Doc Mortis Page 6

  Minutes passed. How many I can’t say. Corners were turned, doors were held open. Once, I caught sight of my reflection in the cracked screen of a television mounted on the wall above a set of doors. I saw myself briefly, just long enough to spot the straps across my head, chest and legs, securing me to a hospital bed. I glimpsed hands too, pushing the bed along, but then I was past the TV, trundling round another corner and along yet another corridor.

  Nobody spoke. I heard echoing footsteps and the occasional rustle of clothing, but other than that – and the squeaking of the bed’s wheels – my journey through the hospital took place in near total silence.

  Finally, I was wheeled into a much brighter room. Four fluorescent tubes burned steadily on the ceiling. The light stung my eyes, but I found myself powerless to close them. With a final squeak, the bed came to a stop. I heard footsteps retreating and a door swinging closed, and I knew that whoever had been pushing me had now left.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said a voice from close beside me. It was a man’s voice, with a strange sing-song accent that I couldn’t quite place. German, maybe? It was hard to say. ‘Here’s my new patient. Oh, how I love it when the new ones arrive!’

  From the corner of my eye I saw a shock of wild, white hair. It was dirty and greasy, matted in places with flecks of red.

  ‘You have found your way to my hospital because there is something wrong with you,’ said the voice. The accent wasn’t German. It might have been Russian. It was high-pitched and wobbled a little, getting higher towards the end of each sentence, as if he was three words away from a fit of the giggles. ‘Something... broken. Something wrong. Nasty, nasty.’

  A face loomed above me. Lit from behind, it was cast almost entirely in shadow. I could make out a pair of round glasses perched on the end of a crooked nose, and a bristle of white, wiry hair sticking out from each nostril.

  With an elastic snap, he pulled a thin rubber glove over each hand. The rubber creaked as he flexed his fingers in and out.

  ‘And I am very much going to enjoy finding out what it is.’

  Chapter Eight

  THE DOCTOR IS IN

  He quickly vanished from view again, leaving me gazing at a bright spotlight that shone directly down on me. Inside I was panicking – scared, terrified of what was about to happen next. Outside, it was impossible to tell, my body showing no sign of the turmoil within. Even my heart was beating a slow, steady rhythm. It was as if my mind and my body were two separate entities, completely detached from one another.

  ‘Not like this, though. I won’t examine you like this. Where would be the fun?’ the white-haired man muttered. I could hear drawers being slid out and cabinets being opened and closed. ‘First we must find... aha!’

  He moved beside me again, right on the edge of my vision. Humming below his breath – a tune I recognised, but couldn’t put a name to – he set to work.

  He held a small glass bottle out in front of him, which put it directly in my line of sight. This left me no choice but to watch. It was a deliberate move on his part. He wanted me to see what was coming next. He wanted me scared.

  A long, thin needle was inserted through the cork in the top of the bottle. I saw him pull back on the plunger and a thick, orange liquid swirled into the syringe.

  ‘I promise you, this won’t hurt a bit,’ the man said. He withdrew the needle from the bottle and flicked its pointed tip with his finger. ‘Although I cannot say the same for what comes after.’ He laughed at this, a snorting, snuffling laugh like a pig rooting around in filth. ‘Now, don’t move. Oh, wait, you can’t!’

  If the needle went in, I didn’t feel it. There was no bee sting this time, just a slow, gradual feeling of tension in my muscles, then a dull ache at the spots where the straps held me down.

  My jaw was clenched tightly shut, back teeth clamped together. I could feel it all now, as my body began to wake up. Spasms shook the length of my spine, making my arms and legs twitch. I felt pain in my hands, and realised my fingers were curled in tight, my fingernails digging sharply into my palms.

  As my limbs stirred, I felt my heart begin to pump harder. It raced in my chest, pounding against my ribcage like it was trying to break free. My breath came in frantic, desperate gulps, making my throat raw and my lungs ache. Sweat seeped from my skin. It trickled down from my forehead and flooded my eyes. I blinked sluggishly, and discovered my body was back under my control again.

