Moribund Tales

Moribund Tales

Erik Hofstatter

Copyright (C) 2014 Erik Hofstatter and Creativia

Published 2014 by Creativia

eBook design by Creativia (www.ctivia.com)

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

Edited by Lisa Knight and Miika Hannila

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

For Mum & Dad

Internal Abduction

T
he night was filled with noise, an equal concoction of rapid sounds and vibrations described as music. It stirred the pain in my brain from the previous night of excessive indulgence. The foundations of every home and office building for miles around were shaking from the thunderous bass emanating from the local nightclub. Two women, in their early twenties, emerged from inside this modern temple of Dionysus. I made a point of brushing against the pretty brunette who was engaged in hysterical conversation.

The medieval city of Rochester that had once been a prestigious and historically significant location was now reduced to nothing more than a vulture's hunting ground. The streets were tyrannized by lowlifes and hooligans. No one was safe anymore. The local citizens barricaded themselves inside their homes, not venturing out once the darkness swooped over the city and the night time mob arrived to indulge in all kinds of perverse activities. Times were spiralling out of control. The inhabitants, initiated to more desperate measures, were willing to sell their own souls for profit.

My eccentric roommate, Sean, told me about a local medical lab where he submitted himself for prescription drug experimentation. The number of students choosing to follow that path was increasing daily. Of course, it was a risk to your health, but it paid well. We live in challenging times.

I turned right into a shady road, towards the location of my experimental trial. The late night appointment had already made me a little suspicious. According to Sean's instructions, the medical lab was situated behind an industrial park in a deserted alley. In this deranged city, stricken with poverty and fear, most folk were willing to commit murder for a handful of change. I hastened my step as the smell of paranoia invaded the atmosphere. Someone was watching me.

At my feet, I observed an undisturbed puddle reflecting the full moon that was decorating the heavens. Before me, an abandoned wasteland stretched out into the distance. I felt invisible knots gripping my insides, pulling them tight. A sudden tremor resurrected the still water from its contented slumber, making it evident that something was on my trail.

The area was populated with twisted vagabonds. I hesitated and extracted my mobile, dialling imaginary digits. “Sean!” I said flamboyantly. “Wait for me outside the building. I'm almost there.” I said these words as confidently as I could in order to warn any potential assailants that there was someone expecting me. The fact I was out of credit meant the conversation was rather one sided.

The desire to turn my head suddenly became irresistible. Scaling the scenery behind me, I listened ardently for any suspicious activity. Saliva was absent from my dry mouth. I felt my heartbeat quicken as my eyes searched for something dangerously close. My instinct was warning me that something meant me harm.

I suddenly collided with something massive. A cloth that was soaked with some kind of narcotic was pushed into my face. The desired effect was immediate. The fumes paralyzed my brain, and my knees crumbled as I floated into unconsciousness.

The water from a broken pipe above my head gradually revived me. I was on the ground. The earth was damp and arctic. Pain played with my mind in a staccato rhythm. Crawling on debilitated knees, I tried to find something to help me to my feet. Although my view was still obscured by the effects of the drugs, I came to realise that I was in the curve of a murky, unlit road.

Whoever inflicted this upon me must have dragged me into the darkness. Why? For what purpose?

My black winter coat and denim jeans were drenched while my frame shivered beyond control. If only the raging agony in my temples would cease! What the hell has happened to me?!

Visions of the assault gradually began skulking back. Yes, I was attacked… but not in a traditional manner. The assailants didn't demand my valuables at gun-or knifepoint. I was shocked to discover that none of my possessions had been stolen. My mobile and wallet were still in my pocket. What was the point? What were they after?

Terror seized my limbs. The trauma of the ordeal clawed at my senses. Going to the lab in this condition was inadvisable. The logical destination was the police station, but what viable fruit would my revelation bear? I was attacked, but there were no signs of physical damage.

I felt an unfamiliar sensation deep within. Something
was
missing. Something
did
assault me. The motive remained a puzzle. Who were these fiends?

