Torment Read online

  Torment

  By

  Jeremy Seals

  © 2016 Jeremy Seals

  This volume of short stories is dedicated to the following:

  My editor/wife,

  My family,

  All my personal cheerleaders,

  All the wonderful people who bought Trauma,

  And

  The talented creators of the following podcasts:

  Last Podcast on the Left

  Blurry Photos

  Paranormal Review Radio

  Liar City

  Contents

  Visitors

  Kiss

  Violation

  Massage

  Nosebleed

  School

  Cave

  Manor

  Pigment

  Lancer

  Visitors

  Bailey didn’t notice the kid until he spoke, nearly causing a disastrous mess of chicken lo mien and pork dumplings. No real surprise that her senses were dull after the ten hour day she’d just put in. All she wanted to do was eat, zone out in front of the TV, and take a long, hot bath.

  “Can I come in?” the boy asked.

  He was around eleven or so, slightly built, wearing a ragged black hoodie that was a size too small. The hood was up and drawn tight around his milk colored face. His head was pointed down, studying the worn toes of his battered Converse sneakers.

  “Why?” Bailey was cautiously concerned. “Are you lost?”

  “Sort of,” the kid shrugged. “I just really need to use the phone.”

  “Don’t you have a cell phone?”

  “Yes, but it is broken. It is food time and my mother will be worried if I do not call home soon.”

  There was something very off about the way this kid spoke. It reminded Bailey of the way Data spoke on Star Trek; phonetically correct, without any emotional inflection. And why did he call dinner “food time?” Who the hell talked like that?

  “Please,” the boy took a step towards her. “I really need to call my mother.”

  Bailey opened her mouth to tell the kid to go away. Movement behind the boy stopped the flow of words before they began. Three more children, all identically dressed in ill-fitting hooded sweatshirts and beat up trainers, emerged from the shadows of the apartment courtyard. Each quickly turned their gaze downward as they entered the bright light provided by a large lamp post.

  Real fear leapt into her throat. Fingertips tingling, Bailey fumbled her keys out. Trembling hands turned seating the key in the deadbolt into a struggle. She expected her traitorous appendages to drop them into the nearby bushes, just like a dumb bimbo would in a bad horror film. Making the procedure even more difficult was a need to keep one eye on the kids while doing it.

  “Please!” For the first time, the original boy’s voice showed an emotion; urgency. “We need to come in. We cannot unless you ask us to. We need to call home.”

  His face raised. The others followed suit. Bailey’s heart joined the fear taking up residence in her throat, thumping wildly. Every drop of saliva disappeared from her mouth. She momentarily forgot about the lock. All she could do was stare at four sets of perfectly black eyes.

  Surprisingly, Bailey began to feel calm. Her instincts quit hitting the internal klaxons quite so hard. She relaxed the death grip her hand had on the keyring. It was nice to stand out here and stare into the tranquil eyes of his nice young boy. This harmless boy. How nice it would be to have them in to visit!

  A modified Honda motorcycle buzzed loudly into the parking lot. It snapped her attention away from the hypnotizing gaze long enough to break the current chain of thought. The boy’s expressionless face contorted in frustrated anger. Bailey turned around, sliding the key home and unlocking her door.

  The children were slowly moving forward in unison. She quickly entered, paper bag of Chinese food smacking the doorframe. White cartons tumbled to her welcome mat. Bailey could care less. The speaker stepped on one, reaching forward with a pale hand tipped with dirty fingernails. Bailey slammed the door shut, shooting her deadbolt hard enough to send a cramp shooting through her forearm.

  Immediately, an incessant knocking began. She jumped away from the door, expecting the kid to punch through the sturdy oak and unlock it.

  Nothing so dramatic happened. The banging continued. She forced herself to take deep breaths, trying to calm the rapid pounding of her heart. It was necessary to think about what to do next. Calling the cops was a good idea, as was making sure all the other entrances were locked up tight. Finding something to defend herself was a solid tactic as well, just in case one of them go in before the police arrived.

