Frantic

He rushed into the claustrophobic subway, franticly looking behind him, the cruel halogen streetlamps casting no light in that cold place. The sickening music of the circus still filled the air, the ringmaster jeering at the crowd, tearing at his mind. Taking his chance to pause for breath, he rested against a pile of freezing metal dustbins, their litter overflowing onto the ground beneath them. Still, his instincts told him he was not alone; the senses of his body tingling, needles down his spine.

His mind was a blur, unsure of what had just happened to him. He was at the circus with his children when the ringmaster seemingly looked into his eyes with a cold icy stare. The tent around him appeared to waver and spin, all reality lost at that point. His temples throbbed; his mind seemed to grope around his skull of its own accord, trying to escape from this madness. The rest was a blur, like a half remembered nightmare the morning after which leaves you reeling from the mortal terror.

The wind was howling on that bitter night, carrying its screams through the air – and along with it, the nauseating stench of urine and blood. Tears of angels began to fall outside, a waltz of lightning across the lurking darkness, the crackle of gods in pursuit. A sharp pain shot through his side, and drawing his hand away, he noticed he was still bleeding, the hot crimson liquid spilling down his fingers.

“Of course a wound that size is still bleeding…” he thought.

Suddenly, something in the depths of the tunnel moved. He turned sharply to see what it was, but only the pitch darkness lay before him, closing in its malevolent tendrils. Fear gripped his heart, but he knew he could not turn back. Biting down on his lip, he staggered on, the blood pooling at each step. His eyes passed over the dingy posters on the stained brick walls, the advertisement for the Brazen Bull fetish club with its caged whores, Lock and Key, standing out. They lay smeared with blood, grinning, seemingly impaled on the horns of a demonic figure.

He focused on the walls more keenly, eager to take his eyes off the poster. Dark blemishes adorned them, smeared patches of the indescribable. Faint shapes seemed to form in the darkness; a grim face staring intently at him, a tiny handprint seeming to meet his but not. The putrid stench of rotting flesh filled his nostrils and sent his guts lurching, heaving, and forced him to stumble backwards towards the opposite wall. His stomach failed him, compelling the sickening taste of bile and half digested food up his throat and onto the urine soaked ground beneath. Struggling for breath, he simply stared at the matter he had lost, aware of the presence of blood, and a small glittering object. Straining his eyes through the darkness, the shape of an undersized knife came into focus resting against the wall covered in his own blood, and slowly bending over to pick it up, a fresh pain shot through his side-wound, the searing agony travelling around his body.

Suddenly, the swift sound of inhuman footsteps stomped behind him, a force knocking into his being and sending him plunging into the wall.

His head throbbed in torment, the deafening sound of pounding filled his temples and his ears, but when he turned to look, only darkness met his eyes. The noise seemed distinct but to be coming from the very air around him, closing tightly in on him. He struggled for breath once more, the air becoming denser, and the feeling of pure evil, pure hatred, grew.

But as quickly as it began, it ceased; the silence unnerved him more than the thunderous barrage of sound had, leaving only the false innocence of the circus toying with his mind.

He waited. His mentality told him he was, once more, alone, but his soul said otherwise. The feeling of being watched still remained, that malevolent playfulness that seemed to control what was happening around him. Insanity pulled at him, soft shapes appearing before his eyes but fading just out of sight before he could confirm their existence. But just as he thought he had lost his mind completely, a sudden sharp reminder of reality shot through his palm and, looking down, he saw the hot fresh blood spill from within his clasped fist. He loosened his hand’s instinctive grip upon the blade and let it fall to the damp ground with an unearthly clank.

He rose to his aching feet, driven to move on. The feeling of compulsion further into the dismal darkness overwhelmed him greater than the stench of death - His walk was irregular, the pain shooting up and down his body with each agonising step.

