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Safe (Part 1)

Trapped in Hell

By Richard Le TourneauPublished 6 years ago 23 min read
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Blood. Rivers of life flowed from the deep slashes on her stomach, arm, and leg merge with the snow turning it crimson as the ice froze it in place. A breeze laden with ice and petrol attacked her senses and face. Her eyes flickered as light bounced over her body, face and around the ground. Voices spoke, the sounds were distant, muffled. Another light passed over her face then a pair of abrasive hands tenderly opened her torn blouse and removed it as another pair of cold, callous hands applied bandages.

Something soft and wet wiped her lips and cheek. The icy touch sent goose pimples all over her body as she trembled. Pressure. Throbbing. She ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth. A vacant space with a metallic taint was towards the bottom back left. Still, her eyes were unable to focus on those around her, from the shapes the torch and moonlight would allow her to grasp they had broad shoulders and thick jackets.

Her head was spinning too much to contemplate where she was, who she was, or how she came to be there. Her eyes parted more; she turned her head towards the bouncing lights; a hand grasped hers with a tender yet firm grip, she didn’t bother turning towards them.

The lights revealed the snow-covered road parting the trees; a little further tyre marks lead to a car crashed into one of the trees, its remaining headlight flickered like an SOS in the dead of night. The tail lights were smashed as was the rear window. The torch-lights approached bouncing off shards of glass, the three-spoke and still, she was unable to capture any words spoken only one voice stood out with its deep almost menacing tone. A jab. Something pricked her neck; her eyes wandered to the corner hoping to catch a glimpse of who or what it was, but the moment never came. Her eyes drooped and faded back into the dark from whence she arrived only minutes before.

Death's Door

“Can you hear me?” a man’s voice asked, his voice was soft, soothing, her eyes flickered then opened. A man stood beside the bed; his unkempt, curled, dark hair reminded her of Dr. Perry Cox. His stubble covered face had a patch missing revealing an old scar on his left cheek, all combined with the bushy eyebrows and hazel eyes flashed an image before her eyes of a much older man. A thought? Memory maybe? She couldn’t remember, yet the vivid image made her believe it was a memory of an old teacher.

The man was holding a file. He wrote something. Her heavy heady as she turned to examine him further. His corduroy trousers were grubby, especially the knees which were worn, his baby blue shirt had specks of red ink on the collar with a tea or coffee stain just noticeable from the top of the buttoned white coat.

The man leaned closer, “Hello, can you hear me?” she scowled at him, he leaned back with a gasp and dropped his file.

“Get back,” she blasted grabbing the thin blue sheet and pulling it to her face. “Who are you?” He furrowed his brow. She held the sheet tight to her face then lowered it as something snagged and raised the cover on one side. She sat up with a frown and pulled the blanket back. her eyes widened. A drip was on her left wrist. A bandage covered her right forearm down to the wrist; she wore a white gown with a checkered gold and red pattern.

The room was painted in a pastel green, and the floor was covered in royal blue carpet. Cobwebs strung across the corner of the walls, their residents visible lying in wait. He picked up the file and took one of the three pens from the breast pocket of his white jacket.

“Where am I?” Her pulse quickened. She gripped the sides of the bed and looked around the room. A narrow but tall chest of drawers sat against the wall ahead; the only furnishing apart from the lights built into the ceiling.

“You’re safe; there was a car crash,” he replied jotting something down in the paperwork. What do you remember?”

“Car crash?” Her eyes narrowed then trailed towards the floor, she stared. “I… I remember laying on the road.” She touched her stomach and hissed. She lifted the gown and gasped, a row of stitches held her tender skin together. The surrounding area was red and pink.

“How, how long have I been here?”

“You’ve been here five days now. Greg did the stitches, it’s inflamed and will be tender for a while. We managed to get you patched up before it got infected but there’s still a risk.” Her eyes clouded over. “I’ll be right back, let me get your medication.”

“Wait,” she reached out grabbing his wrist and winced as a surge of pain tore through her stomach. “I don’t remember anything. My name, where I’m from, nothing.”

He stared at her puzzled for a moment, drew his hand up to his face and pressed his index finger and thumb either side of his chin and caressed his stubble with the thumb. “In time your memory should return. You took one hell of a beating out there. There wasn’t any ID in the area where we found you. I’m sorry. What would you like us to call you?”

“I-I-I don’t know,” she huffed.