  A small hand reached up to her large living room window. The grubby paw formed a fist and proceeded to thump against the glass. Bailey let out a shrill scream, rushing over to the check that the lock was engaged. Looking down, she could see a small white face staring up at her, oily eyes begging Bailey for access to her mind, to ensnare her into a trap that would encourage lowering defenses. She swept the blinds closed furiously. The plastic wand attached to the metal track at the top snapped off.

  More knocks coming from the bedroom. Bailey ran down the hall, slamming the door closed after checking the latch. Instantly she re-opened the door, lunging inside to her dresser. From the top drawer she grabbed a short steel rod, which she snapped out into an eighteen inch baton. She’d bought it at a flea market after the stall vendor had talked her into getting the weapon rather than Mace. It felt good in her hand.

  Even better, the intimidating sound of the club expanding caused all knocking to stop, for a moment anyway. It resumed a minute later, more insistently than before. Bailey cursed and shut the door again. Awkwardly, she lunged into the hallway bathroom, sitting on the throne after shutting herself in. The call of nature was not to be ignored, even in times of extreme terror. She couldn’t stifle a crazy laugh at the thought. Strange to be doing something so normal in abnormal circumstances.

  Bailey was finishing up when the patio door off the kitchen slid open. She froze, waiting for the sound of basketball shoes on creeping across the kitchen linoleum. The pounding ceased. The complete silence was somehow worse than the noise. At least with the thumps, she knew where the kids were. Maybe they were already in the house, sneaking silently towards the bathroom, dead eyes shiny with the anticipation of mutilating her in unimaginable ways.

  She got off the toilet and contorted her body into a position where she could look under the door. No one was waiting directly outside. Bailey strained, wiggling in the small space to get a better look down the hallway.

  “Please!” A thin, reedy, and absolutely scared shitless voice cried out from the kitchen. “Please let us in, we can’t come in unless you tell us we can! We need to come in!”

  Shock at the sudden speech turned into confusion. Why couldn’t the kids just walk in? It wasn’t like there was a big trench that magically formed whenever an intruder entered. What was keeping them back?

  “Oh please hurry and let us in! We’re scared!”

  Multiple sets of hands began drumming on the metal patio door frame. It was frantic, intense knocking, the desperate request of a frightened person running from some unspeakable danger. More shouts, more pleas echoed throughout the apartment.

  Bailey hefted her baton and headed down the hall to the kitchen. Each step she took seemed to increase the children’s racket. They rained blows onto the retracted screen and even on the siding bracketing the entrance.

  She stopped at the border between the living room and kitchen, weapon raised. Bailey’s body was wired from adrenaline. Sweat made her armpits a jungle. Though common sense was telling her to ignore the kids, to go for the phone on the end table, the primal part of her mind was ordering Bailey to find someone’s head to smash
in.

  “Please let us in!” The boy screamed wildly. ”Please, we’re running out of time! He’s coming!”

  The sight of the kids was a punch in the gut. In this moment, they looked like ordinary children, frightened by a terrible dream, trying to get into their parents’ bedroom. Their arms blurred as they pummeled any available surface near or around the door. They strained towards the entrance, but none dared to cross the threshold.

  “Who are you?” Bailey demanded, voice strong. “What are you doing here?”

  “Please tell us we can come in!” The child’s voice was distorted, as if it came through layers and layers of static. “You have to tell us we can come in!”

  “No! Fuck off!”

  “Let us in!”

  “Eat shit!”

  Viscous black tears began to ooze down the children’s cheeks simultaneously. Each mouth dropped into an “o.” They began to wail, a loud, ear splitting, relentless cry that caused Bailey to slap her hands over her ears for protection. Her weapon clattered to the floor. She sacrificed one ear to the noise in order to retrieve it.

  A blinding light filled the kitchen from the outside. Bailey threw up a hand, trying to see the source. The kids mercifully quit their caterwauling, replacing it with a deep gurgling reminiscent of a backed up drain. Black fluid spewed from between their lips and out their nostrils.

