The Brookhaven Exchange
By
James Hatch
Gilded letters above manicured flowerbeds belie the purpose
of the “Brookhaven Facility.” No place on Earth could be more peaceful on the
outside, yet chaos-filled within.
Evaluating the criminally insane isn’t my forté, but I have
the least seniority of any Social Services psychologist on staff. Therefore, I
am the one staring into the security camera at the facility’s ominous wrought
iron gate as a static-laden New York accent intones over the loudspeaker, “Name
and purpose of visit?”
I place my department badge on the reader and smile
politely. “Jeremy Walker – Vic Demint interview.”
A short delay precedes the whir of motors and screeching
hinges as the gate opens, and the crackling voice adds, “See the Building Six
guard.” Odd – Vic is normally in Building One.
The Building Six guard checks the roster of expected
visitors, requests additional picture identification, records my arrival time,
and briefs me on security procedures – Vic is now in isolation, separated from
all others by a Plexiglas wall. “What’d he do this time?”
The guard shrugs and leads me to a cell in the basement – if
he knows, he isn’t saying. The hardback visitors chair screeches across the raw
concrete floor, as I drag it near the plastic wall. Vic is strapped to steel
chair on the other side but ignores me completely. It’s part of our monthly
ritual – he pretends to be in his own little world, and I pretend to give a
shit. I casually pull out my pad and pen before beginning. “Hello, Vic. How’d
you score a private room?”
His eyes dart nervously around his cell, as if expecting
something terrifying to leap from the padded wall or slip into his body through
his electronic monitor, but they eventually target me, waiting patiently for a
reply. “If I’d known the horror here, I wouldn’t have let my fucking lawyer
plead me insane!”
I can’t imagine why the bastard puts on this show. He
requested his death sentence be carried out, but the court considered him too
unstable to make the decision for himself. That’s why I’m here, but it’s all
smoking mirrors – they never kill anyone. In time they’ll forget about him and
he’ll die of old age here, or they’ll set him free.
I shudder at the thought, but all I can do is file monthly
reports. I know him better than he knows himself – there’ll be no
recommendation of leniency from me. “What’s the matter, Vic, no flat screen? No
filets? No virgins to ravage?”
A bead of drool slips from the edge of his contorted mouth
and oozes down his chin. He doesn’t like me any more than I like him and he
strains against his restraints to get at me. Blood vessels swell across his
forehead, until he finally shouts through saliva froth gathering on his lips.
“Fuck you asshole! You think you know everything but don’t know shit. They told
me what to do but won’t leave me alone!”
Despite the Plexiglas, I instinctively wince back from his
spittle spray, and then jot “volatile and animated” in my log before looking up
with indifference. “The apparitions?”
Tears momentarily well in his eyes, but his manipulative
antics don’t fool me. “I can’t talk about them – they’ll tear my throat out!”
“Like they did to Charlie Watson, your high school chum?” I
let the word “chum” linger, fishing for a reaction. When the police finally
responded to the screams, they found Vic chewing on Charlie’s larynx.
“He knew them! I saw fear in his eyes, smelled its rancid
odor in his sweat.”
Being near this creep would make me sweat fear, too. He’s a
damn convincing actor, but I don’t believe he’s crazy – just mean as hell. Too
bad the judge bought into his load of crap, or he’d be long dead and I wouldn’t
be making these stupid reports.
Vic’s eyes resume darting about the room like those of a
trapped animal; his demons must be appearing, or so he’d have me believe. I
sigh loudly to mock his performance, and add, “Are they visiting now?”
Even in the basement’s deathly quiet, I can barely hear his
reply. “They’re whispering messages of the damned – they want you to hear.”
He’s so goddamned convincing I strain against the silence,
finally shrugging and apathetically shaking my head, but Vic becomes even more
agitated. “Listen, fool! Listen!”
He glares menacingly, and I scowl back, annoyed that I’ve
been suckered and prepared for a barrage of expletives. Instead, his eyes roll
slowly upward until two white orbs stare at me, and a chorus of voices drift
from his throat. “Beautiful women will serve you. Fulfill your desires! Find
strength in their suffering!”
The message makes me nauseous. Vic’s prey were forced to
serve him painfully before he violently slaughtered them, and that fleeting
thought slithers down my spine, causing goose bumps to ripple across my skin.
Revisiting mental imagery of his sacrifices, I suppress the urge to gag, but my
breath is ripped from my lungs before I can erase them from my mind, as if a
powerful vacuum covers my mouth.
I struggle to breathe, fighting impending unconsciousness,
when, in my enveloping darkness, I notice several apparitions circling Vic. The
moment I spot them they stop dead in their tracks, turn in unison, and rush at
me with blazing speed.
A spot of urine seeps through my jeans, but a distant shriek
terminates my paralysis before I totally wet myself. I lurch hard against the
back of the chair, gasping for breath. Did I see dark blotches during an
anxiety attack … or apparitions? Was there a scream … or just Vic’s monitor,
now droning a steady tone of death?
My eyes rivet on Vic – he’s no longer fighting his
restraints. His head has fallen to one side and his bluish lips are distorted
into an evil oval. My chair slams to the floor as I leap for the emergency call
button, but a chorus of raspy voices stop me cold, “Now, Jeremy, you are ours!”
Placing vote for Cypher Lx
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