Torment (4 page)

Something outside screeched through the air. She edged
to the entrance, risking a glance. A skull, whipping its tail around madly,
bobbed around the general vicinity, a sickening marionette looking for Elise.
The dogs were close as well. Their noses were to the ground seeking her scent.
One’s head lifted, causing her to retreat back into the deeper shadows.

A bat, attracted by the activity, swooped down. The
hound with the lifted head snapped it out of the air mid-flight. It crunched
the flying rodent up, swallowing it down in a single gulp.

Shivering, Elise felt her heart drop. They were going
to find her if she stayed here and running was absolutely crazy. The monsters
would easily catch up. Her pistol might be useful against the floating skull,
but the dogs were another story.

The hound closest to her abruptly stopped sniffing.
Its sharply pointed ears perked up. A sharp, echoing bark alerted the others.
Elise whimpered, closing her eyes and covering her ears with sweating,
quivering palms. She hoped it would at least be quick.

Long moments passed. Nothing happened. Perspiration
beaded up on her forehead. She was now shaking uncontrollably.

Bright light penetrated Elise’s eyelids. Unable to
help herself, she let loose a high scream, kicking out with both feet wildly.
Fists followed suit. The firearm was all but forgotten in her fear.

“Whoa!” An older male voice hollered in protest. “Stop
it!”

Breathing hard, the terrified grave robber opened her
eyes. A lanky man in a worn pea coat stood there, powerful flashlight in hand.
The caretaker, who’d cheerfully taken their bribe without any problem at all.

“I thought you guys were working outside,” he asked,
rubbing a kicked shin. “What are you doing in there? Is everything okay?”

“No,” she answered between gasps. “We need to leave;
now.”

Rising to her feet, Elise ignored his confusion and
slowly exited the tomb. No sign of the creatures. She walked quickly towards
the cemetery gates, resisting the urge to break into a full bore run.

“Hold on!” The caretaker protested, following closely.

“Shut up!” Elise hissed. “We can talk all you want
once we get out of here. Until then, keep quiet and move!”

“I said-“the man stopped short. A high pitched keening
split the air. He swung the light around. “What the hell is that?”

Mikey’s disembodied skull was barreling straight at
him, mouth wide as it shrieked. His bright eyes burned out of the fleshless
face. Somewhere behind this gruesome remnant, the dogs bayed encouragement.

The bony attacker slammed into the caretaker’s chest.
He hit the ground hard, flashlight rolling away. Elise began to approach when a
sound infinitely more awful than Mikey’s battle cry started. A wet, ripping,
snapping noise, punctuated by the victim’s uneven, warbling shrieks.

Tail of vertebrae lashing furiously about, the skull
was attempting to burrow its way into the struggling man. He tried to push it
away. Unfortunately, his hand got too close to its gnashing teeth. Fingers came
away, dropping through the hole in Mikey’s jaw.

Elise could watch no more. She sprinted away,
unwilling to subject herself to seeing what was left of her friend drill into
the caretaker’s solar plexus. Two perfectly synchronized howls preceded the
heavy thump of eight massive paws. The dogs were on to her.

Willing her legs to move faster, she choked down the
scream that threated to steal valuable oxygen. Elise could see the gates. No
matter that the careful caretaker had locked them behind him. The tall bars
could be climbed.

Concrete splashed against her back. Small pebbles,
thankfully. She risked a look back. The hounds were close, plowing through
tombstones like they were Styrofoam yard decorations. Their eyes burned red
with hateful madness. An alien voice whispered in her mind, commanding her to
stop. To Elise’s horror, her legs were obeying.

“No!” She bellowed, breaking the trance. Pushing the
tired appendages harder, fueled by adrenaline, Elise crossed the last twenty
yards in record time. She sprang at the fence like a wild ape.

The bars were rounded dowels of wrought iron, too
slick to climb. She cried out with what little breath remained, scrambling and
jumping to find some purchase on the unforgiving surface.

Powerful jaws clamped on her belt. Elise was lifted
bodily. The dog flung her up quickly, getting a new hold on her slim waist. She
expected the hell beast to bite right through and squinted against what was
sure to be an agonizing few moments before her brain disconnected.

Instead, the hound turned and rushed back towards the
violated grave. There it dumped her, scraped and slightly soggy, but otherwise
unharmed, before Liv. Mikey’s skull, bloody and chipped from its efforts,
circled slowly around.

