The Nightmare on Loony Street

She is standing in the middle of a desolate road, bordered on both sides by dense forests. She’s dressed in a white dress which comes halfway down her thighs. In her hand, she holds an axe. Beside her lies a white paint can. It is actually filled with vermilion, sticky fluid which looks like blood.

In front of her is a car. All the windows and doors are open. Bodies lie halfway in, halfway outside the open doors. Rivers of blood and gore flow in all directions, the bright vermilion interspersed with the dull grey.

But there is no blood on her dress or bare legs. Her face is covered completely by a blue bag- there are no slits for eyes or lips or nose. Suddenly, her whole body shakes in spasmodic intervals, her limbs moving in a methodical madness to some rhythm.

“Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! They’re all dead…hahahahaha!” a disembodied voice comes out of nowhere.

                                         ***********

Nightmares. So many of them exist, so varied in their horrors, sometimes so vivid in their presentation. They may come only in the night to other people, but not to me. Nightmares are a part of my routine thoughts- they come and go anytime they please. People have nightmares when they sleep- I have waking nightmares too. It’s been like this for a really long time, so I have made my peace with them. I have had to do so, even though these nightmares scare the hell out of me- every damn time.

I have seen a whole lot of nightmarish visions. Some are bright, Technicolor  MGM movies, while others are old black and white videos, blurred and flitting. Some come often, some only once and some are frequent. All of them are scary and creepy.

But the most frightening one is the one with the woman in white. This woman is particularly special, because she haunts me even in my waking dreams.

She appears of out of nowhere, anywhere and everywhere, and just stands nearby me, with an axe in her hand and her face obscured by a light blue bag-like thing. She has never shown her face till now. I have wondered often as to her identity, but I daren’t go near her and try to lift the bag from over her head. Something I’ve been dying to do for a long time.

This lady is not the only one whom I see everywhere. There is the man in the brown suit who sits on the swing, outside the house, when nobody else is there.

There is the old lady, in a red gown and with long, silver hair and heavily wrinkled skin who sits on the rocking chair in my room and oscillates it noisily, anytime she so pleases. If I happen to drop in on her while she’s at it, I find her staring at me with a constancy that sends a chill down my spine.

There are the twin sisters, very young, who often sneak around in the basement.

 There is the boy, covered in blood and mud, who roams around in the backyard frequently.

There’s the robed and hooded figure that appears outside my classroom window at school.

There’s the girl, in tattered clothes and a burnt face, who often sits beside my desk in the classroom.

There’s the other girl, with most of her lower jaw blown away and the blood and bones showing beneath, who appears in the lavatory when I’m the only one there.

Sounds crazy, right? I know. Everybody thinks I’m crazy. My parents, my teachers, my classmates. They all think I should be in a mental asylum. I have heard them say it.

People at the school call me Crazy Vera. I know it because they call me that to my face. I don’t care much for it. They call me crazy because I can see people who’re invisible to them. In their terms, I see people who’re not there in reality.

They don’t understand. Not even a little bit. Their world is limited to popularity, puppy romance, fashion, good food and stupid chick-lit movies and football games. Nothing in their horizon of interest has an iota of reality. I can see reality, and I’m the only one who can do so.

My parents even took me to a psychiatrist. She asked me about what I keep seeing, and I told her the truth. Every little bit of it. And she told my parents to give me some white pills- to stop the nightmares and visions, I suppose.

The waking dreams got a little blurred, like I was looking at them through a translucent glass pane. I started sleeping anytime, anywhere and everywhere- in the shower, in the classroom, in the school bathroom, in the kitchen, in the backyard.

The meds suddenly stopped. My mother told me I’d nearly drowned in the swimming pool of my school’s gym, when I chose to doze off during a swim lesson.

That was it. My parents stopped trying to ‘cure’ me of my nightmares and visions, still thinking I’m crazy. I chose to lie to them and say that the visions have disappeared, along with the bad dreams. It was then that I found Harry.