Leaning on the grubby walls for support, he forced himself on. Dull unearthly vibrations travelled through them, the feelings of reality struggling to regain some control. He reached a corner and stopped – knowing the only way to go was further around it, through to the King Street subway. He prayed the trains were running, and although he knew it was late evening, the sun having set, mankind above slept in a haunting silence. The ruptures of thunder still filled the air, menacingly threatening to destroy humanity. However, perhaps he could find someone…someone to explain what was happening to him, anybody to heal his wounds and bring him back to the world he once knew.

Taking a breath, he sharply turned the corner, expecting to see the turnstile…but what met his eyes defied all possibility.

The hallway travelled into eternity, its décor rapidly changing from bare brick to antiseptic white. The walls resembled a sanatorium, unstained by darkness, the strong sterile lamps blinding him. Yet no light had travelled around the corner, no indication of this until now.

He edged cautiously onward, stopping at a barred window to try and assume some sense of time and place. The landscape was green – the sun hanging high in the sky. Outside, the birds sang in joyous chorus; yet turning back to the darkness, the rain fell heavily. The thunder still shook the world. The sign in the distance proclaimed where he was – it itself defying all possibility.

It was the Vannacutt Asylum, some 5 miles out of town. The same place his mother had been committed just last winter.

His mind boggled and reeled, his sanity questioned how this could be true. But it was – the walls were solid, the light was scarring his eyes, the handle of the abandoned wheelchair he leant on cold against his fingers. He rested against it, looking further on. Inexplicably his wrist began to tingle, a strange sensation travelling around it.

In the back of his back of his mind he pondered its existence, unsure of what was real and what were the vulgar delusions of his worsening sanity. But the sensation grew, a force sliding over bone and veins. The hairs on his arm stood to attention, travelling up his neck to alert his brain, the tiny fingers suddenly grabbing hold and pulling him with preternatural strength – but looking back to the wheelchair he saw nothing, the struggle breaking and his hand free. A juvenile giggle filled the air, unnerving him more than the newly formed bloodstained fingerprints around his wrist.

The image of the asylum faded, darkness seeping through once more. The walls ebbed, the stains grew, and the man fell to his knees in despair.

“My mother…” he whispered.

The memory tortured him, the heartache and the agony of those dreadful events four months ago returning fresh to reopen the wounds and let the blood flow once more…She had been fine, the mother he always knew, but one night her sanity unexpectedly fled. She screamed and kicked, warning of demons and darkness emerging from the walls. Her cries still filled his mind, night after night; His conscience nagged him, tearing him apart to the depths of his soul.

“How could I have left her,” he agonised, “how could I have deserted her in that god awful place…”

He remembered her tear-stained face as she was dragged into her private cell…the walls padded and bare, “to save her from herself” they had said. He watched from outside as she scurried into the corner, staring in horror at some invisible force. She pulled her nightgown down over her knees and hugged them, rocking back and forth, whimpering and crying in terror.

She banged on the door. She demanded to be let out. Her voice grew frantic, terrified sobs cutting through, screaming “Don’t you believe me? The darkness…it will consume us all!”

She died in her sleep an hour later. The doctors could offer no explanation – they say her mind just burnt itself out, unable to cope with its own delusions.

Blood stained tears slid down his face and onto the soaking ground beneath. He lifted his arm and whipped them away, and attempting to push the memories out of his mind, he rose once more. The turnstile did lie before him – unlocked and accessible, but the lights off. He rushed forward and went through, the metal freezing against his fingers, the mist emerging in quick gasps from his mouth. The walls were still stained, the bloodied scratches seeming to move with him along the corridor, to pursue his attempt for escape.

He reached the end of the passage and sharply turned the corner, excruciating pain surging as his side tore to shreds. The sign for the King street exit told him it was straight ahead, but only darkness lay before him.

Suddenly, his feet struck something. Losing his balance, he tripped and landed in the bloodied mass of flesh that lay in the middle of the corridor and, scampering away on his hands and knees, he turned and looked. Something caught his eye.

A tiny hand stretched motionless towards him, limp on the urine soaked floor, dripping in blood and its flesh torn. A Mickey Mouse watch hung loosely on the wrist.

