Olverston Grange ...and Other Stories

Scared

Ian's bed, his second in as many weeks, was far more comfortable than the previous one. The television, suspended on an articulated arm above his head remained off; he refused to pay the £3.50 per day that the NHS wanted to charge him. He was more than able to afford it but instead he craned his neck to watch Bill's. When he was caught straining to watch Jeremy Kyle for free, the patient in the neighbouring bed turned both himself and the TV around.

With no TV to watch, Ian lay back down and tried to fend off boredom. He had already read the only magazine he had from cover to cover and it could not keep his attention for long.

The headache, which began to plague him periodically after the limp appeared, stabbed his temples with frozen claws. A stamping noise, as if something wearing iron clogs was jumping inside his skull, accompanied the jabbing talons. His head pulsed in time with the thuds. He closed his eyes against the pain.

Tea, Ian? asked Doris, on her thrice-daily tour of the wards.

Please, he replied through pain-clenched teeth. Tea would be a distraction from the cacophony in his head.

Bill? Coffee?

Doris moved on. Ian did not know how she managed it. She knew every patient's favourite drink, it seemed. Tea, coffee, strong, weak, sugar or not, it was all logged in her head. It was a talent! That's what it is!"

"Oh Jim, all little boys like to play football."

"No, Eileen. It's more than that! Our Ian is brilliant!"

Eileen looked back at her husband, the proud father and grinned. Who would have thought it? After all that fuss when he found out she was pregnant, the hurried wedding, the house bought with her parent's money. And now Jim watched his son through the cracked kitchen window and beamed from ear to ear.

"Talent, that's what it is..." muttered Jim under his breath again while he stared out the window. The humdrum daily routine of the fit and well was like a flame to a moth for Richie. Ian felt jealous at his ability to simply stand and walk to the window. It was so ordinary but still he envied it. Sometimes walking was all he thought about, even dreamed about but not today. The stamping was too loud.

It turned out that his Dad had been overly enthusiastic. He was not brilliant but he was very, very good. He had not scaled the heights of the Premiership but he had carved out a great career in the First Division and, for two wondrous seasons, in the Championship. When, about a month ago, he started to limp he had thought nothing of it, leg injuries were commonplace in his sport. The physiotherapist advised him to relax his training regime for a week or so and get a few good massages, it would sort itself out.

Not this time.

The limp got steadily worse and while he obsessed over it a Scare Demon slipped into his head and took up residence. It was small, clawless and fangless but it grew each day and stomped ever more noisily.

Ian closed his eyes and imagined he was on the pitch. It was the F.A. Cup and his team was in the process of killing the Premier League giants. His left leg responded with jerky, spastic motions. The right stayed exactly where it was and no amount of exertion could coerce it to shift an inch. Imaginary penalty shots could not coax the leg into motion. Hot, angry tears made an unwelcome, stinging return. Repeatedly he tried to move his scoring leg but was it steadfast in its refusal to budge from the cotton hospital sheets.

The gelid fire of panic blinded Ian's mind; a black, deafening roar filled his ears. Tiny, scalding beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. He was soon soaked by terror-induced perspiration. There was no movement regardless of how much energy he expended.

The Scare Demon chuckled.

"Ian, Ian!"

Suzanne, the pretty one, placed her hands on his shoulders as she tried to calm him down. Angela swiftly prepared medication behind her.

What's wrong? asked Suzanne, very obviously concerned.

Angela pushed past her and forced tablets into Ian's mouth. She quickly followed them with stale, warm water from a paper cup. He swallowed reflexively.

Ian? What's wrong? Suzanne asked again.

He looked up into her sculpted face and shining eyes and almost answered. Nearly told her what he was scared of but to give voice to his fear would make it real. He refused to give the terror he battled a name and very real teeth.

What scared Ian more than he could admit was the idea his legs won't move again." Ian's Dad said as he shook the home-made goal posts in the back yard. Dozens of screws held them down, the originals joined by a horde of new ones.

"Shift, Dad! Move!"

Jim stepped out of the way. Ian powered the ball through the air and into the back of the net. Dad was right and the posts did not move at all. The Consultant scowled at the medical student.

He rolled his eyes with contempt and pulled out his own rubber hammer. He failed to get a reflex action too. His second attempt was also rewarded with failure. He grabbed the ward phone and dialled. Stephen? It's Andrew. Can you take a look at Mr Dutton? Ward thirty, bed ten. This afternoon? Thanks. He nodded at the student. Mr. Rose will have a look later. The patient might be a little better by then.

Ian is alone in the dark. It is cold and he is scared. Strange noises fall onto his ears like breaking icicles. He cannot move. He should be able to but cannot. Strange squeaking and occasional thudding noises get closer. Something is being dragged and is getting nearer. He tries to run but his legs won't work. The fear builds. He knows something is coming for him. He tries to sit up but is held down. It feels like he is covered by a tarpaulin or perhaps a body bag.

An entirely separate weight on his chest makes it hard to breath and interferes with his heart beat. The Scare Demon, free from his skull and sitting on his chest, breathes in his bitter exhaled breath and feeds on the panic.

The thudding and squeaking are closer now. Almost to where he is pinned down. A razor of understanding slices the dread and he knows that this is where it gets him, where it ends. His mind screams. It fires imperatives at him.

Run! Run! Hide! Run!

At last he manages to dislodge the Scare Demon. Cold air hits his sweaty body. He is instantly chilled to the core. Goosebumps rise across his torso and down his limbs. He is up but not moving. He stumbles and the darkness becomes total.