He is the only vision whom I can talk to. He appears as a hazy, background character in the nightmares. In my waking dreams, he is a tall, dark-haired, handsome boy, who tells me he’s 17- my age- and that he likes talking to me. Harry and I have long conversations in my bedroom. Sometimes he stands beside my desk in the classroom and smiles at me. Sometimes he appears outside the shower curtain and we talk while I’m bathing. I really like Harry. I want to kiss him some day.

He tells me not to be scared of the old lady in red, the hooded figure, or the girl with the burnt face. He also tells me to ignore the other people I see- they’re harmless. I want to ask him who these people really are, but am too scared of the answer.

I did ask Harry if he’ll be with me forever- because I’m so lonely in this world and he’s the only one who gets me. He has said yes, that he’ll never leave me because he also likes me and my company. That makes me very happy.

                                            ************

 Ward 201, Baltimore Psychiatric Hospital For The Criminally Insane

“I’m telling you, this chick’s super crazy,” Nurse Greene says to Nurse Linden.

Nurse Linden: Yeah. Unbelievable, this is. I heard she killed her own family. She’s Vera Morgan, right?

Nurse Greene: Yeah. Hacked them all to death with an axe. Have you heard the whole story?

Nurse Linden: No, tell me.

Nurse Greene: The way I hear it, the Morgans were driving to Vera’s grandparents’ estate in Maryland. Their car broke down on the highway outside of Newport. Apparently, she killed her father, mother and two brothers with an axe. When they found her, she was standing in the middle of the road, holding the bloody murder weapon, and she was laughing continuously, while her family’s corpses bled, lying halfway in, halfway out of the Morgan’s car. She was wearing this white dress, which was also covered in blood. Also, she had a paint can beside her, filled with blood.

Nurse Linden: Wow. That is one of the weirdest and craziest things I have heard in my life. How do you know so many details?

Nurse Greene: Vera’s dad, Dr. Brent Morgan, was a friend of our chief, Dr. Leeds. I overheard the police detective talking to him the other day.

Nurse Linden: I’ve never seen a loony like Vera. She doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep, doesn’t do anything. Just sits and mutters something all day.

Nurse Greene: I know. I’ve heard her talking to someone called Harry. She even scratches his name on the walls.

Nurse Linden: The scratching is worse. She has broken her nails and bled her fingertips with that.

Nurse Greene: She’s stuck in her own brain, poor kid. Let’s go and have some coffee.

Nurse Linden: Yeah. Lets’ go.

                                                    **********

 Some days after this conversation, Nurses Greene and Linden were the ones who found Vera Morgan dead in her ward. She’d died by slitting her wrists and throat with a pointed piece of wood she had managed to find somewhere. But there was something, written in blood, on the walls of the ward. It was interpreted by the cops as a suicide note.

I LIFTED THE BLUE BAG.

I KNOW THAT GIRL IS ME.

I DON’T WANNA SEE ANYMORE.

I WANT TO BE WITH HARRY FOREVER.

Copyright @ Percy Kerry 2014

Project 52- Week 4- Fidelity

"I hate you, Mark! I hate you so, so much!"

"What the hell have I done now?"

"Who is she?”

“Who the hell are you talking about?”

“The woman you’re sleeping with! Behind my back! Who the hell is the bitch?”

“For god’s sake, Lydia! I’m not having an affair!”

“Yes you are, liar ! You think I’m an idiot? That I don’t notice what’s going on?”

“Really? What is it that you don’t notice?”

“The lipstick stains on the collar of your shirt! Plus the smell of a woman’s perfume that comes from your clothes!”

“Seriously? That was just one time, Lydia! I told you, a colleague of mind, who happens to be shorter than me, bumped into me in the corridor and so I got her lipstick on my shirt. And I don’t smell any feminine perfume on my clothes, for the record.”

“So you think I’m crazy, huh?”

