Forty-Six

 

“How can you be sure he’s here?” said Maggie as Randall stepped on the brake and brought the Chevette to a halt.

“I can’t,” he said, opening his door. “Let’s just hope this is one hunch that’s right.” The policeman clambered out from behind the wheel and walked across to the metal gates which barred the way to the asylum. In the darkness he could just discern three words on the stone archway above him.

 

EXHAM MENTAL HOSPITAL

 

There was a padlock on the gates and Randall tugged on it. The rusty gates creaked protestingly but didn’t budge. The Inspector looked round. The driveway was the only means of getting a car into the grounds but a man could slip through one of the many gaps in the hedge. Randall scanned the ground around him and finally spotted a large stone. He retrieved it and set about the padlock, striking it with all his strength. It eventually came free with a dull clang and dropped to the ground. The Inspector put his shoulder to one of the gates and pushed. It was heavier than it looked and the exertion made him sweat but he finally succeeded in opening it as far as it would go. He repeated the procedure with the other one then hurried back to the car. Starting the engine he guided the Chevette through the archway and along the drive towards the asylum itself.

Flanked on both sides by leafless trees, he estimated that the driveway must be at least half a mile long. He drove slowly, eyes alert for the slightest movement in the darkness.

“What are you going to do if Harold is here?” Maggie wanted to know.

“I’ll tell you that when I find him,” Randall told her, cryptically.

He brought the vehicle to a halt before the main entrance and both of them peered out at the building itself. It was an awesome sight, a Victorian edifice which, in the darkness, looked not as if it had been built with separate bricks but hewn from one enormous lump of granite. Five storeys high, it was built in the shape of an “E”, the apex of which rose like a church spire. The figure of the weather vane on the top surveyed the bleak and ghostly scene with indifference.

The policeman climbed out of the car. Maggie also pushed open her door but Randall held up a hand to stop her.

“You stay here,” he told her.

“But Lou, you don’t know for certain that he’s here,” she protested. “And, even if he is, at least I know him. I could talk to him.”

“The man’s a bloody maniac,” he said. “Now get back in the car, lock both doors and don’t move until I get back. If I’m not here in an hour use this.” He grabbed the two-way and held it up. “Contact the station and tell them where we are. Right?”

She didn’t speak.

“Right?” he said, more forcefully.

“All right. Lou, be careful.”

He nodded, slammed the door behind him and waited until he heard both locks drop then he made his way slowly towards what had once been the main entrance. As he’d suspected, the doors were locked so he moved along, peering at all the windows, eyes alert for any sign of a break-in, any tell-tale evidence of Pierce’s whereabouts. He rounded a corner and disappeared from Maggie’s view. She sat impatiently, hands clenched on her thighs.

Randall moved cautiously, noticing how many of the asylum windows had been broken but he could tell which had been smashed by kids. Just round holes in the panes showed where stones had been hurled. As yet, there was no sign of forced entry. He sucked in an impatient breath wondering if his hunch had been wrong. He rested his hand on one of the sills and felt something wet beneath his fingers. The Inspector turned and looked down. There was a dark stain on the peeling paint. Tentatively he raised his fingers to his nose, sniffing the substance. There was no mistaking the distinctive coppery odour of blood.

He looked up and saw that the dark liquid was puddled beneath a set of double windows, one of which had been broken about half-way up, near the handle. The policeman gripped both sides of the frame and hauled himself up onto the sill, perching there for a second before pushing the two windows. They swung open invitingly and he jumped down into the building itself.

The smell of damp was almost overpowering and the Inspector blinked hard in an effort to combat the cloying darkness. There was some natural light spilling through the windows, enough to reveal to him that he was in what had once been an office. Dust swirled around him, the particles irritating his nose and throat but he fought back the urge to cough, anxious not to alert anyone who might be hiding inside.

There was more blood on the floor just ahead of him – a large splash and then droplets of the thick red fluid which was in the process of congealing. The trail led to the door and Randall paused before it a moment, listening. The asylum greeted him with silence and a kind of conspiratorial solitude which made him feel uneasy.