Sobs escaped his lips, disbelief at what he was seeing. He slowly reached forward and turned what remained of the head, its blood matted hair tangling in his fingertips, confirming his worst fears.

“God…please god…please no, Rebecca…please, no…” he muttered as he lifted his child’s lifeless body into his arms. Her tiny innocent face was locked in terror, eyes wide, staring in horror past him.

Disbelief overwhelmed him. He raised her head to his shoulder and wept. Wept for everything that was happening – for his lost child, for his mother, for the lack of understanding or reality to this nightmare. He prayed, he begged he would wake up and everything would be normal. Desperation grew, and as he rose to his feet, he carried the doll like corpse pressed against his shoulder. He turned, and ran through the night. Shadowy hands reached out from the walls, tearing with clawed nails at his clothes and his arms. They tore into flesh and sent the blood surging, but he carried on. He screamed, he cried for anybody, somebody to take away this madness.

He twisted around a corner, and another, knowing they shouldn’t be there. He should have been able to keep going straight, but crossroads lay in every direction he went. The darkness toyed with him, the malevolence growing and the childish laughter resounding in the walls. They shuddered and cracked, the barrage of sound returning and following him wherever he went. He knew he was trapped – the walls seemed to close in on him but stayed as they were. He turned another corner, and stopped. It was a dead end. The evil still terrorised the air.

A hand grabbed his shoulder. Spinning around, his one free arm flew in defence, but he couldn’t believe what he saw.

A middle-aged man stood before him. He was unshaven, with a pistol on his belt and a security badge on his breast. The walls were white and clean, the floor spotless and smelling of disinfectants. The body of Rebecca still clung in his arms, however, drenched with blood and urine.

The security guard stared at the man, his eyes wide with terror. The man looked a state, he thought to himself – his clothes ragged, he was dripping with blood. Looking back down the long corridor, there were erratic trails of the indescribable leading from a distant turnstile.


The man fell to his knees and clawed at the security guard. He pleaded desperately, mumbling about darkness and evil, about his daughter, about an asylum. Then he passed out.



The man’s eyes slowly opened. The walls were white and padded, his arms bound by a straight jacket. Doctors stood around him, one sliding a needle deep into his skin.

“Do you know where you are, Mr. Bachman?”

His eyes blurred, he winced in pain as the fluid was injected into his arm.

“You’re in the Vannacutt institute. I’m afraid you’re very sick…do you remember what happened?”

He tried to scream, but his throat was closed. The Vannacutt institute, where his mother was kept. Where his mother died. The memories came flooding back to him, overwhelming his emotions. The subway, the evil, the darkness. He fought to release his voice, but he couldn’t. Tears welled in his eyes.

“You were found in the King Street subway, clutching the body of a young child, your daughter. You were mumbling about some kind of darkness…what can you tell me about that?”

He tried to speak again, but could not. He just rapidly shook his head, looking around him hysterically, from face to face as they all set their eyes on him. One turned and walked out, followed by a second.

“Get some rest, Mr. Bachman.”

With that, the last doctor left. The heavy door was locked and bolted. From outside, he heard the doctors discussing him – paranoid schizophrenic, has delusions about darkness and the devil coming to get him. Runs in the family, mother committed four months ago but died shortly after.

Tears streamed down his face once more. He was alone. Nobody believed him. His daughter was dead, his son missing.

But something caught his eye. From the doorway, blood red stains etched across the padding. His eyes grew huge with terror. Blackness oozed out into the air, a fine mist, a shadowy form that slithered towards him. He scurried backward into the corner but was trapped there, knowing all he could do was wait.

The childish laughter filled the air once more. His throat was closed, his eyes were wide, and as the darkness seeped into his leg, he caught a final memory of his mother. His mother, who nobody believed either.

His soul was torn from him, as was his screams. They filled the air. His body slumped over as the doctors ran into the room. It was silent and empty, save only for his lifeless corpse.

With eyes full of terror.

And suddenly, the haunting sound of the childrens' laughter filled the air once more.