“Yes! Yes, definitely. You’re stir crazy, Lydia! All you ever do is doubt me. You have never, ever placed an iota of trust in me. I don’t know why you do this. I love you, and all I get for that is your suspicion and your acerbic remarks. You have never said a good thing to me as a spouse, and treat me as if I’m some low-life lecher. I don’t even know why I’m married to you anymore!”

“Don’t you dare pile on me, you pervert! All you men are the same. First you treat women as objects and cheat on them, then you accuse them of being crazy!”

“Enough! I’m done with you, Lydia! I’m really, really done. I agreed to stay trapped with you in this shit-hole of a marriage because I thought that someday, you will see my love for you and we can relive our relationship again. But you refuse to change. Alright, it’s over. I’m getting a divorce.”

“What? You’re…divorcing me?”

“Yes. Neither of us are happy in this marriage, so it’s best to end it. I want to marry someone who puts some faith in me as a husband.”

“But…but…I go all psycho on you only because I want to see how much you love me, Mark! How much you can put up with to stay in this marriage!”

“Oh God! You need a psychiatrist, Lydia!”

The Face-Off Killer #9

Gina Coleman tried to contain her panic, which rose in her throat like bile after the chilling vision of the life-like painted faces of women. Goosebumps rose on her skin as she couldn't suppress the feeling that the women were staring at her- through their dead eyes- as if envying her for being alive while they had to face the horrible fate of an untimely, painful death at the hands of a psychopath.

My mind is playing tricks on me, she decided.

She remembered a fact she had once learnt in class- whenever one feels the oncoming of a possible panic attack, the solution is to take deep breaths and tell oneself to calm down- which works both psychologically and physiologically.
"Come on Gina! Don't be scared...you can do it! Come on!" she told herself, taking deep, quick breaths, while another part of her brain continued to look for a way out of the hell-hole.
Then it came to her, as a bright flash of epiphany. Her hands, which were tied behind her back. They both went all around the back of the chair, where they were bound together by a rope at the wrist. But I'm not bound to the chair, she realized.
Which means that if I try to move my bound hands in an upward direction, I can pull them over the backrest, and subsequently manage to at least stand up, she mused.
Her ears first strained themselves for any sound of footsteps on the other side of the basement door, which faced her. It was dead silence.
Gina started to try and move her tied hands upwards, at the same time trying to stand up, moving her body and hands in the same rhythm. She grimaced in pain as the exercise ensured maximum stretching of her shoulder muscles. She was sure she was going to sprain her scapula in the process.
Try, try, try again, she mentally kept on repeating to herself, as she pulled and pushed and continually readjusted her movements.
After about ten minutes, she finally managed to get her hands out from behind the chair, to now right behind her back and managed to stand up. Then she almost fell forwards, realizing her legs were bound to the legs of the chair. She sat back, wondering what to do next.
Remember not to despair, honey, you got a plan now. You're gonna get out of here alive, she told herself mentally.
It was only then that she remembered that, beside the stand where those hideous faces were kept, she has seen a tray full of bright, shiny stuff. She stood up again, and looked left. Trying to ignore the faces, she saw that the ' bright, shiny' stuff was actually a tray of instruments. Instruments she'd seen, actually worked with in  the neurobiology lab.
Yes!, she mumbled, and came up with a new plan to untie her hands and legs. She sat back on the chair again.
Using the chair as a battering ram and her legs as pivot, she slowly dragged her body forwards, the chair along with it, towards the huge table on which the tray was kept.
On finally having reached the table, which wasn't that far, she stood again and turned her upper body sideways. Even with her hands bound, she managed to lift a scalpel off the tray with her fingers.
Fortunately, there was a huge mirror above the table. Her torso still turned sideways, she tried to cut through the rope. It was a difficult exercise, due to the thickness of the rope, but because the scalpel was new, it managed to slice part of the rope in half within five minutes. That was enough for her to quickly untie her hands.
She then used the scalpel to untie her legs.
Trying to suppress her joy and relief, she reminded herself there was still the problem of getting out- of the basement and of the house.
She took the scalpel, and a few other instruments, and kept them in the pocket of her jeans.
Suddenly, her ears picked up a sound. She instinctively turned to the basement door, and made out footsteps coming down the stairs. Panic rose inside her, again, but she decided to contain it. She remembered that the table which had the tray of instruments was covered with a large blue table cloth, the hem of which touched the ground.
Gina ran to the table, fell to her knees, and quickly ducked under the table, remembering not to keep her legs sticking out- a stupid mistake she'd seen being committed by abduction victims in thriller movies.
Seconds after her legs disappeared under the hem of the tablecloth, the basement door opened and he stepped inside.
"Hey Azalea...see what I got for you..." he stopped speaking when he noticed the empty chair, and the rope lying in pieces on the ground.
Gina put a hand on her moth and nose, trying to breath as noiselessly as possible, the scalpel poised in her hand, which she kept behind her back. She tried not to freak out at the cold, creepy voice of the kidnapper, which sent a chill down her spine.
"Azalea...you bitch! Where did you run off to, Azalea!" he cried.