He slowly opened the door.

Corridors faced him and, after a moment’s hesitation, he chose the one straight ahead.

 

Harold heard the noise from downstairs.

He snatched up the long kitchen knife, its blade still wet with blood, and scuttled out into the corridor his own ears now attuned to the sounds within the asylum. There was a crooked grin on his face. Someone was inside his home. They would not escape. His mind suddenly seemed clearer than it had done for months and he hurried through the darkened corridors as if drawn by some huge magnet, bearing down on the intruder.

It would only be a matter of time before he found the unwanted guest.

 

Maggie looked at her watch. The hands had crawled round to 11.49 p.m. Randall had been gone for nearly fifteen minutes. She sighed, shifting impatiently in her seat. There was a torch on the parcel shelf before her and she eyed it with a look akin to temptation. She closed her eyes for a second, trying to think about what had happened. The thought of Harold Pierce as a killer was still one she found hard to accept but it seemed clear enough. Nevertheless, if only she could speak to him, reason with him. . .

From where she sat she could see that many of the windows had been broken. It should be relatively easy to slip the catch on one and get in. She looked at the torch once again, this rime picking it up. She unlocked her door and closed it behind her then she scuttled across to the nearest window, slipped her hand through a break in the pane and undid the latch. It opened and Maggie dragged herself up onto the sill. She steadied herself for a moment then jumped down into the room beyond. As she switched on the torch she saw that the door ahead of her was already open. The powerful beam shone through the darkness, lighting her way. She swallowed hard and moved quietly out into the corridor.

 

Randall pushed open the door of a room, surprised that so many of the asylum’s places had been left unlocked but then, he reasoned, no one could have foreseen anyone returning here. Why bother? He edged cautiously into what he guessed had once been the dining room. There were a number of long tables stacked at one side and, at the far end of the vast room, a long counter. It was fronted by a corrugated metal sheet which had been pulled down and padlocked. The Inspector walked across to it, his footsteps clacking on the stone floor. Large picture windows, meshed, gave him some added light but already his eyes were beginning to ache from the effort of squinting in the gloom. He stood still for long moments, listening, trying to catch even the slightest hint of movement.

Silence.

He exhaled deeply and turned towards a door nearby which was also unlocked. It was as he passed through it that the Inspector realized he had nothing to defend himself with should he come upon Pierce. He swallowed hard and moved on, finding himself in another corridor. There were rooms every fifteen yards and each one would have to be checked.

He pushed open the first door.

 

Harold paused at the bottom of the stairs, looking round. He could see no sign of the intruder but he knew that his quarry was here somewhere. A surge of adrenalin swept through him and he gripped the knife tighter, his breath now coming in short, excited gasps. He touched the scarred side of his face, feeling the crusted flesh beneath his fingertips. He moved slowly along the corridor to his right, stopping dead when he heard movement ahead of him. His knife gripped firmly in his fist, he ducked into a nearby room.

 

Maggie put her hand on the bannister of the staircase and hurriedly withdrew it as she felt something sticky on her fingers.

It was blood.

There was more on the bannister, even some on the steps themselves. She shone the torch on the crimson liquid and, slowly began to climb. She wiped the blood off on her jeans her heart now bearing just that little bit faster. The staircase rose precipitously until, at last, it levelled out onto a landing. Faced by two corridors, Maggie took the one on her left, tip-toeing in an effort to diminish the clicking of her heels on the stone floor.

She recoiled from a sudden, nauseating stench which seemed to drift around her like an invisible cloud. She put a hand to her mouth and stifled a cough. As she moved further down the corridor the smell became almost unbearable. Her head began to swim and she was forced to lean momentarily against the wall for support. She played the torch beam before her in an effort to discover the source of the rank odour and, as she moved on, she found that the end door in the corridor was open. Maggie pressed herself against the wall once again, listening. From inside the room she could hear soft, liquid sounds – a series of rasping gurgles. She closed her eyes for a second, at once revolted by the sounds and desperate to discover their source. A part of her was wishing she had stayed in the car.