What remained of Elise’s partners lay in the bottom of
the hole, smashed under the replaced casket. The lid was closed. Hope, albeit
weak and unreasonable, blossomed in her chest. Maybe the ghost wouldn’t
outright kill her. There could be a slim chance to walk away from all this.

“No,” the specter said, voice full of false pity.
“You’re not escaping punishment. I was dead, free from the misery of the world.
Yes, I practiced sorcery while alive, knowing that anyone who disturbed me
would damn me to a second life. I chose a quiet corner to be buried in, where
the chance of being disturbed was small. Thanks to you, I now have to haunt
these grounds forever.”  

She curtly gestured with her head. The flowing cloth restraints
from Liv cruelly snapped around Elise’s wrists and yanked her arms to point
straight out, palms down. The dogs came around to face the thief. They
positioned themselves so that their mouths were nearly touching Elise’s
outstretched fingers.

“Hand for hand.” Liv whispered, snapping her fingers.

Though Elise screamed, it did nothing to mask the
sharp, carroty snap of the demon hounds severing both hands neatly at the
wrist.

No matter where he looked, Carter saw nudity. It
shouldn’t have shocked him. After all, he was sitting in the comfortable
waiting room of a massage parlor. Still, there were robes, though further
consideration of this thought revealed how silly it was. This was a business
centered on flesh.

Going to a place like this was a new experience to
him. Years past his divorce, lonely, overweight, and very plain, Carter needed
release beyond what a website could provide. He wasn’t really looking for a
relationship either. The tedium of dating was an unpleasant exercise for a man
of forty. All he wanted was physical contact and a little friction at the end.

At first, he tried local body rub ads on Craigslist.
After a few encounters with women who looked like angels in their profile
pictures and were drug ridden hags in person, Carter found out about the Relax
Massage and Spa Company. Lots of positive reviews on several websites, plus
reasonable rates made it worth a try.

Now he waited impatiently, butterflies in his stomach,
sour acid in his throat. Chili and nerves didn’t blend well together. Carter
hoped a fart wouldn’t sneak out during the service. It would be just his luck
to rip one while some hot chick was flogging his doggie.

Heels clicked towards him on the faux marble floor.
“Mr. Carter?”

The speaker was a knockout. Brunette, curvy; blue eyes
framed by fashionable black plastic frame glasses. She wore a sultry parody of
a business woman’s outfit, short black skirt with a crimson blouse. The
neckline plunged in a deep “v” to reveal her augmented cleavage.

Carter’s mouth was a desert. He managed to croak out:
“Yes?”

“Miranda is ready for you,” she smiled, voice carrying
the trace of a European accent. “Please follow me.”

He did so, noting her impossible heel height and
shapely calf muscles. She led him down a long hall, chatting pleasantly all the
while. Carter spoke or grunted when it was necessary to do so, trying to hide
just how excited he felt. If the hostess was any indication, he was in for a
real treat.

They stopped in front of a door with the number “237”
on it in gilt gold numbers. Inside stood a young woman, brilliant red hair
shining under the ceiling mounted track lighting. Per the specifications he’d
provided, Miranda was dolled up like his teenage crush; Daisy Duke. Barefoot,
short shorts, and a halter top exposing a tanned, taught midriff.

“Hello Mr. Carter!” Miranda squeaked cheerfully. “Are
you ready?”

“Yes!” He replied with pathetic enthusiasm.

“I’ll leave you two alone.” The hostess shut the door
behind her, smile dropping off her pretty face the second the latch clicked.
She crossed to the room opposite “237.” Inside were five large men of mixed
lineage playing poker at a round
table.
Three others;
two women and one older man sat at computer terminals. All activity stopped when
the hostess entered.

“Green light,” she said, handing a file to one of the
women. “Get ready.”

******

Miranda laid down some ground rules and told Carter to
undress. He did so quickly, not exactly out of lust, either. His rather sizable
man boobs were an embarrassment to him, so he figured that getting onto the
plush leather massage table as quickly as possible would not only spare him
humiliation, it would save the young lady from having to be subjected to the
unpleasant sight.

She dimmed the lights. Soft music began to play. The
quiet pad of her feet on the floor as she came closer made his heart beat
harder. Miranda’s scent, some light, flowery perfume, hung in the warm air.