Coming in your sleep soon!

The Face-Off Killer #8

Gina Coleman's eyes opened slowly and steadily, the upper and lower lids taking a lot of time to part ways. Her head felt unnaturally heavy, as if it was made of a 100 pound stone, and not the cranium, brain and meninges. At first, her vision was a total blur. She blinked again and again till it cleared, and she could see properly. All she saw was a room, one she'd never seen before. She registered her head was lolling to one side, and automatically straightened it.
Her head feeling a little less heavy, she looked around her, and it slowly dawned on her that she was in some sort of a basement, because it felt unnaturally cold, and the lighting was different from that usually in rooms above ground. She felt that she was alone in the room, and tried moving her hands and feet, only to discover they were tied to a chair on which she was seated. Despite the headache she had, she tried to remember what had happened to place her in this strange place. Gradually she recalled flashes of it- walking back to her dorm, hearing noises behind her, being grabbed from behind and suddenly passing out. She realized she'd been abducted and was being held as a captive.
And yet, she was surprised by how coolly and calmly she was playing over the facts in her mind, as if she was a student back at the School of Medical Sciences, doing a psychobiologic case study on fear in abduction victims, and not a victim lying tied up in some psycho's basement herself. Perhaps Professor Higgins was right about her well adjusted personality, and what a great neurobiologist she would make.
Well, the time was to get out of that damned place, and not think of future laurels.
She looked at the room around her with renewed eyes, looking for anything that might help her free herself. And felt a wave of revulsion travel through her body when she saw the painted, decorated faces of various women balanced on stands. The faces looked real, almost life-like- like they'd been that of real women rather than mannequins.
What kind of a kidnapper had she fallen a victim to?
 
                                                ************

"I think it's time we drew up a rough profile of our Face-Off Killer, detectives," Lieutenant Will Masters said to Ansen Cole and Lance Carter, as they sat in his cabin at the Boston PD HQ.
"Yes. A prelim profile might help us narrow down the kind of killer we're looking for," Ansen Cole observed.
"Okay. Let's take this to our murder-board," saying this, Masters got up from his seat, took a black marker pen from his desk and went up to a whiteboard to the right of his desk.
THE FACE-OFF KILLER, he write on the board.
"So what do we know about this killer as of now?" he asked the two detectives.
"The killer is a male in his late-twenties or early thirties," said Ansen Cole.
"Good, what else?" Masters said, writing down Cole's point on the board.
"He's trained in the medical sciences, because of the way he perfectly defaced his victims with a scalpel. Most probably he's a surgeon," said Lance Carter.
"And he just took a third victim. Gina Coleman, student at the School of Medical Sciences at Boston University, was kidnapped last night," Ansen Cole announced, his voice grim, his eyes on his pager.