She held the torch beam up and peered round the door.

For brief seconds, Maggie had to use all her self-control to prevent herself from vomiting. She swayed slightly, supporting herself against the door frame, then, almost drawn to the sight before her, she walked slowly into the room.

Maggie shook her head, unable to believe what she saw, convinced that, any second she was going to wake up to discover that this was a nightmare. But no nightmare could be as vile as what she now saw before her.

She shone the torch on the first foetus and the creature recoiled slightly from the piercing beam, its dark eyes glinting menacingly. It was standing, something wet and sticky gripped in its fingers. The other two were on the floor, the second one pawing at something before it.

It was a few more seconds before Maggie realized that the object was a human head.

And now, as she stepped back, her foot brushed something else. Something which rolled when she made contact. She swung the torch beam round, the gruesome discovery pinned in the beam.

The second head was partially decomposed, the skin around the neck and eyes mottled green in places. The skull had been split open with a heavy object, exposing the brain and, as Maggie turned the torch back onto the abominations before her, she realized just what the sticky grey substance was which the larger creature held. As she watched, it raised the jellied matter to its mouth and clumsily pushed some in.

Maggie closed her eyes momentarily.

The foetuses seemed unconcerned at her presence. They were more interested in the severed head they were toying with. There was blood everywhere, mingling on the floor with slicks of excrement and pieces of hair. Greyish brain matter seemed to sparkle in the light.

Suddenly, everything seemed to take on a horrendous clarity: the headless murder victims that the police had found, Harold’s obsession with the incineration of foetuses and, worst of all, she now understood why only five babies instead of eight had been disinterred from the grave near Fairvale.

She stood still, frozen by the sight before her, trying to find either the will to move or the power to scream but she could do neither. She felt faint, her stomach finally beginning to churn uncontrollably and she felt the vomit begin its journey up her throat. She turned away, retching violently, the foul stench of her vomit mingling with the choking odours already filling the room. But, the action seemed to shake her out of her trance and she moved for the door.

(STOP)

Maggie clapped both hands to her head, the torch dropping to the ground.

(You will not leave)

It’s my imagination, she told herself.

(No, it is not your imagination)

She turned back to face the creatures.

Could it be telepathy? she wondered, hurriedly dismissing the thought. Her mind was over-reacting to the situation.

(Your thoughts are open to us)

She gazed at them, her face twisted into an expression which combined revulsion and fascination.

“What are you?” she said.

(Nothing. We are nothing)

“How do you know what I’m thinking?”

A soft chuckling and Maggie felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle.

(There can be no secrets. We know your thoughts and your fears)

She thought about Randall. If only she could Alert him to the danger.

In the blinking of an eye he was standing before her, smiling.

“Lou,” she said and stepped forward to touch him but, even as she did so, the vision faded and she was alone once more.

The soft chuckling filled her ears.

(Thoughts. Fears. There are no secrets)

Thought projection, Maggie wondered? Auto-suggestion? The very thing’s which she had mentioned to Randall and now she began to realize how Judith Myers and Lynn Tyler had come to die. The foetuses were the exact size which they would needed to have been to cause the Fallopian ruptures.

“You killed two women,” she said.

(They had to die)

“Why?”

(THEY WOULD HAVE KILLED US)

Despite herself, Maggie moved closer to the largest of the creatures, kneeling before it, running expert eyes over its body. It was perfectly formed, as if it had grown within the mother’s womb, reaching maturity as originally intended. The most frightening thing about it was its eyes. Black pits devoid of emotion, they pinned her in an hypnotic stare.

 

Randall heard the sounds of movement from upstairs and he ran towards the foot of the staircase, pausing momentarily when he reached it.

Harold came hurtling out of the room behind him, the knife held high above his head.