“Everyone needs a name,” he smirked. “How about Jayne, or Samantha?”

She stared into his eyes; something felt familiar about those names yet the memory if indeed it was a memory about them was still locked away. She smiled.

“…Jayne sounds right.”

“It suits you; you look like a Jayne.” Her grip vanished, she leant back on the bed. “I’ll be back in a minute with your antibiotics.”

“Where am I?”

“I’ll explain as soon as I return,” he replied scratching his chin. “For now, stay in this room, just for another day or two so your wounds can heal.”

“Thank you. What’s your name?”

“Roland,” he announced then left pulling the door shut behind him. A series of clicks followed, Jayne lifted the gown and examined the stitches once more then the bandage on her arm and other on her leg. Nothing was out of place, whoever had done them had experience. She glanced around the room; there was no window, no TV, only a chest of drawers and the bed and a door that was partially open. Jayne gripped the side of the bed and lowered her legs over the side then placed her feet on the plush carpet. It was far thicker than any she had ever stood on before, much like the type you would stand on in a carpet showroom with a thick underlay.

Jayne reached for the door handle and pulled. Locked. She moved back towards the partially open door and opened it. A stagnant urine odour wafted into her face stinging her eyes, she covered her mouth and looked into the room. It was a bathroom, the reek reminded her of public toilets. Jayne hoped it was just the foulness from the previous occupier haunting her and that there was nothing laying hidden from sight.

There was a narrow window above the bath that appeared large enough to draw out some of the smell, she ventured forth and stopped a few feet from the bath. The tub was the cleanest thing in the room, apart from the mildew and black mould growing on the far corner of the tub and up the wall, it was spotless in comparison.

Inside the sink hair and nail clippings sat in the plug hole. The toilet was filthy, the seat was raised and cracked exposing blood and faecal matter spattered on the underside. Dried faeces surrounded most of the inside bowl with pubic hairs and dust with a dark yellow and brown patch on the back; she assumed it was a man who was here before her judging by the limescale and position of the urine stained bowl.

There was no toilet tissue and no towels available; she had no intention of using the facilities and no desire to clean any of it. She climbed into the bath then onto the outer rim and reached for the window. The handle creaked as Jayne pushed, a crunch followed, and it edged open. She shoved and pushed with all she had. A sharp jab twisted in her stomach, she let out a yelp of pain and pressed a hand against her stomach and pushed the window with the other. It fell open with a thud and crunch crushing what Jayne assumed was leaves, ice, or snow.

A bitterly cold wind swept through the room in an instant snatching her attention away from the stench and the thought that maybe she would have to clean the room and replaced it with a flash of memory. A woman with long blonde hair held her hand, pulling, tugging. Blood running down the corner of her mouth.

There came a knock at the door pulling her attention away from what she assumed was a piece of the puzzle to her identity and how she came to be in a car crash.

“It’s Roland,” he called unlocking the door. Jayne turned around to find him standing in the doorway, his lanky frame towering a foot above her delicate five-foot-two. She gasped in surprise and awe at the sudden realisation of his size which didn’t appear as large when next to her bed earlier. “I have some antibiotics and a jug of water.”

“Thank you,” she uttered stepping past sheepishly and headed back to the bed. He handed over the plastic cup containing two pink pills; she placed them into her mouth as he poured some water into the now empty cup.

“I must apologize for the mess in there, the previous occupant here was… troubled. We have a cleaner, but due to the weather they can’t make it out here so for the duration, it’s down to all of us to chip in. Including the patients.”

“I understand. Do you have the cleaning things?”

“I don’t expect you to clean that room,” he chuckled. “I shall get to it in a few minutes.” An ear-piercing scream although distant sent a shiver down her spine and made her hair stand on end.

Her eyes widened, fingers spread over the bedclothes as her arms stiffened. “What, why… why are they screaming? What’s going on?” Jayne stared at him then the door as several footfalls rushed past the door.

“Just one of the patients, we have a few troubled souls here in need of help.”

“Is this an asylum?”

Roland laughed, “No, it’s not an asylum, how many do you know with plush carpet like this?” A slight grin remained.

“I suppose, sorry. I’m just a little on edge.” As Jayne took a sip of the water, Roland narrowed his eyes on her stomach. “Your stitches have broken, I’ll be right back,” he said then rushed out of the room pulling it shut behind him. Jayne eyed the door, did he lock it? Had he forgotten? She pushed herself off the bed and held a hand to her stomach and approached the door. She gripped the handle and turned it then edged it open. Bang. Someone or something crashed against the door slamming it shut.