The city's mechanical fumes contaminated the atmosphere while I limped along the foul sidewalk. The night chilled me to the core as a gang of dubious adolescents conspired on the corner. The nausea increased as a metallic flavour invaded my mouth. Was this the aftermath of the toxic chemical I was compelled to inhale?

Perspiration rose to the surface of my features as I vomited over the side of a bridge into the river below. The drivers that passed me made rude gestures or honked in amusement, miscalculating my mysterious symptoms for those of an ordinary drunkard. My determination faded, and oblivion snatched me as I collapsed to the ground.

I was woken by an intense light being shined in my eyes, forcing me to open them. And there was an overwhelming scent of bleach. Had the monsters returned to dispose of me?

A man in a white coat positioned himself on the edge of the bed. The protruding bags under his eyes betrayed his antiqued age.

“I'm Dr. Mahapatra. How are you feeling?”

“Where am I?”

“St. Margaret's hospital,” he replied. “You were found on Rochester Bridge.”

The memory of my unexpected collapse gradually resurfaced. I wondered if these thoughts would help me recall further details about the attack. This might be a blessing in disguise, considering whoever assaulted me still lurked within the city. What if they ambushed someone else?

“You know,” the doctor began, in a concerned tone, “a man in your condition should really take better care of himself.”

This declaration puzzled me. What did he mean? I was in sensational shape. I'm in the peak of health. Illness never plagues me for any length of time.

“What exactly are you referring to, doctor?”

He levelled his eyes to mine and countered with a question. “You mean you're unaware of your condition?”

This doctor was absurd. “Yes, I'm completely oblivious to my condition!”

“Well, according to our medical report, it seems your sudden collapse was caused by exhaustion and a lack of rest. The procedure you underwent is serious. It takes time before your body can heal and adjust.”

I observed the pale ceiling above me and shook my head in disbelief. What on earth was he talking about?

“I don't understand,” I said. “I haven't had any surgery!”

The doctor appeared equally mystified. “You do realize that one of your kidneys has been removed? And judging by the softness of the scar it happened very recently, perhaps only hours ago. You should have been in hospital for at least a week.”

I felt the blood drain from my face.

“What's the name of the hospital that performed the operation?” the Doctor asked. “I'm rather concerned about your situation. How did you end up on that bridge?”

My overloaded brain was striving to process all the information that it had just obtained. The doctor's features turned from concern to horror as he noticed the shock on my face.

Instinctively, I lifted my hospital gown and beheld an elongated scar spreading from my right to my dorsum. It looked raw and sloppy. An operation performed impetuously. At last, I was able to comprehend the full purpose of the assault. They were not hunting for money. They were searching for internal organs. My god! What have they done to me?

Last Straw of Humanity

T
he cries always increased at night. Always. I knew what lay beyond the door. What I didn't understand was… why? Father never explained his reasons. One thing I did know for sure was that if he ever caught me anywhere near the cellar… he would kill me.

I've ignored his cruelty for the past fourteen years, but no more. I can no longer, with good conscience, ignore what is under the floorboards.

As usual, I was sick with fear as compassion invaded my mind. Nevertheless, I must obey what my heart asks of me.

My hands began to tremble as I descended the uneven stairs. The only source of light available to me was the tiny candle in my hand. Darkness devoured everything around me as I heard the unmistakeable sound of nails scratching at the walls.

There was a door in front of me. I pressed my ear against it and listened intently. Strange wailing came from within. My father's callousness was beyond belief. No human could ignore such pleading, but my Father's heart was immune to empathy.

Out of the darkness, a powerful hand emerged and grabbed me by the collar. I was thrown backwards. Everything blurred. When my sight returned, I could see the savage face of my father looking down at me. I was petrified.

He took a handful of hair and began to drag me towards the stairs. I tried to resist, but my Father's hands were like iron clamps. I couldn't break his hold.

“What did I tell you, boy?” I held my breath.

“This is for your own good!” he said as he removed his belt. “I told you to stay outta there!”

I sobbed. My tears only served to fuel Father's anger.