"Jesus Angie! How much of that shit did you give him?" shouted Suzanne to her colleague, who was wheeling the medicine trolley with the damaged wheel.

By the time he woke Ian had been lifted back into bed, his head wound washed and dressed. He opened his left eye; the right was covered by bandages. He gingerly felt his face. Suzanne sat by his bed.

What happened? he asked.

You had a fall.

The word 'fall' shook him and excited the Scare Demon. It whispered in his head, filled his soul with freezing fire.

Shit...

* * *

Mr Rose visited a couple of hours later. He repeated the tests the other Consultant and the student had tried and got no result either. He measured limb strength instead. Phenomenal, he muttered when he worked on Ian's arms. The same tests on his legs elicited a questioning hum. The happy Scare Demon hummed along in a discordant, minor-key dirge. We are going to need to measure the electrical activity in your legs. It is called an EMG.

Ian did not understand. Fine. Okay.

A test, a new one. The Scare Demon scratched its scaly arse and watched with interest. Any sort of medical procedure was a valuable source of fear.

This test involved electrical impulses being passed painfully through Ian's limbs. Long needles, pushed deep into his muscles were connected to a computer which responded with a series of squelchy, metallic screams when his legs were moved. The doctor listened carefully, tutted and hummed.

The Scare Demon growled.

Can I ask a question?

Certainly, Mr. Dutton.

The needles. Do most people feel them go in?

Yes. It is normally a very... uncomfortable procedure.

With tears in his eyes Ian replied, I felt nothing.

Inside his head he heard stamping, accompanied by a roar.

* * *

Ian's mind was a blur with images as he stared at the ceiling. The needle as it pierced his skin and entered his leg muscle, scoring the winning goal in a crucial game last season, the doctors humming, the computer's tortured howl.

The flood of imagery supplied the Scare Demon with a glut of food. It raged behind his eyes, and snarled and growled as it tore into Ian's brain. It pulled Hobgoblins from the depths and thrust them into the murky light of fear. Bloody trails of gore dripped from them as they were given freedom by the newly-grown and wickedly sharp talons of the demon. It raised both arms like a conductor ready to begin a symphony. The assembled monsters in his skull took an inward breath as one, ready to chant a fearful dirge.

Ian's head dropped to the side, Bill's wheelchair filled his vision. The amassed throng roared in unison.

Ian screamed.

- Scared was originally accepted by Lame Goat Press for their 'Inner Fears' anthology. Before the book was published they went out of business. I thought that was the end of that, I'd had my chance and it was gone. Then, out of the blue I received an email saying the anthology was available to buy. I ordered it and it turned up printed by an entirely different company. This began my relationship with Static Movement who have published a great many of my works. The editor of Static Movement is Chris Bartholomew and I owe her a great debt. Cheers Chris!

Hide & Seek

The rusting car hunted its way through dusk's darkening gold and bored drizzle. An unnoticed tear ran down the driver's face. It had been... how long? Dates proved as elusive as wily pike - even the year escaped capture. They had not lost contact all off a sudden. Their relationship had not disappeared down the back of some distant sofa, it had faded like the ink on a sun-drenched poster, into blue...

...it was the time he returned home with unexplained injuries. She had been there with warm, comforting arms. His wounds were washed and dressed, the pain eased away by her soft kisses.

...it was the time he lost all the money. He returned home, miserable and ashamed. She pulled the notes from the velvety innards of her purse, not missing but simply forgotten.

...it was the time she gave him the best present ever. He looked across as she beamed from ear to ear, her smile so large it threatened to split her head in two. He could not believe what was hidden underneath the gaudy paper. He flung his arms around her. How had she known that this Christmas present would be the most precious thing in his life?

Disjointed memories, more emotion than recollection, crashed into him like a warm wave. She had been his entire world and yet somehow she had disappeared. How long it had been since they had last spoken still eluded him. The search was swamped with the very recent past.

* * *

"Where. Is. She?" he shouted.

Each word was punctuated by a savage blow, bludgeoning first the air then a face with a tightly curled fist.

"She wanted to be on her own. She is. Leave her," replied his foe through bloodied lips.

"Where? She needs to know!"

He swung a blow so powerful his opponent stumbled, tripped on a stool and fell. The impact forced teeth through tongue. Blood flowed from between his lips and down his chin.

"No!" he spat, his speech already slurred by the horrible injury inflicted on him.

A steel toe-capped boot struck the prone opponent instead of furious fists.

"Where!"

Cheek bone shattered and blood flowed freely. The fight ended.

* * *

After losing the fight and taking a nasty facial injury to keep her location secret, the defeated man scribbled an address on a bit of paper. This was the note the driver held in a swollen and bruised right hand; his knuckles howled when expected to help steer.

He drove slowly, partly in deference to the wet roads and partly to avoid disturbing the near-priceless cargo on the back seat. As he searched for the new estate memories washed over him.

Into blue...

...it was the time the house had been freezing. They had no central heating and the fire refused catch. The bunker's loose lid had let the blustery snow in and wet the coal. He was shivering when he walked into the kitchen; she passed him a cup of mercifully hot tea then she performed her miracle. Hot, hot air flooded the frigid kitchen as she pulled open the oven door.

...it was the time they had gotten the cavity walls insulated and a plague of tiny spiders had set up home with them. She had been terrified. He manfully killed the spiders when she was nearby and carefully caught them with a glass and a piece of paper when she was not.

The spiders jolted his memory. Seven years! It came to him all of a sudden, just like the spiders. The central