Randall heard the vicious arc of the steel and tried to turn but Harold was too quick for him. The blade powered down, catching the policeman in the shoulder. It tore through the flesh and actually scraped the clavical as it finally burst through his pectoral muscle, the point dripping blood. Harold pressed his advantage, wrenched the knife free and drove it down again but this time Randall managed to get his hand up in time. He deflected the blow, the knife striking concrete as the two men fell to the ground. The Inspector was surprised at his assailant’s strength; despite Harold’s age he seemed to possess an energy which belied his years. Randall struck out with his right fist, his left arm already numb from the knife wound. The blow caught Harold squarely in the side of the head but the impact only staggered him for a minute. However, that minute was enough to allow Randall the chance to wriggle free. He hauled himself upright and, as Harold tried to follow him, he drove a foot hard into the older man’s side. There was a strident snapping of bone as one brittle rib splintered under the impact.

Harold went down in a heap, the knife held in one outstretched hand. Randall dropped to his knees, grabbing for it but Harold struck out again, the wild blow slicing open the policeman’s palm. He yelped in pain but closed his injured hand around Harold’s wrist, banging the hand on the ground repeatedly in an effort to make him drop the knife.

The older man clawed at Randall’s face, gripping him by the hair, yanking his head to one side and both of them went sprawling again. This time Harold was first on his feet and Randall saw the scarred attacker advancing on him. The Inspector waited until his opponent was mere inches away then lashed out, catching Harold in the crutch with a powerful kick. He doubled up and Randall hastily scrambled to his feet. He grabbed Harold’s hair and, in one skilful movement, brought his knee up to meet Harold’s down-rushing head. The older man’s nose seemed to explode, splattering the policeman’s trousers with blood. Randall wrenched his attacker upright, hitting him hard in the stomach, his hand still gripping Harold’s hair. The knife finally fell to the ground and Randall drove another powerful kick into the other man’s stomach, watching as he crashed heavily to the ground.

“Lou!” the scream came from upstairs. It was Maggie’s voice.

Randall snatched up the knife and started up the stairs.

“No,” Harold shouted and staggered after him.

He caught the Inspector half way up but, the older man was weak and, as Randall spun round he drove the knife forward. It caught Harold just above the right hip, deflected off the pelvis and ripped into his intestines. The policeman tore it free, watching as Harold tottered drunkenly on the stairs, blood pouring through his fingers as he tried to hold the ragged edges of the wound together. Then, with a final despairing moan he toppled backwards, crashing head-over-heels until he lay still at the foot of the stairs.

Randall’s breath was coming in gasps. His left shoulder and most of his left arm felt numb and the slashed palm of his right hand felt as if it were on fire. He turned wearily and climbed the last few steps to the landing casting a perfunctory look back at Harold when he reached the top. The older man lay still, face down in the dust which covered the floor, a dark pool spreading out around him.

The Inspector turned and walked on towards the junction of the two corridors before him, not sure which one to check out first. Then he noticed the vile stench and moved cautiously along the left hand one, the knife gripped tightly in his throbbing hand.

He reached the last door and slumped against the frame, his mind reeling from the pain of his wounds and the sight before him.

“Oh my God,” he croaked, his eyes scanning the scene of horror which confronted him. The heads, the blood, the excrement and. . .

He stared at the foetuses, shaking his head slowly from side to side. Then he took a step into the room, noticing Maggie for the first time.

“Get out,” he told her, gripping the knife tighter.

The foetuses turned their black eyes on him and Randall felt the first gnawings of pain at the back of his neck. He advanced slowly on them, taking in each monstrous detail.

“Lou, don’t touch them,” said Maggie, her voice low.

Randall seemed not to hear, he just kept moving closer. So slowly, so feebly, as if someone had attached lead weights to his limbs.

“Don’t touch them,” Maggie implored.

“What are they?” he croaked.

“The grave of abortions that Pierce dug up, these are the three that were missing. They’ve grown.”

