Short Weird Tales: Dreamer (iii)

Jimmy's check-in was done.

The patient was still sleeping, oblivious to the rhythmic hiss, whir and beep of the myriad machines surrounding the bed. Lights, buttons, casings, switches. Some of the boxes were connected to the unconscious man through thick tubes, pads and needles; some were connected to other machines. The overall effect was one of an experiment rather than a treatment. The unconscious man's chest fell and rose in a state of steady fitfulness; shallow breaths threatening to spill over into coughing at any second. But the readouts, gauges and monitors gave no cause for concern, so there was work to be done elsewhere.

Moving to leave, Jimmy reached for the door handle without breaking his stride but then everything slowed. His brain only took a second to register what was happening. That second seemed to last minutes. As he pushed downward, the smooth, L-shaped, aluminium door handle squirmed in his grasp. His wrist still moved downward in the correct direction, but there was no audible 'click' from the latch. A slimy wetness brushed over the back of Jimmy's hand, while the rod he gripped grew thicker, slithering through his grip.

Looking down now, the orderly could see his hand around a pulsating tentacle, expanding as it thrust through a hole where the door handle should be attached, extruding itself into the room as it coiled noiselessly onto the carpet. Aware that he'd been holding his breath, Jimmy inhaled sharply and turned to look at the patient. He half expected to see some crouched, gloating mass of teeth and feelers perched atop the bed, but no - Mr Belmont lay exactly as he had moments earlier; breathing restlessly but in no state of harm or distress. The light mounted above the machine in the far corner of the room was illuminated, though.

The light was red.
The patient was dreaming.

Jimmy started to panic. A bell began ringing out in the corridor. He'd been warned about this, he'd been trained in the drill. The alarm meant others had been automatically alerted to the situation so were probably on their way here now. All Jimmy had to do was administer a sedative to keep the patient stable and bring him back below the REM-state. But the tentacle snaking up his leg wouldn't allow him to cross back to the bed.

He felt a sharp scratching at his stomach, even though the probing feeler hadn't reached his torso yet. Jimmy lifted his shirt, and widened his eyes as he knew this would soon be over. In the centre of his body was a round, angry, gaping hole, lined with rings of small sharp teeth, spiralling back through a gnashing, undulating throat that receded into himself far as he could see from this angle. While the skin around the… the mouth? …itched and burned, Jimmy couldn't feel any sensation from inside of it. This mouth might be in him but it wasn't his. It was appearing from somewhere, somewhen, else and using Jimmy's torso as a portal. He didn't dare touch it.

But the hole was already getting larger, rippling as if unfolding outwards. Flesh was simultaneously torn and somehow absorbed inward. God knows what was coming. Mr Belmont continued dreaming of unseen spheres, but physics and biology still mattered in the hospital room. His spinal column now severed, Jimmy collapsed as he was eaten from the inside out…

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DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• Short stories © WorldOfBlackout.co.uk, all entries are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Y'know, mostly.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Short Weird Tales: Dreamer (ii)

"Doct... Doctor Fairmile, I presume?"

"Indeed. How can I help you?"

Despite being almost certain to whom she was talking, this threw the young woman. The man in front of her didn't look like a doctor. It was perhaps a cliché to expect a white coat and stethoscope, but even she was surprised by the threadbare unbleached linen shirt, hanging over faded grey slacks that looked two sizes too large. He wasn't even wearing a name badge. He didn't look like a doctor, no matter how polite and accommodating he appeared to be. If not for the twisted lanyard slung about the man's neck bearing a single unmarked security fob, Fairmile could easily have been mistaken for one of the patients here. And this was a thought that her brain refused to discount.

"I'm... I'm Peter Belmont's daughter, I--"

"Ah Megan! Your father speaks very highly of you, it's so nice to be able to put a face to a name."

"My father's mentioned me? I didn't think he'd be in any condition to..."

"Oh in his er, calmer moments, yes. He's quite responsive some of the time."

"Well, that's why I'm here. Would you say my father is showing any signs of... of improvement?"

"Ah. I must be honest with you Megan. Overall, he is not..." The man in the linen shirt looked suddenly deflated, as if resigning himself to a conversation he'd hoped to avoid. His hands twitched in the air between them while he grappled for the right words, as if absent-mindedly conducting an orchestra of schoolchildren.

"You saw your father before he was admitted, in fact you placed the call I believe, so you know how distressed be was?" Megan nodded quickly. "Well, he's still moving between periods of great psychological upheaval and comparative clarity. The onset and the duration of each is impossible for us to predict, so I'm afraid your father has to remain in our care. For his own safety, as much as others'." He seemed to almost be biting his own tongue, now.

