Harold paced the corridors of the deserted asylum agitatedly. The wind was whispering through the many broken windows and it seemed to add an accompaniment to his apparently aimless wanderings. He moved with assurance through the dark avenues, through rooms which he had come to know only too well in the past and with which he was now becoming reacquainted. He could not sleep. It wasn’t that he dare not but, for the first time in many years, the welcome oblivion of unconsciousness eluded him.
He pushed open a door and walked into what had once been a dormitory. One or two beds, considered too old to be moved to the new psychiatric hospital, still stood in their familiar places. The iron work was rusted, the old mattresses damp and torn. Harold walked across to one and looked down at it. In his mind’s eye he could see himself lying there, sleeping peacefully.
Crossing to one of the windows, he stared out into the night. It seemed a million years since he had been here, the memories now like fading photographs, the images becoming more and more indistinct.
He remained at the window for a long time then finally turned and walked back towards the door of the dormitory, pushing it shut behind him. He made his way slowly along the corridor, one hand absent-mindedly touching the scarred side of his face. Harold reached the foot of the staircase which would take him up to the first floor and the room where the foetuses lay. He paused for a moment, gazing up, as if expecting to see someone standing at the top, then, wearily, he began to climb. His legs and head ached and, as he drew nearer to the room, the stench which he had come to know so well wrapped itself around him like invisible tentacles.
He stumbled into the room and froze, both hands gripping the door frame until his knuckles turned white.
The first, and largest, of the three creatures was standing up.
It wavered uncertainly at first, those black pits of eyes pinning Harold in a hypnotic stare. Then, as if moving in slow motion, it began to walk.