  With a start, I tried to sit up, but the straps across my head and chest kept me pinned down. I could feel something rigid round my neck too. It was pressed tight against my chin and lower jaw, and made any head movement virtually impossible. A neck brace, like the kind used on crash victims.

  I was just as immobile as I’d been a few seconds ago, only now I could feel the pain where the shackles pinned me down. I could move my eyes, but it changed nothing. Whichever way I looked, all I could see was ceiling.

  Somewhere, off to my left, another drawer gave a metal squeak as it was heaved open. I tried to look in the direction of the sound, but my eyes couldn’t swivel far enough. I could hear the man singing tunelessly, below his breath.

  ‘If you go down to the woods today, you’re sure of a big surprise,’ he sang, dragging out every word. ‘If you go down to the woods today, you’d better go in disguise.’

  ‘Wh-who are you?’ I asked, my voice shaking. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘For every bear that ever there was, will gather there for certain because...’

  His feet scuffed on the floor right beside me. I pulled hard against the straps, but the leather only dug deeper into my flesh until I couldn’t take the pain any longer.

  ‘Untie me! Let me go!’

  He appeared above me again, his wide face little more than a silhouette against the overhead light. The smell of soap and disinfectant filled my head as he leaned in close. The last line of the song was a slow, scratchy whisper in my ear.

  ‘Today’s the day the teddy bears have their piiiicnic.’

  He stepped back as the bed beneath me gave a sudden jerk, and a mechanical whirring noise rose to a deafening roar. With a grinding of metal the top half of the bed began to lift up, pushing me into a sitting position.

  Only when I was sitting fully upright did the bed stop moving and the machinery within it fall silent.

  My eyes darted left, right, up, down, taking in the room. It was brighter than the others I’d seen, yes, but its condition was no better.

  A small trolley, like the one used to serve meals to patients in bed, was the only thing in the room not to be half buried by junk. It stood just a little off to my right. Although that looked clean and well cared for, the rest of the room felt like it had been discarded. Cast aside. Forgotten.

  And then there was the blood. It was spattered across every one of the walls. It dotted the ceiling. It pooled on the floor where the floorboards dipped.

  And it stained the white coat of the man before me.

  He was short. That was the first thing I noticed. Five feet tall, if he was lucky. His white hair sprouted from his head in all directions, tangled and matted and out-of-control. It probably added half a foot to his height.

  A pair of round glasses were balanced on the end of his pock-marked nose, a crack running across one of the lenses. Two narrow slits of eyes peered over the top of the frames, almost lost beneath his bushy white eyebrows.

  His lips were purple and rubbery, thin at the corners and fat in the middle. Fish lips. The teeth between them were uneven and crooked, and caked in a thick yellow scum. The front two had a wide gap between them, through which I could see his tongue flicking back and forth.

  ‘Hello,’ he said brightly. His latex gloves creaked again as he gave me a friendly wave. Drawing his fish lips back into a smile, he thrust a gloved hand into one of the pockets of his long white coat. A second later, he produced a small white stick with a ball on the end. He held it out in front of me and nodded encouragingly. ‘Lollipop?’

&
nbsp; ‘Why are you doing this? Let me go.’

  ‘It’s cola-flavoured. Yum yum!’

  ‘Get these straps off! Let me go!’

  ‘Come now,’ he said, his eyebrows furrowing to a knot above his nose, ‘everyone loves a lollipop.’

  I didn’t reply. He wasn’t about to just let me go. I knew that, so why waste my breath? I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of watching me beg.

  I locked my eyes on his, ignoring the outstretched arm. It took a few moments, but eventually he gave a shrug and slipped the lollipop back into his pocket.

  ‘Well, maybe not everyone.’

  He rocked back on his heels, looking me up and down. His bottom jaw was shadowed with several days‘ worth of stubble. It made a harsh, scratchy noise as he rubbed his chin.

  ‘Most interesting,’ was all he said at first. Then, when he’d finished looking me over, he asked, ‘Tell me, do you know where you are?’

  ‘The Darkest Corners.’

  Both his eyebrows raised in surprise. ‘Well, well,’ he muttered. ‘Most, most interesting.’