The Face-Off Killer #7

Gina Coleman walked along the dimly lit road to the Fairhall Dormitory on the Boston University campus. Her steps were quick and decisive as she tried to make it to the dorm as soon as possible; evening wasn't a good time for young women to be up and about alone. Usually Gina returned to her room before nightfall, but that day she had to stay behind late at the School of Medical Sciences to finish some academia related work. She and her friends, like hundreds of female students before her, had written to the university authorities asking for better lighting of the streets in the campus vicinity, because of past incidents of violence against women. The petitions were to no avail- therefore the girls had to take responsibility for their own safety.
Gina thought she heard footsteps behind her. She stopped in her tracks and looked around, searching for the source of the noise. The road was deserted and surrounded by trees and bushes. The only sound Gina could hear was the chirping of the insects and other insects.
Gina mustered up her courage, tried not to get scared, recalled that the dorm was only 10 minutes from here, and started walking again, pulling her heavy bag closer.
She thought she heard footsteps behind her again. She stopped yet again and looked behind her.
"Hello?" she said, trying to sound curious rather than nervous. The road was deserted. Gina felt the hair on her neck stand up- the sensation of being watched by an unseen entity overwhelmed her and heightened her nervousness.
Being a Neuroscience and Behavioral Psychology student, Gina knew what physiological processes her body was undergoing to adapt her to possible danger in her current situation-walking a lonely stretch of road at might. Somehow rationalizing her fear and paranoia through scientific knowledge made her feel better and less scared, and her mind told her body to stay in motion. She took a deep breath, and started walking again.
A few seconds later she heard footsteps yet again...except this time they were right behind her, and she knew someone was chasing her.
Before she had time to fully register the danger, a hand firmly lodged itself over her mouth, cutting off her scream, and another grabbed her by the waist. She fought and struggled with both of her hands and legs, before inhaling the chloroform that started to anesthetize her and made her cease fighting.
Her attacker lifted her bodily, and slumped her over his shoulder. Then he hightailed it out of there.

         *********

Ansen Cole and Lance Carter sat in the AV Lab, on their tenth cup of cold coffee, watching the video footage from the ATM camera. They still hadn't narrowed down a possible suspect- thousands of people had been on that street the day Danna McBride's body was discovered, and it was nearly impossible to narrow down a possible suspect.
"Hey...Cole...rewind the video again!" Carter suddenly yelled, making Cole nearly jump out of his skin and spilling a bit of the coffee in his own hand.
"What? You saw something?" Cole asked, nonplussed.
"Yes...yes, rewind the video please!" Carter said again, nearly falling from his seat in excitement, his eyes the size of tennis balls.
"Okay...tell me where to pause," Cole replied, and taking the remote, started rewinding the video.
"Stop...right there! Do you see that guy?" Carter said, pointing to the plasma TV eagerly.
"What guy? Where?" Cole asked.
"The one standing under the awning of the antiques shop, right next to the alleyway. He's wearing a blue polo shirt, a brown jacket and blue denims, and a cap on his head!" Carter replied.
Cole tried to locate the man Carter was talking about, and found him soon enough. The red cap was obscuring part of his face, but still, it was a score.
"Let's play the video again, and find out where he came from, what he did here and where he went off to," Ansen said, now sharing Carter's enthusiasm.
Ansen pushed Rewind, and they saw the camera capture their guy coming in from the left side...right around from the street where Cole had been with his girlfriend to collect the cake that very afternoon. The man went to stand in front of the shop, and subtly, from his position, tried to recon the area around the alleyway. Soon, he turned right again and stood at the mouth of the alley, took out his phone and seemed to be busy with it. But Cole and Carter could clearly see that the man's attention was fixated on the alley- his face was turned that way while his hands worked on the phone.
A few minutes later, he turned on his heel and walked back the way he had come. In this whole charade, nobody paid attention to him or turned to look twice in his direction. He was the perfect predator, camouflaging his movements and reaching his murderous goals while successfully remaining inconspicuous, Cole thought.
"Did you see that?" Carter asked.
"Yup...I did. The bugger didn't bother to look up, unfortunately, or we could have seen his face. Anyways, we got something. I'll print out snapshots of the man's every moment on this film," Cole said.
after he had taken the print-outs, they began to watch the video again, looking for the man's reappearance in the video. They didn't find anything till the footage had reached that of late evening.
This time it was Cole who spotted the anomaly.
"See the dark van that just pulled up near the sidewalk?" Cole yelled, pausing the video and rewinding it.
"Yes! A dark van is the perfect camouflage during evening time. No one would notice it in the dark! But it's parked right in front of the alley. Shit!" Carter exclaimed.
"Have patience! Let's watch the rest of it," Cole said.
Cole allowed the video to play forwards, and a few minutes later, they saw a figure in a dark jumpsuit, with its back to the camera, carrying a black trash bag into the alleyway.
"That's him!" Carter said.
"Yes. Carrying Danna's body like a sack of potatoes," Cole replied. He didn't know whether to feel excited or mortified.
A few minutes later, the figure came out of the alley, sans the bag, and this time he was facing the camera.
"So he wears a jumpsuit and ski-mask," Ansen observed.
"And drives a dark SUV," Carter observed.
"I'll print out these photos as well. The Lieutenant will be so glad," Ansen said.