A harrowing scream followed pricking the hair on the back of her neck upwards. Another bang thudded against the door then another.

“Come on, it’s not that bad,” a deep man’s voice spoke, Jayne pondered for a moment if this was one of the men who found her on the road then wondered what it was that he claimed wasn’t so bad. If it was a sort of asylum which Roland assured her it wasn’t it would explain the screams. The troubled souls as he called them.

“No, not me, let me go, please, please, I beg you!” a woman begged then screamed, a heavy door screeched and slammed shut a moment later. The screaming stopped. Jayne pressed her ear against the door. Silence. She turned the handle once more and pushed the door ajar just enough to gather a glimpse into the space beyond.

The parquet flooring had seen better days, apart from needing a thorough clean the colour had faded, and with the added furrows from some heavy machine or blades covering parts of the floor her curiosity mounted. She opened the door further. Drops of dried blood were spattered over the floor and the wall ahead with a pool at the end of some furrows.

Footfalls echoed around the room. Jayne pulled the door shut and rushed back to the bed. A key entered the lock and turned. She lifted her legs and threw the cover over them. The key wiggled and turned, tumblers fell into place with a click. The key turned again. A gentle knock tapped three times.

“Jayne, it’s Roland,” he said pushing the door open. “I hope the screaming didn’t scare you.” He approached the bed and handed over a plastic cup with two pink pills inside. Roland picked up the jug of water and watched with eager anticipation for the pills to enter her mouth. He poured some water into the cup and set the jug back.

The cool water soothed her parched lips and dry throat. “Thank you,” she smiled.

“You’re very welcome,” Roland replied glaring down at her with a lustful stare while she glared at the bathroom door deep in thought about the person who may have been in the room before. Her mind ran back to the disgusting state of the room and wondered not only when it was last cleaned but how long someone was living in here while it was in such a state.

Jayne blinked then shook her head awakening from her day-dream. “What time is it?”

He glanced at his watch. “Half two.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll get you a watch,” Roland declared.

Jayne shook her head, “no, you can’t do that.”

“It’s no trouble. We have lots of people in here who won’t be leaving, and some have passed. So, there’s no shortage of watches.”

“Oh, I see. Won’t you get into trouble for handing things out?” her brow creased, “don’t the families want the items back?”

“There have been times when they ask for things back but quite often it all belongs to us. There is an entire room full of old property. I’ll get you a watch. One that sparkles as beautifully as your eyes.”

Jayne’s cheeks flushed, she turned away. “Thank you but there is no need. A clock on the wall there.” She pointed towards the far wall where the chest of drawers stood. “That would be fine.”

“I could do that… I guess,” he sighed in disappointment. “I need… I better go,” Roland gated through the door and slammed it shut. Tumblers fell into place with almost immediate effect, Jayne lowered her legs over the bed, as her feet hit the thick carpet a sharp jab tore into her stomach. She let out a yelp. A patch of blood grew on her gown beside the previous and merged. She pressed her hand against the wound and approached the door.

Locked. She jerked the handle again and again, the possible realisation of her situation mounted in the back of her mind, although she pushed the thoughts back they crept forward replacing the ones where escape or rescue was imminent. Fairy tales played out like a film, the door breaking open, the hinges coming free as a towering muscle-bound rogue entered the room with a torn T-shirt exposing his bulging muscles, he had shoulder length blonde hair, blue eyes, a face chiselled by an expert artisan and a grip that could break a man’s neck yet hold a woman as tender as a mother cradling a newborn baby.

Such a man wasn’t coming, she knew that, but the thought eased the crippling thoughts that had plagued her thus far. There was no Knight in shining armour, no Prince Charming to kiss her lips as she lay sleeping in the lumpy, grubby, old bed in her chamber, the room which for now may as well have been locked away at the top of the tower.

The earlier screams played with her mind further, why were they screaming? The term troubled souls Roland used to refer to the people there puzzled her more and erased all memory of what the young rugged rogue looked like. He was nothing more than a shape now a dark mass whose movements were indistinguishable from the dust and debris which he had created.

She approached the drawers and ran her hand over the top then the side from top to bottom. It was made of some cheap MDF, she pulled it away from the wall and eyed the back, a thin layer of plywood was nailed haphazardly in place. Pulling the backing free from its rusty bindings the wood snapped, there was nothing hidden behind it.

