Post by theboyinadress on Mar 8, 2015 7:43:08 GMT -6
The small red light came on around two-thirty in the morning and turning the plastic
knob to just below the 50 K Hz-mark, Kate Olson waited on the telephone for the
go-signal.
The box of wires and flashing bulbs hummed softly over in the corner of the room and
the forty-two year-old woman sitting in a gloomy bedroom of an empty house beside
the Potomac, wondered if her husband would agree with her that a new Buick LaCrosse
was the best option tomorrow.
Shifting the handset onto her preferred shoulder, she reached for her book and chanced
a quick paragraph.
Martha Stewart was her favourite.
....................................
"You will be waking soon... can you hear me?" the voice said softly and somewhere
in the smooth, mercifully-numb blackness of Helen Caufield's medicine-induced oblivion,
the drooling woman strapped to the bed acknowledged the mysterious question with a
murmur.
The attendant on duty looked up from his crossword and peered towards the metal
door of Isolation Room 101. It was 3.00am and all was quiet in this part of the Hospital.
James Spencer had worked this shift for nearly two months and in that time, he had only
had three problems with the few drug-loaded customers that enjoyed the solitary slumber
of the Segregation Ward.
Two of those 'hiccups' were solved with a quick rap of his trusty nightstick.
"It seems that certain parties deem your past activities not conducive with today's society
and so here you lay, all safe and sound from the outside world..." the voice hissed quietly.
"...Would you not agree?" the whisperer added.
Helen Caufield felt the urge to vomit, but not being able to sit upright, she smacked her lips
and slowly swallowed to draw fluids into her mouth. The iron taste faded and her breathing
slowed again.
"Who... who are you?" Helen croaked and struggled to raise her head. The lights were off
and the only illumination came from under the locked door to her right, a faint bluish-hue.
Spencer glanced up from the difficult query of 'Twelve Down' and tilted his head towards the
cool-blue light that came in from the meshed-window at the end of the corridor.
He was sure he'd heard one of the maniacs speaking.
Of course, the late shift brought the usual noises of farting, coughing and sleepy mutterings.
There had even been an occasion when the ancient nut-job with the grey beard in Room 108
had cried out a woman's name. A rap with the three-foot length of hickory against the old
bastard's head had quelled 'fungus-face' from dwelling on anymore past romances.
but James was sure he had heard a question being asked.
'Oh great, one of the crazies is awake' he thought acerbically and touched the nightstick
hanging from his belt. The crossword would have to wait.
"Helen... may I call you Helen?" the voice asked lightly and even though the owner of the
name still endeavoured to pull herself from the morass of a drug-pushed trance, she felt that
the voice held a hidden menace, a darkness that waited beyond.
The thin-framed woman in the coarse-fabric restraints nodded in the gloom.
"Thank you and I suppose I should introduce myself because I know you appreciate good
manners" the words slithered from somewhere "But I strongly advise you not to speak for
a while" the voice imparted and again, Helen moved her head in a slow, cautious agreement.
Spencer placed his head against the cool metal of Room 101's door and listened. When he
had come up the elevator to start his shift and clocked-in, Nurse Collins had mentioned that
there'd been an incident with the skinny-bitch called Caufield and Doctor Shaw.
James had offered a concerned face as he'd eyed the woman's ample bosom and nodded
in the right places as she she'd continued to explain how Dr. Shaw had subdued the whacko
with a new test-drug.
Ignoring the fantasy where Nurse Collins lap-danced for him, James had confidently assured
her that there'd be no altercations during the night.
And now here he is, with his head at the door of the loony murderess in Room 101.
Oh man, that Caufield-whore was going to pay for this.
"Do you recall the event of Nineteen Seventy-One, Helen...? Can you muster an image of
that day when you were...?" the voice requested calmly. Whatever Doctor Shaw
had dropped into poor Helen's mouth still pulled at her to return to the dark pool of
nothingness, Helen fluttered her eyelids and pursed her dry lips. "Stay with me Helen...
stay awake" the voice encouraged.
Breathing through her nose, she offered a determined face "That's good Helen, that's
very good" came the enigmatic support.
James Spencer carefully plucked the ringed-bunch of keys from his pocket and without
looking, drew the large-brass from it's many cousins and placed it softly into the keyhole.
He could swear he could hear someone whispering.
"They've been giving you pills, Helen... they've been messing with your head" the new visitor
to Helen's foggy-world said. " Forgive my ribald dictum, Helen. There is a sinister plot
afoot that involves you as a major element" the voice warned with a slightly-over dramatic
quality.
"I would urge you to jibe with my advice for you leave this evil place at once" the intruder
supplemented in a lower tone.
Helen frowned at a sudden image of a blurred Doctor Shaw speaking with two men
in military uniforms as a plastic curtain was pulled across to spoil her view.