  Something swooped over the children, enveloping them in what resembled an iron grey sheet. Frozen in a silent scream, they continued to vomit their foul liquid. It stained the covering as it began to tighten around them. The backlight dimmed a bit, revealing a shadowy, tall figure, very broad, wearing what looked to be a billowy hood. It was steadily pulling the sheet taut, like a fisherman harvesting his netted catch.

  Bailey groaned loudly. The cloth prison grew smaller and smaller, crumpling up. As it did so, bones cracked and organs popped underneath. Clothing fell to the concrete slab. They smoldered, bursting into blue flame before reducing to ash.

  Finally the horrible process was complete. A basketball sized bag, held easily in the tall being’s hand, was all that was left of the children. It stepped closer to the patio door, revealing a face beneath the cowl that was heavily wrinkled, thick lipped, and blue in color. Large, oval eyes peered at Bailey’s hunched figure.

  The figure did not cross into the kitchen, seemingly content to stare from outside. In spite of her relentless horror, she realized that she could feel the thing’s curiosity. A cold fingered hand seemed to rummage through Bailey’s mind. She felt the probing sensation, recognizing that whatever the creature was, it was pervasively trying to pluck information from her brain.

  “GET OUT!” She screamed, voice breaking with the force of it.

  Suddenly, all feelings from the invading presence was gone. The being stepped back, straightening its stance. A low hum began. The light began to pulse slowly, strobing in and out, increasing in tempo and pitch. Bailey stood frozen, baton outstretched in shaking hands, watching the figure’s body fade out into nothing.

  It was gone. Bailey slid down the cabinets to plop onto the cool tile floor, feeling fatigue washing over her. A gaggle of her neighbors crowded out into the back yard, clad in night clothes and jabbering excitedly. Some even pointed cell phones up into the sky, trying desperately to capture footage that would turn them into temporary local celebrities.

  Gathering the last of her energy, she tottered over to the open patio door, shut and secured it, then sat with her back against the glass. It felt good.

  Bailey drifted off to sleep before the reporters got there.

  Kiss

  It was customary for mothers to leave their babies outside of the cramped, narrow shops in their prams. This was especially true on a gorgeous sunny spring day like this. Any respite from the crowded conditions of Council housing in London’s East End was welcome.

  With Hitler’s long shadow ten years gone, there was an optimistic air among the people. They’d survived a great, horrible war. Now was the time to thrive and move forward, to bring England into a new era of prosperity.

  The neat row of baby carriages was a testament to this. Most were nearly new, bought on hire purchase to hold a family’s future. Some children slept. Others goggled up at the bright blue sky. One chattered joyfully, sitting up and enthusiastically shaking a well-loved rattle.

  Smiles, even on the hardest, weariest faces, came to those who looked upon these jolly cherubs. As a rule, no one stopped longer than it took to wave and coo. Any mother in full on protection mode was a fearsome sight.

  Which is why the hunched woman hobbling to the prams drew some nervous glances. She limped along the uneven cobblestones on a gnarled blackthorn walking stick, dressed in a heavy old man’s overcoat and battered black work boots. A ragged hole was hacked into the right shoe to relieve a bunion. A small, dirty canvas drawstring bag was clutched to her bony chest. Unruly black hair stuck out from an absurdly large, wide brimmed grey hat. Wires stuck out from the front where flowers or perhaps fake fruit once decorated it. Hanging around the crone was a thick stink of mildew and urine.

  Filth crusted the creases in her arthritic knuckles. The deep wrinkles of her face were equally highlighted with muck. Her smile was craggy, teeth nearly green with poor hygiene. Two large moles decorated the witch’s chin. White hairs grew rampant from them.

  Disgust showed when anyone came within five meters. Many had seen the destitute. It was impossible not to encounter them in a slightly rough area like this. Few, even the former drinkers who were on the meths, matched the level of utter grubbiness hanging around the woman like heavy fog over the Thames.