He was a massive man. All the endless hours spent slaving in the mines had given him a robust and frightening physique. I wept with every blow as rage and disappointment burned in his merciless eyes. Then he stopped.

That night, pain kept me awake. As much as I wanted to help, my own safety came first. My death would be of no use to anyone.

The following night, after supper, I made Father some coffee. He stood in front of the blazing fireplace, lighting his pipe. The smoke created a bitter taste in my mouth. He took the cup gratefully and offered me a chair.

“Father,” I began, tentatively. “You know you can't leave him down there in the cellar forever.”

“He is an abomination, son. Work of the devil. God would never create such a monster. You know I only keep him alive out of pity.”

“Why don't you kill him if you hate him so much?”

Father shifted in his chair and took a sip of his drink. After wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he replied, “I thought about it, but I couldn't bring myself to do it.”

“He is a human being!” I protested. “You can't keep him imprisoned forever!”

He gave me a sharp glance. “You'd better watch that tone, boy. He's against nature! He's against the bible! I'm telling you he is the devil's minion. If I ever catch you near the door again, it will be an axe in my hand, not a belt. End of discussion.”

My mind was made up. I would do it that night, and he wouldn't stop me.

While Father slept, I took hold of my grey rucksack and packed as many rations as I could find. Then I saw the shotgun resting above the fireplace. I took it down and laid it beside my bag.

Creeping upstairs, taking caution with every step, I tried not to let them reveal my presence. Peeking through a crack in the doorway, I saw my father. His face was calm and peaceful. He was snoring obliviously.

I licked my lower lip and reached for his keys. My heart plunged into my stomach as he suddenly shifted. For a moment, I thought he would grab my hand and chop it off, but he remained immobile. After liberating them, I hurried away. The cellar was my next destination.

I descended the stairs. If Father was incapable of mercy, it was my duty to find it for him. A sudden sense of shame penetrated my mind. If only I'd found my courage earlier.

As I took the rusty keys out of my pocket, a sudden wave of anticipation hit me. I unlocked the door and removed the heavy chains. I could hear the same distant wails.

Once inside, I saw nothing but darkness. Cautiously, I ventured forwards. There was a disfigured shape cowering in the corner.

“It's okay, George, I'm your brother.” I whispered softly.

As I got closer, I observed that something was terribly wrong. His face remained hidden, but the structure of his body alarmed me. It appeared that his right arm was mutated into some kind of pendulous stub, while his legs were horrendously misshapen.

I put the candle down in front me and took a step towards him. He sprang up violently and knocked it over. He'd been kept in the dark for so many years that his eyes were sensitive to direct light.

Luckily, the candle didn't go out. I picked it up and placed it as far away from him as I could. I turned and sensed him crawling towards me. His movement seemed primitive and beastly.

“Are your legs broken?” I asked. “Can you walk?”

I repressed a scream as his face was illuminated by the flame. My brother was deformed, mutilated beyond human recognition.

His left eye hung significantly lower than the other, and as he turned his head, I could see that his skull was twice the size of a regular human being. His mouth was at an angle, with the upper lip missing. The teeth he had left were all rotten.

Now I understood why my father kept him in the cellar all these years. He was unwilling to kill his son, but he also knew that society would never accept him.

I realized it was my duty to save him. If Father had his wicked way, George was destined to rot in this filth until the end of his days.

Walking over to him, I grabbed his arm and helped him up. George staggered, but willingly limped forward towards the door.

“You have to be quiet,” I whispered. “If father catches us, I'll probably end up in here with you.”

We climbed the stairs but were far from subtle. I was convinced that, with all the commotion, Father was going to discover us.

I retrieved my rucksack and made for the door. Turning towards my brother, in triumph, I expected to see the joyous face of a man granted his freedom. All I saw was pain and suffering.

The truth hit me like a thousand knives piercing me all at once. I swallowed hard because I knew what I had to do.

I pointed my finger at the night sky and said, “Look at that beautiful moon.”

As George stood, captivated by the illuminating satellite, I slowly pulled out my father's shotgun and aimed it at his head. “I'm sorry, Brother.”