The mangled dream fluttered wildly across her mind like a trapped bird.
"I know, Helen... it must be a terrible thing to come to terms with. You're a beyond-reform
psychotic murderess in their eyes and the world has abandoned you..." came the voice
apologetically.
"...But since time is not our chum at this moment and I need a vehicle from his haunt,
I must press you to purge from your current location."
The patient of Room 101 gulped and with wide-eyes, searched the gloom for an answer
and wiping her brow, she noticed the restraints had been loosened.
The Attendant with the wicked-looking shaft of wood, opened the door and nibbling his
bottom-lip, he hoped the damned-thing didn't creak. He wanted to catch this sucker
in mid-speech.
Spencer peered into the half-shadows towards the white lump that he assumed was Caufield
laid on her bed. The straps were open and James guessed that the drugs they'd filled her with
were the paralysing stuff that he'd seen up in Oakland. Still, he could always say nobody told
him.
Maybe things would turn out that he'd just be able to hit her one upside her head, grab a quick
feel and get back to a quiet night-shift. Maybe things would go further.
With the sudden image of Nurse Collins' face frowning at his lusty-thoughts, he went back to
keeping his focus on the dormant shape. James raised the nightstick.
"If you'll allow me..."the uninvited hissed and again, Helen heard the venom in the soft wording.
The door of her room was open and somebody was stood near her.
"...We are under attack, my girl and let the Saints sing that your new friend is here to deliver
you from this violation" and even under the influence of the medicine, she felt the awful
rage that accompanied the words.
A few moments later, the guard finished his final breath and his eyes rolled upwards.
Helen felt the pains of her strangulating endeavours thrum through her fingers around Spencer's
throat and watched the dead man's face prism through the veil of warm tears.
"Oh God..." the woman blubbered and pulled herself away from the slumped-form laid against
the wall. "...What-what have I done?"
"Please my-lady, do not castigate yourself..." the voice came again "...the departed bully you're
looking at was not despatched by you" the sanguine words would have been more at home if
a vase had been broken or a cup of tea had been spilled.
As Helen Caufield stumbled to stand erect, the dangerous mind-ghost, the sound that moved
like silk in her mind, the uninvited outremer -introduced himself.
"Forgive my manners, Ms. Caufield. I do not warrant your assistance due to my tardy conduct
and I can only hope that you can see your way to absolve my recent behavior" the voice said
haughtily.
"I am Wicksteed Kettering and it's been awhile"
knob to just below the 50 K Hz-mark, Kate Olson waited on the telephone for the
go-signal.
The box of wires and flashing bulbs hummed softly over in the corner of the room and
the forty-two year-old woman sitting in a gloomy bedroom of an empty house beside
the Potomac, wondered if her husband would agree with her that a new Buick LaCrosse
was the best option tomorrow.
Shifting the handset onto her preferred shoulder, she reached for her book and chanced
a quick paragraph.
Martha Stewart was her favourite.
....................................
"You will be waking soon... can you hear me?" the voice said softly and somewhere
in the smooth, mercifully-numb blackness of Helen Caufield's medicine-induced oblivion,
the drooling woman strapped to the bed acknowledged the mysterious question with a
murmur.
The attendant on duty looked up from his crossword and peered towards the metal
door of Isolation Room 101. It was 3.00am and all was quiet in this part of the Hospital.
James Spencer had worked this shift for nearly two months and in that time, he had only
had three problems with the few drug-loaded customers that enjoyed the solitary slumber
of the Segregation Ward.
Two of those 'hiccups' were solved with a quick rap of his trusty nightstick.
"It seems that certain parties deem your past activities not conducive with today's society
and so here you lay, all safe and sound from the outside world..." the voice hissed quietly.
"...Would you not agree?" the whisperer added.
Helen Caufield felt the urge to vomit, but not being able to sit upright, she smacked her lips
and slowly swallowed to draw fluids into her mouth. The iron taste faded and her breathing
slowed again.
"Who... who are you?" Helen croaked and struggled to raise her head. The lights were off
and the only illumination came from under the locked door to her right, a faint bluish-hue.
Spencer glanced up from the difficult query of 'Twelve Down' and tilted his head towards the
cool-blue light that came in from the meshed-window at the end of the corridor.
He was sure he'd heard one of the maniacs speaking.
Of course, the late shift brought the usual noises of farting, coughing and sleepy mutterings.
There had even been an occasion when the ancient nut-job with the grey beard in Room 108
had cried out a woman's name. A rap with the three-foot length of hickory against the old
bastard's head had quelled 'fungus-face' from dwelling on anymore past romances.
but James was sure he had heard a question being asked.
'Oh great, one of the crazies is awake' he thought acerbically and touched the nightstick
hanging from his belt. The crossword would have to wait.