“Oh Jesus,” murmured the policeman.

(GET BACK)

He felt as if he’d been struck with an iron bar. He reeled, almost fell and a thin trickle of blood dribbled from one nostril.

“Lou,” Maggie shouted. “Stay away, they’ll kill you.”

Randall gritted his teeth, raised the knife in his bloodied hand. It seemed as if someone were inflating his head with a high-pressure pump. His eyes bulged in their sockets, a small crimson orb burst from one tear duct and ran down his cheek. Still he advanced on them, the pain in his head growing.

He was less than ten yards away from them.

“Lou.”

His legs gave out and he dropped to his knees but still he crawled onward. The veins in his arms and neck bulged menacingly, the wounds in his hand and shoulder bleeding freely. It was like pushing open a thousand ton door, pressing against it, moving a fraction of an inch at a time. He clenched his teeth until his jaws ached, the knife clanking on the concrete as he dropped to all fours.

He almost screamed aloud as he found himself staring into the sightless eyes of Paul Harvey.

The dead man’s head lay in a pool of congealing blood, inches from the policeman’s face. Thick crimson streamers still dripped from the nostrils and ears. The tongue protruded over white lips. The skull had been smashed in just above the right ear and Randall could still see fragments of brain matter sticking to the hair. The cavity had been emptied, the soft tissue devoured by the monstrosities before him, torn out with their eager hands.

As Randall crawled on, he bumped the head and it rolled over to reveal the severed stump of the neck, the slashed veins and arteries hanging like dripping bloodied tendrils.

The foetuses concentrated their mind power with greater accuracy, focusing it on Randall like some kind of invisible laser beam.

Blood burst from his ears and he went deaf for precious seconds.

“Lou,” Maggie shrieked. “Stop.”

He was just feet away from them now, their rancid stench filling his nostrils, mingling with the coppery smell of his own blood which was flowing from his nose and dripping onto the floor. He groaned more loudly now as his efforts to reach the creatures became greater.

He raised the knife to strike.

Randall almost screamed aloud as he found himself gazing into the eyes of his daughter.

(No)

“Lisa,” he croaked, the knife hovering above her head.

(Don’t kill me)

He swayed, thought he was going to pass out then, slowly, he lowered the knife, eyes fixed on the vision of his daughter.

(Put the knife down)

He dropped it in front of him, staring at her. God, she was beautiful. She lay before him, her body unblemished. He reached out his arms to touch her smooth skin but, as he felt her body, he gagged. The flesh was soft and jellied. As cold as ice. The vision faded instantly and he found himself staring once more at the foetuses.

“No,” he screamed and snatched up the knife, plunging it into the one closest to him.

A huge gout of blood erupted from the wound splattering Randall who was sobbing now as he brought the knife down again, the second blow hacking off the foetus’s right arm. The tiny limb fell to one side twitching spasmodically, blood gushing from the severed arteries. He struck again and again until the knife was slippery with his blood and that of the creature. The other one tried to crawl away but Randall was upon it in a flash, driving the blade down between its shoulder blades, tearing downwards to rip through its kidneys and liver. He held it by the back of the head and drove the knife into the hollow at the nape of its neck, ignoring the blood which spurted up into his face. He hacked off an ear, part of its nose, buried the blade in one of those dark pits of eyes.

The third creature didn’t even move as he gutted it, ripping the small tangle of intestines free with his bare hands.

Finally, he toppled over onto his back, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Maggie rushed across to him, wiping some of the blood from his face with her hand-kerchief. There was so much of the sticky red gore on him it was difficult to tell which was from his wounds and which was from the creatures. She helped him to his feet, supporting him out of the room and out into the corridor.

“Got to get back to the car,” he whispered, almost collapsing.

She held him, ignoring the blood which dripped from his hands and arms and stained her own clothes.

They reached the landing and began, cautiously, to descend the stairs.

“Harold?” asked Maggie.

“I killed him,” said Randall.