"Of course, yes."

"As well as looking after Peter physically, we're still running tests to try and get to the bottom of what's affecting his behaviour this way. But... well, the brain is a labyrinth we've yet to map fully, and the 'mind' is another place entirely." Suddenly aware that he had almost become glib, the man's speech dropped into a confessional tone. "Without wishing to alarm you, your father is in uncharted territory..."

"Is my father in danger?"

"Megan, we may all be in danger. You've seen yourself the things that happen when he dreams. We're worried he may somehow be... actually causing those events. We just have to figure out how, before we can get to the why."

"Hold on... those... are you saying those things were real? Those... those monsters?" Her face, that had been growing red with anger moments earlier, drained of colour as if a plug had been removed.

"Well, yes. Or as real as anything we'd normally choose to believe, day to day. Certainly, the deaths of the two care workers during his last seizure have been considered hard evidence by the police..."

The rational part of Megan's brain might have been amazed at how quickly the entire world could be up-ended, whether it be a sudden sound of screaming coming through a wall, the deafening click of the front door lock when returning to an empty house, or just a rapidly escalating conversation in a stark, whitewashed corridor. But that rational part of Megan's brain was drowned out by the noise echoing around those walls. Her noise.

"The WHAT? Deaths? When did this happen?? Are you saying my father's KILLED someone?"

"No, no absolutely not. Well, not as such." Megan said no more but shot an involuntary look which demanded the clarification of such a facile rebuttal. "Look, all our staff are highly trained, but working here is often dangerous as you can imagine. It's part of the job. The patients can be unpredictable and people are injured from time to time. Sometimes things get out of hand, everyone knows this and no one will be pressing charges--"

"Charges? No really, are you telling me my father has killed somebody?"

"No Megan, I'm just telling you two people died. Well, one person died. We can't find the other one. Or, not all of him. It's a little--"

"Okay, that's enough. I have no idea who you actually are, where's the administrator's office?" Megan was by now white with rage and not a little fear, her own hands shaking by her sides. Those of her verbal opponent were raised flatly in a defensive gesture.

"Miss Belmont, please, if you'll just come with me--"

The rest of the sentence was cut off as an unseen alarm bell burst into life; a sudden unbroken shrieking cacophony of panic which only seemed to escalate as it bounced around the hard corridor. Megan winced, although she noticed even now that her guide seemed to be calculating what this could mean rather than actually being worried by it. Somehow, seeping in through the milliseconds of dying reverberation after the hammer struck the bell, Megan could hear another identical alarm in the corridor beyond the double-doors she had entered. Whatever had triggered this alert, its result was for everybody.

Not attempting to speak over the clamour, the doctor took Megan by the elbow and led her swiftly to the doors at the far end of the corridor. The man's confidence was such that she didn't resist this, despite the feeling that she was being guided deeper into the heart of chaos.

Before they reached the doors, the alarms ceased. The echoing quickly faded even though the tinnitic after-effect persisted, and the sound of their shoes scuffing the polished floor returned.

"Okay, well that's something..." Fairmile chimed positively, his left hand already outstretched to push the swing-door open without breaking their stride. The door resisted his presumption as he crashed into it, however. Locked. As was its adjoining twin on the right. Mumbling apologetically to himself, the doctor reached for his security fob, leaned forward and swiped it across the black plastic panel by the door frame. The small red bulb above it showed no acknowledgement of this action and both doors remained immovable.

Suddenly aware of the thundering silence only punctuated by their accelerated breathing, Megan looked unashamedly lost now and studied the man's face for any sign that this was a normal situation. She didn't find one. Instead, Doctor Fairmile grew increasingly more agitated as he restrained himself from trying his security fob again, but also from beating the doors which wouldn't let them through.

Then the lights went out...

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DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• Short stories © WorldOfBlackout.co.uk, all entries are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Y'know, mostly.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Short Weird Tales: Dreamer (i)

"Doctor, is my father crazy?"

"Oh, I assure you that your father is not insane. But the things he summons while he's sleeping? They're a different matter. Untapped forces of madness and pure will and untraceable energy. Your father appears to be not only the conduit, but also the one shepherding them through, the beacon in their darkness. Imagine that, though! Imagine the power not only to dream lucidly and without fear or restraint, but to inflict those visions on those around you in the waking world! Imagine being able to bring these fantastical creatures through the very wall of sleep... imagine if imagination was your only limit!! Think what you could change, what you could achieve. Just think what you could destroy..."