As Jayne started to move the chest back a piece of carpet lifted on the other side. She pulled the drawers back and moved it again, the carpet moved more. She investigated the problem. A piece of carpet had been cut and put back in place to cover a broken floorboard. Her curiosity mounted. Despite the throbbing and rooted pain in her gut, Jayne lifted the corner of the chest off the cut piece then kneeled beside it.

Moving the chunk of carpet beside her exposed part of a floorboard, it was stained with blood and had a small hole just big enough for a finger to fit into. Her slender index finger slipped through, thick webbing clung to her finger. She drew her hand back and vigorously wiped her finger on the floor until the web had gone. Jayne glanced at the finger with the scrutiny of a drill sergeant inspecting his soldiers, it was clean.

She drew a deep breath and held it as she allowed her trembling hand to lower and finger to enter the hole once more. She hooked it against the underside and lifted. The floorboard had been cut into a piece with just enough space for a hand. Cobwebs nestled beneath with an exoskeleton at the top and a fly beside it.

Several inches beneath the webs and dead insects camouflaged by them lay what appeared to be a piece of paper scrunched into a ball. It was barely visible but for some discolouration, had it not been for this she knew it would have gone unseen. A knot grew in her stomach, not the same as the pain from the car crash but from a distant memory from childhood. Jayne allowed her mind to wonder for a moment back to that day at the shed in her grand-parents garden.

Twelve Legs

A shrill cry drew her attention, having just turned eight the week before she was armed with some of the presents, more curiosity and a new-found confidence. The shed was off limits, she had been told many times and could recall each conversation, the warning that it wasn’t safe to enter, but today there was no such warning.

Lowering her shoulder; the backpack slipped off her left arm, she dipped the right and caught the strap as it slipped into her hand. She unzipped the pack and looked at the contents, a torch, some lined paper and some plane with a pencil and a tin of ten colouring pencils. Another cry came longer and louder than the previous, she stared at the shed door then pulled the torch from the pack.

She knew it was off-limits but had never been told why, no explanation, nothing. Her fingertips brushed against the rusty handle. She pulled it down and opened the door and examined her hand. Brown and orange tainted it, she brushed it against her dungarees then turned the torch on and stepped into the shed.

Cobwebs reached out across the ceiling and walls, the air was musky and smelled like dirt. It was warm, warmer than outside, but still, she pressed on as the torch illuminated portions of the room as she panned around in search of the thing behind the unusual noise. A wall reached up to the ceiling and across the room creating a divider; it was lined with several shelves each with a variety of different items ranging from paint, buckets, scrap metal, nails, gloves, car batteries and other items. The cry came again, not as loud or harsh as before; its sound rang familiar as she drew nearer.

She passed through the gap separating the room. More webs littered the room. A generator rumbled in the corner, a wire ran off its side and over a sheet of green tarpaulin, she pointed the torch towards it and followed it along the ground. There were four shelves each with what appeared to be a number of small square fish tanks on them. She lowered the torch more. A wooden worktop housed the largest tank, three-feet-long with dirt piled high and plants. A series of empty tanks had been piled up beside the worktop.

Moisture ran down the inside. Two doors at the front were open. Earth littered below the doors and on the ground. The cry came again, weaker, the tarpaulin moved an inch. She leapt back and stared as the sheet moved again then again as if breathing. She got on her knees and peeled back the heavy sheet and pointed the torch at the object.

Two legs moved then a head lifted with weary eyes and gaping mouth. It meowed, barely a sound emanated from its mouth. A mass of hair and legs seemed to be coming from its middle. She edged closer, trembling, she gripped the torch with both hands. The kitten was a few months old and was healthy yet had thing growth on it, she couldn’t understand what her eyes were seeing, it defied all logic and everything she thought she knew. Is she having babies? She pondered then remembered it was called Kevin or rather careless Kevin as it was still learning how far it could and couldn’t leap.

The mass moved. Kevin’s thick furry legs were all there in plain sight as were five others with a ball, a rump covered in hairs. The legs were thicker than her fingers and covered in hairs that stood on end and moved with every breath she released alerting it to her presence long ago. It released its prey and started to turn, she stared mesmerised and terrified by the tarantula’s size.