  He took a step to his left, to where the trolley stood. I hadn’t noticed, but he clutched a leather bag in his left hand. It was about the size of a laptop case, but wider at the bottom than it was at the top. The case made no sound when he sat it down on the trolley. The brass clasp too, unclipped without so much as a whisper, silently offering up access to whatever lay inside.

  ‘And do you know who I am?’

  I steadied my voice, filling it with all the false bravado I could. ‘Just another monster.’

  For a moment he seemed taken aback, then he doubled over and began to snort with laughter.

  ‘Monster? No, no. Not I. I am no monster,’ he said, when he was finally able to speak. He reached a hand inside his bag and pulled out a sliver of metal. The thin blade was pitted with flecks of orange rust, but I recognised the object right away. I’d held one in my hands less than an hour ago. It was a surgical scalpel.

  His gaze crept in my direction and the laughter died in his throat. ‘I’m the monster maker.’

  The scalpel gave a click as he set it gently down on the trolley beside the bag.

  ‘My name,’ he said, ‘is Doctor Mortis.’ He reached back into the bag again. This time he pulled out an old-fashioned hand-drill. He turned the handle a few times and the coiled spike of the drill bit cranked round and round. ‘But you may address me as “Doc”.’

  Clunk. The drill went on the trolley beside the scalpel. The hand went back in the bag.

  ‘Not many patients come to my hospital of their own free will,’ he said. Something else came out of the bag. It was thin and curved, like a pirate’s hook. ‘Always they must be... collected. Brought in from the outside. Most of them do not even realise the truth.’

  ‘What truth?’ I was still keeping the panic from my voice, but the sight of those tools was draining my courage fast.

  Doc set the hook down. Click. ‘That they are sick. That they need treatment.’ He reached into the bag again. ‘Often, they try to get away. They try to flee, to escape my hospital.’ A hacksaw came out of the satchel. He gently caressed the serrated blade with the tips of his fingers. ‘Of course, they never do.

  ‘They are diseased. All of them,’ he continued. ‘Just like you, Patient Three-Nine-Six-Two.’ Placing the saw beside the rest of his tools, he wheeled the trolley towards me. ‘I do not know what ills have befallen you. I do not know why you have come. But I give you my word as a surgeon...’

  His hand hovered over the tools for a moment, before alighting on the scalpel. ‘...I will not stop until I find out.’

  ‘Wait!’ I said. I pulled against my restraints again, suddenly all too aware of what was about to happen next. ‘Stop! Stay back!’

  ‘Sssh, Three-Nine-Six-Two, sssh,’ he said. The blade was in his hand now. He wiped it once or twice across the front of his blood-stained coat. ‘Try not to get so agitated.’

  My breath came in gasps, fast and shallow, like a racehorse after a sprint. I thrashed harder against my bonds, rattling the metal frame of the bed, then almost screaming when the leather straps held tight.

  ‘Don’t come any closer,’ I warned. All traces of bravery had gone from my voice now, leaving behind only desperation and fear. ‘I mean it. Stay back!’

  ‘Do not panic. Relax,’ he whispered. The scalpel twirled slowly in his fat, sausage fingers, and a toothy, lop-sided smile took over his face. ‘Or this really is going to hurt.’

  Chapter Nine

  THE PORTER

  I’ve been scared before. Too many times to count. Even before all this started – before Christmas Day, before Mr Mumbles – I was afraid. I was afraid of the dark, afraid of water, afraid of the creepy house next door to mine.

  I was scared of the kids in school, scared that I didn’t fit in, scared that I’d never find out who my dad was. Yep, even before my life became one big horror story, I spent most of my time afraid.

  But I was never as afraid as this.

  I knew it was pointless to struggle, but I couldn’t help myself. My muscles stood in knots as I pulled frantically against the straps. The leather creaked softly under the strain, but held fast.

  My lungs ejected air in short, rapid bursts. My head went light and a swirling darkness closed in from the edges of my vision, until all I could see was the thin, rusted blade in Doc’s hand as he brought it closer, closer, closer.