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DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• Short stories © WorldOfBlackout.co.uk, all entries are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Y'know, mostly.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Short Weird Tales: Appeal

Interview commenced 07:06

I know what this place is, I just... I forget sometimes why I'm here.

Do you remember why you were screaming?

It was... it was the TV. I was in the day room watching the TV. I don't know where everyone else was but the TV was on and it was... it was the kind of thing that’s not usually on. If something like that comes on, They usually come in and switch it over, you know? Who are They, the nurses? ...warders?

I know who you mean.

But they weren’t there. Nobody was there, it was just me and the TV. It was like a... documentary or something? But I couldn’t hear the words. Someone was speaking but it was all muffled, or maybe in another language? But it was the picture. The girl. I could see that. Someone was talking about the girl and the TV was showing her photograph and I didn’t know why and I was trying to remember her name. I don’t even know why I recognised her, and then I remembered I never knew who she was. I didn’t know the girl, but I remembered her face.

And that made you scream?

No, no that came... I was trying to remember her name. I’m sure somebody told me, or said it when I was around, somebody said her name. It could have been on the TV but I couldn’t hear that right. Then I remembered what her screaming sounded like. She wasn’t screaming on the TV, that was just a photograph, but I remembered. I knew. But I couldn’t remember how I knew, does that make sense?

A little.
But do you remember why you were screaming?

The picture changed and there’s some guy talking in like an office, maybe a study or a classroom, I couldn’t tell. And I can’t hear what he’s saying either but he looks so flat. He’s not angry, he’s not sad, but I know he’s talking about the girl and he just seems so... detached. And then it goes back to the photo of the girl and all I can hear is her screaming and then it’s the guy again and he’s just talking like that never happened, like only I heard it. Then there’s another photo on the screen, on the right this time – the first photograph is on the left now – and it’s another girl and I can hear that one screaming as well. They’re both screaming, panic, fear, no words, and that’s all I can hear and I squeeze my eyes closed and that doesn’t make it stop.

And I open my eyes again and there are... photos. I don’t know how many, I can’t count them because I can’t see straight, and all I can hear is all these people screaming, and then the next photo came up on its own and it stopped.

The screaming stopped?

Their screaming stopped.

What was the next photograph?

It’s some other guy. It’s old, black and white. He’s smiling but there’s no warmth there, y’know? I don’t trust him. That voice is running in the background still, like someone talking in the next room? I know it’s talking about the guy, I’m looking at the photograph and I’m trying to remember where I know him from and that’s when I remembered what I did.

I remember the guy is me.

Not just girls, though, and there was no funny business. I’m no pervert, not me. I just needed the parts. They had the parts and I needed them. For the project. But then I saw what I did to get them. All of them. That wasn’t on the TV but I saw it again, and I could hear all the screaming and feel all the blood and it was drowning me and then I knew that it was me screaming. I guess that’s when They came in?

I imagine so, yes.

Why... why am I here?

To see if we can make you better.

Do you think you can?

Well that’s very much up to you.
Do you think you can be better?

I don’t know, it... I don’t want to remember. Is that part of it? I don’t know how I got here. I don’t even know how long I’ve been here, WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO HELP ME?

That attitude isn’t going to help anyone.
You need to calm down.

HOW CAN I BE CALM WHEN YOU WON’T TELL ME WHY I’M HERE--

Interview suspended while a sedative is administered.

Why would that be on the TV? In here? Who’d do that?

There is no TV.
That was you remembering.

Why am I here?

You’re here until you can be better.
Think yourself lucky, many don’t get the chance.

What happens when I’m better? Can I go?

I imagine so, yes.

How will you know when I’m better? How will I know?

We’ll know when we know.
But a lot of it has to do with remembering.
Or not.

So what, you’re... you’re here to... to wipe me? To wipe my memory?

That’s not what I meant.

But I can go when I can’t remember?

That’s not what I meant either.
It’s to do with stripping away the things you’ve done, about finding out what’s underneath all that. Like I said, a lot of people don’t get this chance. Someone must think well of you.

And what if I don’t get better? What if I always just remember? Do I stay here? Is being sorry enough?

That’s not for me to say.

Then how will you know when I’m better? How can I be better if YOU won’t let me out to BE better?

At the moment there’s nowhere else for you to go.
Trust me.

I remember the blood. The drowning.
How do I remember drowning if I’m here?

You were trying to forget.

To forget the screaming? I can’t.
I can’t forget the screaming.

Okay, thank you.

Interview terminated at 07:18.
Appeal denied.

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DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• Short stories © WorldOfBlackout.co.uk, all entries are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Y'know, mostly.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.