"Helen... may I call you Helen?" the voice asked lightly and even though the owner of the
name still endeavoured to pull herself from the morass of a drug-pushed trance, she felt that
the voice held a hidden menace, a darkness that waited beyond.
The thin-framed woman in the coarse-fabric restraints nodded in the gloom.
"Thank you and I suppose I should introduce myself because I know you appreciate good
manners" the words slithered from somewhere "But I strongly advise you not to speak for
a while" the voice imparted and again, Helen moved her head in a slow, cautious agreement.
Spencer placed his head against the cool metal of Room 101's door and listened. When he
had come up the elevator to start his shift and clocked-in, Nurse Collins had mentioned that
there'd been an incident with the skinny-bitch called Caufield and Doctor Shaw.
James had offered a concerned face as he'd eyed the woman's ample bosom and nodded
in the right places as she she'd continued to explain how Dr. Shaw had subdued the whacko
with a new test-drug.
Ignoring the fantasy where Nurse Collins lap-danced for him, James had confidently assured
her that there'd be no altercations during the night.
And now here he is, with his head at the door of the loony murderess in Room 101.
Oh man, that Caufield-whore was going to pay for this.
"Do you recall the event of Nineteen Seventy-One, Helen...? Can you muster an image of
that day when you were...?" the voice requested calmly. Whatever Doctor Shaw
had dropped into poor Helen's mouth still pulled at her to return to the dark pool of
nothingness, Helen fluttered her eyelids and pursed her dry lips. "Stay with me Helen...
stay awake" the voice encouraged.
Breathing through her nose, she offered a determined face "That's good Helen, that's
very good" came the enigmatic support.
James Spencer carefully plucked the ringed-bunch of keys from his pocket and without
looking, drew the large-brass from it's many cousins and placed it softly into the keyhole.
He could swear he could hear someone whispering.
"They've been giving you pills, Helen... they've been messing with your head" the new visitor
to Helen's foggy-world said. " Forgive my ribald dictum, Helen. There is a sinister plot
afoot that involves you as a major element" the voice warned with a slightly-over dramatic
quality.
"I would urge you to jibe with my advice for you leave this evil place at once" the intruder
supplemented in a lower tone.
Helen frowned at a sudden image of a blurred Doctor Shaw speaking with two men
in military uniforms as a plastic curtain was pulled across to spoil her view.
The mangled dream fluttered wildly across her mind like a trapped bird.
"I know, Helen... it must be a terrible thing to come to terms with. You're a beyond-reform
psychotic murderess in their eyes and the world has abandoned you..." came the voice
apologetically.
"...But since time is not our chum at this moment and I need a vehicle from his haunt,
I must press you to purge from your current location."
The patient of Room 101 gulped and with wide-eyes, searched the gloom for an answer
and wiping her brow, she noticed the restraints had been loosened.
The Attendant with the wicked-looking shaft of wood, opened the door and nibbling his
bottom-lip, he hoped the damned-thing didn't creak. He wanted to catch this sucker
in mid-speech.
Spencer peered into the half-shadows towards the white lump that he assumed was Caufield
laid on her bed. The straps were open and James guessed that the drugs they'd filled her with
were the paralysing stuff that he'd seen up in Oakland. Still, he could always say nobody told
him.
Maybe things would turn out that he'd just be able to hit her one upside her head, grab a quick
feel and get back to a quiet night-shift. Maybe things would go further.
With the sudden image of Nurse Collins' face frowning at his lusty-thoughts, he went back to
keeping his focus on the dormant shape. James raised the nightstick.
"If you'll allow me..."the uninvited hissed and again, Helen heard the venom in the soft wording.
The door of her room was open and somebody was stood near her.
"...We are under attack, my girl and let the Saints sing that your new friend is here to deliver
you from this violation" and even under the influence of the medicine, she felt the awful
rage that accompanied the words.
A few moments later, the guard finished his final breath and his eyes rolled upwards.
Helen felt the pains of her strangulating endeavours thrum through her fingers around Spencer's
throat and watched the dead man's face prism through the veil of warm tears.
"Oh God..." the woman blubbered and pulled herself away from the slumped-form laid against
the wall. "...What-what have I done?"
"Please my-lady, do not castigate yourself..." the voice came again "...the departed bully you're
looking at was not despatched by you" the sanguine words would have been more at home if
a vase had been broken or a cup of tea had been spilled.
As Helen Caufield stumbled to stand erect, the dangerous mind-ghost, the sound that moved
like silk in her mind, the uninvited outremer -introduced himself.
"Forgive my manners, Ms. Caufield. I do not warrant your assistance due to my tardy conduct
and I can only hope that you can see your way to absolve my recent behavior" the voice said
haughtily.
"I am Wicksteed Kettering and it's been awhile"