  Croaking out a sound that no one, save for a daft seagull, might call singing, the foul lady approached the leftmost pram. She licked a gnarled finger with a yellowed tongue and dipped it into the canvas bag. Gently, the witch touched the baby’s forehead, simultaneously blowing an assuredly nasty smelling kiss into the little boy’s face.

  “Oi!” A large butcher yelled over at her, rushing over from his stall. “You there! Stop that! Get away from those babbies!”

  The hag turned towards him, hissed, and then moved defiantly over to the next carriage, repeating the unsettling blessing. She kept glancing over her shoulder at the butcher as she did so. Her gaze was wild. It dared the man to come closer. He stopped, a little fear worming into his gut. For a moment, he considered going back to his stall to grab a knife.

  Finally, he resumed his course. As the crone was reaching out to mark a third child, the butcher grabbed her by the shoulder. She squawked, turning quickly to lash out. Her sturdy cane smashed across his shins. He yelped, relinquishing his grip. The hag took advantage and smacked him smartly in the face. The butcher stumbled back over his own feet, rump connecting painfully with the road. Blood streamed out a large cut on the man’s forehead. It took the fight out of him. He scrambled away.

  Scuttling sideways like a crab, the crone returned to her task. An uneasy crowd was beginning to gather at the scene. Several were yelling for a bobby. No one else came close to the old woman. Not even the babies horrified mothers, who shouted obscenities from a safe distance.

  The witch woman finished. She regarded the group briefly, a wicked grin cracking her grotesque visage, then turned and sped off down the street. Her movements were unnaturally fluid for such an ancient creature. No one in the mob prevented the hag’s flight. In fact, they jumped out of her way, like the healthy avoiding the touch of a leprous beggar.

  Police whistles split the air. A young constable, billy in hand, weaved through the throng to give chase. The nightmare lady didn’t even so much as glance back at him over her shoulder. She cut nimbly around the corner. The policeman knew he had her. This narrow street dead ended into a loading dock.

  However, though he was only seconds behind the crone, there was no sign of her. Only two large double doors locked up tight. No alleys led off the street. There were no fire escapes to climb. He did a quick sweep of the street anyway, breath bur
ning in his chest. Nothing.

  Unnerved, the constable went back out to the crowded market to wait for his sergeant to arrive. Cold hands tickled the back of his neck. He jumped, picking up his pace. Had anyone asked, he would have vehemently denied that his step was quick out of fear and not the need to begin taking statements.

  Two hours later, all four mothers sat in the slightly shabby office of Dr. Neville Cort. Each clutched their charged to their bosoms, whispering among each other in worry of the multitude of diseases the withered old beast was sure to have passed along. The babies were quiet, either sleeping or blinking tiredly at the framed seascapes littering the walls.

  Mrs. Root, Dr. Cort’s matronly secretary, was thankful for the calm. When the women had entered the office initially, nothing would soothe them. It took the sight of the battered butcher being led in by his apprentice to quiet the clucking. Blood often did that to a person. It reminded them that while the crone had touched the children, at least she hadn’t injured them bodily.

  Once silence reigned, Mrs. Root gently swabbed the dust the hag had used off the babies’ foreheads with alcohol soaked cotton balls, storing them in a steel container for the Doctor’s later examination. Coffee which had been laced with a generous dollop of brandy was distributed. That further relaxed the mothers.

  The door to Dr. Cort’s exam room opened. He walked the neatly stitched up butcher out before beckoning the oldest of the four women, Dolly, into the area next. She began chattering a mile a minute. His theory was that the most senior lady would be the most sensible. In one second flat, she proved him wrong, chattering about the bevy of plagues the witch had beset her poor little Julia with.

  “Now, now, now,” he said, holding up his hands in an attempt to quiet her. “Let me perform an exam before we jump to any conclusions.”

  “All right,” Dolly took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, Doctor. This whole thing has me all wound up.”