The Face-Off Killer #6

"So did you get everything?" Lance Carter asked his partner, Ansen Cole, as he entered the Audio-Visual lab of the Boston CSI HQ.
"Yeah. Burgers, coffee, sandwiches and bagels. We are ready to pull an all-nighter," replied Cole, lugging packets of food and two huge Styrofoam cups of cold coffee in his hand.
"Oh good! There...let me give you a hand," Carter said.
Five minutes later the two men were settled firmly in front of the huge plasma monitor where the videos for analysis were viewed.
"We have about 24 hours of real time video footage to view," Carter spoke, sipping his coffee.
"I know. So let's get started," Cole replied. He switched the screen on with the remote.
"Let the movie begin," Cole said.
   *********
"Those freaking bastards!" Lt. Will Masters muttered, as he sat in his cabin reading the newspaper.
A particularly disturbing article, which painted the Boston police in a very, very unflattering light, had appeared on the front page.
The Face-Off Killer strikes again; Police still clueless
Boston: In another shocking discovery on Tuesday, the police discovered a body, apparently that of a woman, with the face ripped off. The victim is said to be college student Danna McBride. She's the second woman to be killed by this Face-Off killer. But the police, as of yet, have no clue so as to who, or why, is committing these gruesome murders. They don't even have a suspect in custody till now. There is a fear psychosis developing in the minds of Boston denizens now. There is only one question on everyone's minds and lips- is Boston under the siege of a psychotic serial killer right now? Are the women of this city safe? The police seem to be tight-lipped on the topic. The public needs some kind of an assurance; and some tips so as to what to and what not to do in these troubling times.
Lieutenant Will Masters has been unavailable for comments.

"Fear psychosis my foot! You morons are the one spreading the fear psychosis among the public to sell your newspapers!" Will exclaimed, exasperatedly.
There was a series of loud knocks on the door.
"Come in," Will said.
"Everything okay, boss?" Officer Natalie Dunham entered the room.
"No. Not okay! These media idiots think they can tell us how to do our jobs! As if!" Will said, angrily.
"What happened?"
Will showed Natalie the newspaper article about the Face-Off Killer.
"So now they've given him a name! What an honor for the killer! This is how such people feel glamorized and encouraged to kill more," Natalie observed, reading the article.
"I've no idea what to do, Officer. How can we tell the people how to protect themselves when we don't know anything about the killer?" Will asked.
"I am at a loss too, Lieutenant," Natalie replied.
                            ***********
He stood at the arched entrance to the university campus, pretending to be a student reading a book and enjoying the outdoors. Actually he did have to study for an upcoming test, but this wasn't the time to do that. This was the time to hunt for new prey. The prey which would give him his Azalea.
Suddenly, he saw a group of girls go by. The one who interested him stood in the center. A young, luscious blonde with a curvaceous figure, dressed in a tank-top and jeans.
He felt a strange stirring in his loins. He had to have her, soon. She was his Azalea.