Its rump was twice the size of her palm and the body and legs combined would easily be as large as a dinner plate. She snatched a breath and stepped back. it scurried forward hissing. She gasped and turned but clipped the back of her foot with the other and fell sideways into the wall dropping the torch.

Her hands scraped against the old wood and web. Shards of damp and brittle splinters snagged under her nails and into her fragile skin as she slipped to her knees. Her face brushed over the course surface scuffing her chin and catching three balls of webbing no larger than her nail in her hair. She let out a yell and looked back. The tarantula was gone.

Her head itched, ticked. She scratched it. Dozens of legs scrambled over her fingers and down her hair and face. She shook her head and swiped at her face. The itching continued. White strands stuck to her hair and fingers like glue. She didn’t dare scream and feared they could invade her body through her nose or open mouth. She pinched her nose and jerked her head as an innumerable number of legs ran inside her ear.

A scream came, she couldn’t hold it in any longer. She released her nose and swatted and scratched her face and ears and pulled hair from its roots. The spiderlings ran for cover their targets warmth and darkness, her orifices would be perfect. She pushed a finger into her nose crushing one or two, she had no idea how many had made it inside. Her mouth and throat tickled, she coughed and spat and released another scream this time from the top of her lungs until she had to draw another breath.

Her chest constricted. Heart pounded. This must be how that mouse felt, she thought remembering the rodent her father fed to his pet snake the other day. Gasping. She clutched her chest and attempted to fill her lungs. A tingling sensation grew in her fingers and filled her hands while her cheeks flushed. Her eyes grew heavy. She shuffled her feet forward and reached out for the dividing wall in a zombified movement.

Her feet started to tingle. The sensation consumed her legs seconds after. Breathing, movement and staying conscience became a struggle. The door was close. Her feet turned to concrete forcing her to crawl on knees and elbows towards salvation. The air burned her chest and dried her throat as she gasped for more, just another breath, a simple act had become torture. She reached the door. Her web-covered fingertips brushed it with a tender touch as the panic attack continued its wicked craft draining her of all her energy.

The door opened. Light flooded her eyes forcing her to close them and turn away. Moments later she felt weightless, flying? No. An eye opened just enough to make out a shape. It was her father. The Knight in shining armour had come.

Beneath

Jayne’s mouth ran dry, throat clogged, eyes watered, she coughed as the memories flooded her brain. “Fuck off,” she snapped shaking her head. “It can stay down there.” She stared at the scrunched paper then placed the piece of floorboard back in place and moved the carpet and drawers back into position. A sensation grew in her bladder. She looked at the bathroom door.

“I can wait,” she said.

A series of taps came from the wall behind the bed. She faced the wall and listened.

She paced the room as the sensation intensified. Minutes passed.

“Come on Roland, where are you?” she sat at the end of the bed tapping her foot on the floor. Another series of knocks came. She stood.

Is someone trying to get my attention? No. it couldn’t be, could it?

The locked turned. Roland stepped in holding a large plastic box. He placed it on the floor and pushed it away with his shoe while trying to keep the door as close to his body as possible and closed it.

“Thank goodness you’re here,” Jayne said.

“What’s wrong?” Roland asked, his voice cracked as a worried expression washed over his face.

“I’m fine. Just really need the toilet,” she replied and started pacing the room.

“OK, I won’t be gone long. I promise,” Roland picked up the box and rushed into the bathroom and began scrubbing the top and underside of the toilet seat.

“Don’t worry about making it perfect,” Jayne shouted from the far side of the bed.

“Almost done,” he hollered. Jayne raced into the room and stood beside him pacing on the spot. “Here’s the toilet roll,” he said then rose to his feet with a groan. She snatched it from his hand and pushed his arm with the other and slammed the door shut.

“Thank you,” she shouted. A heavy stream started. She sighed with relief.

“No problem. Oh, I found a clock for you. It doesn’t have a seconds hand but…”

“Roland,” she called.

Silence.

“Roland, are you-” the bedroom door slammed shut. As she walked back to the bed men’s voices bellowed from next door. A thud followed then a harrowing woman’s scream.

END OF PART 1

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About the Creator

Richard Le Tourneau

Author, father, gamer, and I love writing horror fiction. My debut novel Lilith's Puppet is on Amazon. I'm the creator of the award-winning Lake Sebastian, Newton Town A Series of Dark Tales, Honey, I'm Home, Beneath the Park, and Sprout.

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