But, as they reached the bottom of the stairs, the policeman saw only the pool of blood there. Of Harold there was no sign.

“Come on, hurry,” the Inspector said, leading her, back through the maze of corridors. “He can’t have got far, we’ve got to get help.”

Harold emerged from the door opposite like a vision from hell. Mouth agape, blood spread darkly around his stomach and crutch, he was on them in a second, hurling Maggie to one side. Randall tried to strike out with the knife but Harold was too fast. The older man, wounded though he was, had the element of surprise in his favour. He swung a lump of wood which looked like a chair leg and the blow caught Randall in the side of the face, felling him like a tree-trunk.

Maggie screamed and ran, looking back in time to see Harold snatch up the knife and set off in pursuit of her.

She barged through a door and found herself in the old canteen. Maggie slammed the door behind her and ran for the window, reaching it just as Harold sent the door crashing inwards. He came after her, the bloodied knife raised above his head. Maggie turned to see him gaining and, gritting her teeth, she broke the window with her hand. Crystal shards sliced open her flesh and she screamed, but she managed to push the window open and scramble out, falling heavily onto the grass below. Harold clambered after her, seeing that she was running for the car parked nearby.

Maggie reached it and tore open the door, locking it quickly behind her as Harold advanced. He struck at the windscreen with the knife and, as Maggie recoiled from the expected explosion of glass she saw that the passenger side door was still unlocked. She flung herself across in an effort to reach the lock but Harold saw her and slid off the bonnet, grabbing for the door which he managed to pull open a fraction. Maggie screamed as she tugged with all her strength on the handle but he was slowly forcing it open an inch at a time.

He snaked one hand inside, the knife driving down, missing her by inches as it buried itself in the seat.

Maggie tugged hard on the handle and smashed his arm between door and frame, almost smiling when she heard his yelp of pain. Harold withdrew his hand and she was able to lock the door. He rushed round to the front of the car again and leapt up onto the bonnet, pounding on the glass with his hands.

Maggie snatched up the two-way radio and flicked it on, babbling into the set, not waiting for an answer.

The first hair-line splinters appeared in the wind-screen as Harold continued his relentless pounding.

“Help me,” Maggie screamed into the two-way. “The old asylum. Inspector Randall is here too. Help.”

There was a garbled answer then the set went dead.

The cracks in the glass were spreading, spider-webbing until the driver’s side resembled nothing more than crushed ice. Maggie turned the key in the ignition and the engine roared into life. She stuck it in gear but her foot slipped off the clutch and the vehicle stalled.

Almost in tears, she twisted the key again.

Glass sprayed inwards as Harold’s fist crashed through the windscreen, groping around blindly as he searched for her, the jagged edges cutting his wrist, trapping him. Maggie stepped on the accelerator and the car shot forward. She heard Harold’s shouts of alarm for he could see the wall which Maggie couldn’t.

The Chevette hit it doing about twenty-five. The impact sent Harold hurtling into the brickwork with a sickening thud. He staggered, watching helplessly as Maggie reversed. As the car ploughed into Harold, Maggie threw herself clear.

There was a blood-chilling scream of pain followed a second later by a high pitched thump as the car exploded. Pinned between car and wall, Harold could only scream in anguish as the flames licked around him eagerly devouring his flesh. He clapped both hands to his face as he burned, his false eye falling from its socket to reveal the dark mess beneath. His hair went up in wisps of smoke and the flesh peeled from his body like a snake shedding its skin. He let out one final caterwaul of agony then the roaring flames drowned everything out. The heat rolled over Maggie, bringing with it the sickly sweet stench of charred flesh.

She dragged herself upright, the pain in her hand from the cuts keeping her conscious. Mesmerized, she gazed at the burning car and, before her eyes, Harold Pierce seemed to melt away beneath the roaring inferno.

Maggie sucked in huge lungfuls of air, suddenly remembering Randall.

It was as she was heading back towards the asylum that the first of the police cars arrived.