I thought I'd mix things up a bit here on The Word Fiend by occasionally posting one of my own pieces of writing (prose or poetry). It may become a feature if you guys like it, so please let me know what you think.
I wrote Welcome to Harcroft in 2009 for a horror writing competition at deviantART.
Welcome to Harcroft
Stacey Bekker arrived at Harcroft Clinic in style. The chauffer pulled right up to the front entrance and I watched as she was lifted with care into a wheelchair. The straps and batons were stored away for her. Most arrivals are not so quiet. Usually there are cops and orderlies bristling for the chance to subdue one of the crazies or to take out their football team’s loss on the slightest twitch.
While Stacey was being admitted Dr. Bainscroft, our illustrious director, took Mr. and Mrs. Bekker on “the tour”. They took in the music room, the day lounges and the gardens full of docile, contented patients and smiled to themselves, reassured that they had made the proper choice for their daughter. The rest of us had been locked in our rooms since morning bed check. No twisting seizures or frothing profanities for the likes of Mr. and Mrs. Bekker. Oh no. Harcroft Clinic markets itself as ‘an exclusive retreat for the holistic treatment of psychological conditions’. I’ve read the pamphlets.
My parents were so damn happy to find somewhere they could put me and make me someone else’s problem. It’s no fun being rich and glamorous if your only child turns out to be a mental case. It puts a real damper on those cocktail parties when your sixteen year old is accusing the senior partner of having an affair and telling the Senator that he’s going to die by the end of the month. My parents became social pariahs. Especially after the Senator was shot by his campaign manager. Enter the newly refurbished Harcroft Clinic. Mom and Dad couldn’t sign the cheque fast enough.
A key rattled in my lock. Mr. and Mrs. Bekker must have left. It was time to let the crazies out. An orderly the size of a small truck pushed open the door and threw two matching pieces of designer luggage onto the second bed. He turned to me and pulled his baton from the holder on his belt. “We’re not going to have any trouble, right Charlotte?” I shook my head. Gus scares me. He’s surrounded by a viscous layer of living black that bulges and writhes around him. I look into his eyes and I see the patients he’s killed. What he did to them. Satisfied, he returned his baton to his belt and stepped out into the corridor. He came back moments later with his meaty hand completely enclosing the upper arm of a young woman, Stacey Bekker. He leaned down so that his face was right in front of hers. His pasty skin was covered in a sheen of sweat. “Now you be a good girl Stacey and I’m sure we’ll get along just fine.” He ran his tongue slowly up the side of her face and then straightened. He adjusted his belt and patted his baton before walking out. His blackness oozed around the doorframe and disappeared after him like a bride’s train. Stacey hadn’t reacted once.
I walked up to her and used the sleeve of my shirt to wipe Gus’s fluids off her cheek. I moved her suitcases and led her to the bed. She only sat when I pushed lightly on her shoulders. It was like dealing with a life-size poseable doll. I couldn’t even get a feeling of who she was inside that expressionless mask. I left her to settle in and went down to lunch. When I returned, after evening meds, she was in exactly the same position I’d left her in.
I’d asked one of the nurses about my new roommate. Apparently Stacey Bekker had a long history of delusions, mania and violent outbursts. But a failed session of electroshock therapy had left her near catatonic. At least I could sleep without worrying about being strangled in my bed. I helped Stacey change into pyjamas and get into bed then read until my sleeping pill coaxed my mind into sleep.
I couldn’t move my arms. Something heavy was weighing down my chest. I smelt old cigarettes. Gus! My eyes flew open to see Gus finish tightening the straps to the modified bed frame. He grabbed my hair and yanked my head back, forcing my mouth open with his other hand. He shoved an old t-shirt into my mouth. The taste of lust and fear coated my mouth. He leaned next to my ear and whispered, “If you’re good I’ll let you watch.” I bucked and writhed, arching my back against the mattress as his blackness thickened and lapped at my neck. Satisfied that my bonds would hold, he turned his back on me and walked over to Stacey’s bed. The ebony cloak rippled around him as he unzipped his pants and heaved himself on top of Stacey. I screamed, adding my torment to the history of the gag. And what a history it was. I saw again the visions that lived in Gus’s eyes and wept for Stacey.
Gus groaned as he held himself up on one elbow and used the other hand to lift Stacey’s top, exposing one white breast. He leaned in and nuzzled it, and when he raised his head I saw two perfect crescents outlined in blood on her skin. As he was about to turn his attentions to the other breast I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. Stacey’s right hand was twitching. It danced and jerked beside her on the mattress. Gus was too absorbed to notice. A red haze built around Stacey’s hand and, as I watched, it spread outwards to completely cover her. Her eyes burned with it. Stacey’s body jerked once, bucking Gus to the floor. Before he could roll over she was on top of him, straddling his wide back. She reached down and gripped his head, placing both thumbs over his eyes. As she pulled back I could see her elongating nails sinking into the sockets, the jelly coursing down his cheeks as he screamed. And screamed.
Stacey released her hold on his head and stood. She turned to me and the breath caught in my throat. Her nails and teeth had elongated and curved like wicked daggers embedded in flesh. She nodded and turned back to Gus who was grappling for his baton. She leaned down and licked his cheek, the skin blistering and peeling as her tongue passed over it. It took Gus the rest of the night to die. I still don’t know why no one heard it. I can still hear him.
© Shelagh Parry 2009