  ‘Have no fear,’ he said soothingly. ‘I will make you better than you have ever been. I will change you in ways you could not begin to imagine.’

  Imagine. That was it!

  Back in the real world, my imagination was my weapon. I still had no idea how, but I could make things happen just by imagining them happening. Here, though, that didn’t work. Here in the Darkest Corners, I was powerless.

  At least, that’s what my dad had told me. I’d tried using my powers against him recently, and discovered I couldn’t. He’d told me then that my abilities didn’t work over here, but what if he was lying? What if it had just been a temporary glitch? What if I could escape with just a thought?

  My legs were straight out in front of me, held horizontally by the bottom half of the bed. Doc stopped approaching when he reached my feet. Slowly, he began to untie the laces of my trainers.

  ‘I think we shall start here, with the piggies,’ he smirked. ‘The little piggies. Oink, oink.’

  The first shoe came off. He sniffed it, pulled a face, then tossed it over his shoulder. Tilting his head back so he could peer through the glasses balanced on the end of his nose, he set to work on the laces of the other shoe.

  It was now or never. I closed my eyes and concentrated, imagining the straps and the neck brace vanishing in little puffs of smoke. The picture shimmered around inside my head, never quite coming into focus. I waited for the buzzing sensation to race across my scalp, watched for the sparks that signalled my abilities were working to begin darting through the blackness behind my eyes, but neither one came.

  My other shoe came off. I heard it clatter somewhere across the room. With two sharp tugs my socks were removed. My toes curled in, as if recoiling from the sudden glare of the lights.

  I screwed my face up, jammed my teeth together, trying to force the sparks to ignite inside my head. But no matter how hard I tried, how much I struggled, I couldn’t see them. They didn’t come.

  The sparks were gone.

  A sharp, pricking sensation in the smallest toe of my left foot startled me. I opened my eyes to find Doc crouching down by my feet. He had the tip of the scalpel pressed against my pinky toe.

  ‘This little piggy went to market,’ he said. His eyes raised from my toe and met my worried gaze. ‘Tell me about your creator.’

  ‘W-what do you mean?’

  ‘This little piggy stayed at home.’ The scalpel moved on to my next toe. My foot twitched, but remained fixed in place. ‘Your creator,’ he repeated. ‘Your... what is the word? Friend. From the real
world. Tell me about them. They died, yes?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘This little piggy ate roast beef.’ Another toe, another stabbing pain.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ I asked, as the scalpel moved to toe number four.

  ‘And this little piggy had none.’ He raised his head and peered over his glasses at me, like a disapproving school teacher. ‘Tell me about your creator. The child who imagined you. Who brought you to life in the real world and anchored you there.’

  I could only blink. Was he saying...? Did he think...?

  ‘Imagined me?’

  ‘He or she died in the hospital, yes? That is how you ended up here? That is how you got inside? No one gets inside, otherwise.’

  ‘No one imagined me,’ I said. ‘I’m not like you.’

  He shook his head sadly, and lifted the scalpel from my second largest toe. Turning it in his fingers, he placed the blade across the front of my big toe, just below the nail. There was no major pain, but a thin trickle of blood began to ooze down my foot.

  ‘And this little piggy went––’

  I felt the blade press harder, hissed as the pain cut sharply into my flesh.

  ‘I’m telling the truth!’ I cried. ‘Listen to me, I’m from the real world. No one imagined me, I was born.’

  He hesitated with the knife, then set it down on the bed beside my foot. Standing up sharply, his hands went to my face, his thumbs on my cheeks. He pulled both my eyes wide open and looked inside. ‘Oh dear,’ he frowned. ‘It seems you are delusional, yes? It happens sometimes. The mind will not let you accept what you really are.’

  ‘I’m not delusional. I’m telling you, it’s the truth,’ I insisted. My eyes began to water, but still he held them open. ‘I don’t belong here. I’m no one’s imaginary friend.’

  He leaned in so close I could feel the warmth of his breath on my eyeballs. ‘Oh, but you are. You must be. How else could you––?’

  ‘I’m human,’ I said, even though that was only half true. ‘I’m real.’