

Then fifteen years since I last left this place.

Both very, very important numbers.

Thirty-seven. The number of years since I last left this place added to the age I was when the accident happened.

It is also the age of my intruder according to the driving licence in his wallet. His name is Marcus. He has a picture in there of a smiling family. Attractive wife and a daughter who has his eyes.

They mean nothing to me.

Marcus.

Marcus was the name of my father.

My father is dead. I killed him when I was ten by stabbing him thirteen times.

I had to do it to stop him raping my sister.

My sister was seven when it started. And ten when I stopped it. She died when she was eleven.

My father and my sister are both dead.

I didn’t die but instead got a gift.

The gift of life.

A gift I don’t want.

I learned I could heal things by touching them. Something in the crash had reorganised my brain or triggered something locked away that humans have but can’t use. Whatever it is, I have it. My hands can sense illness. Cancers. Tumours. Broken bones. I can fix things. I can help people.

I
tried
to help people. Tried to share my gift.

Nobody listened. They hit me. They spat on me when I tried to fix them.

They scared me. Threatened me. Called me a weirdo and a freak, a pervert and a paedophile all because I walked with a limp and have these scars on my face and body from the crash.

Not my fault.

Not my fault.

Not my fault.

Nobody will listen. Nobody cares. And so I write it down. Just like this. Just like the other notepads. They are stacked and organised by date. My thoughts, my feelings. All on paper, all like this one.

Fifteen.

Fifteen years since I last left this place. Fifteen years is a long time to be lonely. To be isolated from everyone through no fault of your own. Fifteen is a very important number.

Marcus is moving again. His eyes are glassy and roll in his skull. He looks at me. Sees the scars. Sees the place I live in. His eyes grow wide. He’s afraid. Afraid of me. Afraid of how I look. Judging me. Just like them. Just like the others.

Rage.

That tight knot of fire in my belly. It sits there and simmers. Like me, it is sick. Sick of the ridicule. Sick of the mocking and the humiliation. The irony that I might be sickest of all and can’t cure myself isn’t lost on me. Scared now. Scared of what is going to happen, because I know I can’t stop it.

Two.

The number of thumbs I push into his windpipe as the rage takes over.

Fifty.

The number of seconds until he stops struggling and takes his last breath. I hope that’s all it will take, but the rage won’t be satisfied. I know that. I have no power when it takes control.

One.

The number of knives I bring back from the kitchen, still somewhere else, still controlled by that fire which has spread from my belly and has become an inferno.