Expertly, the masseuse worked the stress from Carter’s
back, neck, and shoulders. She had strong hands for such a small girl. He was
fully relaxed, nearly asleep, to be perfectly honest.

So when Miranda stuck the needle into his left butt
cheek, the sharp sting followed by an icy rush was a rude awakening. A thick
fog quickly settled over his brain. Carter’s limbs felt like massive weights
had been attached to them. He tried to at least turn his head. It almost
obeyed, allowing an uncomfortable twist so that he laid on the left side of his
face.

His fantasy woman was washing her hands vigorously at
a nearby sink, like a surgeon washing up for theatre. The glare she threw at
him in the mirror clearly displayed Miranda’s disgust.

“You make me sick!” She spat. “Dress up for me! Touch
my disgusting, ill-treated body! Rub my tiny cock!”

Blood rushed up to Carter’s face. In spite of the
significant trouble he was surely in, shame hit full force. This was wrong. He
should be safe at home and perusing his urges on some website.

She was approaching him again, pulling on a pair of latex
gloves. From a drawer under the table came a handful of blue topped specimen
tubes and a syringe. Miranda drew blood until three of the vials were full,
jabbing the needle mercilessly into a vein on his neck.

Once done, she left him. Fear was seeping through
Carter, cutting through the drug haze. Was this some kind of illegal blood
bank? Maybe it was some oddball police sting. Inject a mark with illegal drugs,
run a test, and get creepers off the street.

This theory, while farfetched as hell, was all the
more plausible when a cadre of men in black t-shirts and jeans came into the
room. No one spoke. They placed cold, sterile hands on him, rolling Carter onto
a gurney. One gingerly draped his bare groin with a white athletic towel.

Carter tried to speak to them. Whatever the injection
had been, it’d effectively severed the connection between brain and mouth. A
low moan was all he could manage. Maybe it was for the best. He was in enough
trouble as it was. Talking could make it worse.

Goose pimples sprang up on his naked body as the men
wheeled him rapidly down a cold hallway lit by caged bulbs clamped to
exposed
ceiling beams. This part of the parlor was all
business. Cinderblock walls flowed on both sides, broken only by the occasional
appearance of a cheap particle board door.

The end of the gurney rammed through a pair of
swinging double doors. Carter jumped as much as the drug would allow. A heavy
odor, something familiar and foreign at the same time, assaulted his nostrils, even
making his eyes water a bit.

He saw the willowy man in surgical greens waiting
under a bank of bright lights. Beside him was a chest high steel tray. A crude
shelf was installed along one wall behind him. Large coolers, smoking with dry
ice, sat neatly on it.

Dull horror crept into Carter’s mind. Simultaneously,
he identified the smell; hospital antiseptic. The strong stuff used to clean
operating rooms. Oh God…

“Subject is a forty year old American male,” the
surgeon spoke into a small digital recorder. “Preliminary labs reveal no blood
borne infectious diseases.”

Using a penlight, the doctor looked into both eyes.
“No contacts. Do you wear readers? Don’t try to speak, just blink once for yes.
No? Good! Too bad the color is so common. Oh well, we have to work with what
we’re given,
ja
?

Whistling a jolly tune, the surgeon installed an IV
into the crook of Carter’s arm. He then took a marker over to the coolers. The
material squeaked as he wrote on them.

Sweat was pouring out of Carter. Surely this was some
prank. In a moment, a camera crew would burst in. An obnoxious host would throw
an arm around him and yell a slogan. Yucks for all. 

“Subject has no significant other,” the doctor
continued into his recorder. “Parents are deceased. One estranged half-sister.
No children. I’m anticipating full viability of subject’s vitals plus the
eyes.”

Clicking the device off, the surgeon picked up a
syringe from the tray. He looked down at Carter, merciless green eyes devoid of
any emotion.

“A pity that your baser nature led you here,” he said,
inserting the syringe into the IV port. “It is good bait for our little
business venture, yes, but I feel for anyone who cannot control their urges.
Take solace in the fact that your organs will go on to save lives…for a price.”

“Find your happy thought, Mr. Carter. You will not
wake from this.”

The surgeon depressed the plunger, sending a cold rush
through Carter’s body. Blackness, tinged with numb despair, overtook him. The
hard glint of the scalpel was the last image he took into the void beyond.