Writer's Competition Entry!

Fair warning everyone! This might scare you! I've written a horror short story thing!

Ok, so I don't normally write in this particular genre, but I'm giving it a try! Thanks to @kyrios for putting this on.

EDITED TO ADD: A photo and a title :)

Here's the prompt:

A tourist decides to go for a walk alone in the middle of the night. He nonchalantly walks for a few blocks before realizing the streets are deserted, not a soul or machine in sight. Suddenly people carrying torches pour out from streets behind in droves and start chasing him. Unable to grasp the situation, he makes a run for it and in the confusion goes down a dark alley with a dead end. With nowhere to turn, he is soon captured by the mob. He notices that every single one of them is wearing a white mask but the thing that filled him with dread is the fact that gazing back at him were not eyes but hollow sockets.

And here is my story.

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What Mr. Mendes Saw

(image courtesy of olovedog at freedigitalphotos.net)

"Hollow, Mr. Mendes?"

His mouth twisted into a scowl. Knuckles whitened. "Yes, that's what I said, hollow. No eyeballs. I know you don't believe me," he growled.

"You misunderstand me, sir. I only want to verify things for this recording. I needed to know if you were being literal or figurative in your description." The psychologist took a calming breath and endeavoured to keep all sounds of patronization from her voice. "I realize this is very difficult for you, very frightening. But this, speaking of your account, I think in your case, will be the best way we can help you heal. Now, taking all the time you need, can you tell me what happened next, after they caught you?"

He turned his face toward the warmth of the sunlight pouring through the hospital window. He swallowed twice, with difficulty, before speaking. "They took me. I screamed for help, screamed until my voice was gone, but no one came, no one heard. They dragged me away into a building. I don't know where it was. It was dark, I didn't know the streets. There were doors and stairs and hallways. They brought me to a chair, tied me to it. They held my head and made me drink something, a drug I think. Like acid or shrooms, I guess, but it wasn't a nice trip." He gripped the rail on the side of the bed, thumbnail scraping rhythmically on the textured plastic. His chest rose and fell at an increasing pace.

Cautiously, the psychologist laid her hand over his where it assaulted the rail. "Mr. Mendes, would you like to hold my hand? I can tell you are getting upset. Remember that you are here with me, where it is safe, and you are only telling me about what happened," Her fingers were quickly locked in a desperate grip. "Please, Mr. Mendes. What happened after you were made to drink? What did they do to you?"

His shoulders shook with repressed emotion. She laid her free hand on his forearm and soothed him, saying, "Don't be afraid to express your grief, Mr. Mendes. You won't embarrass me, and no one else will see or hear any of this. You are safe here with me."

Ragged sobs filled the air then, expressions of purest torment. The psychologist bore this with great patience, let him weep without complaint. The patch of sunlight crawled across the room by many slow degrees before his lament was over.

"Are you ready, Mr. Mendes? To tell me the next part? What did they do to you next?" she prompted, gently, when he seemed to have fallen to rest at last.

"Nothing. They didn't do anything to me," he whispered.

The psychologist blinked in surprise. "Nothing at all?" she asked.

"Nothing. They did it to themselves. They made me watch. They never made a sound, not a goddamn sound. Blood everywhere. Made me watch. No matter how I screamed for them to stop it," his voice cracked and slipped with emotion. "Gods, I can still see them, I can still SEE IT!" It was a howl of despair.

"Mr. Mendes, you're hurting me," the psychologist hissed, trying to pry her fingers free of his grip. Instantly, he let go, snatching his hand to his chest, clutching at his hospital gown.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please don't leave me, don't leave me, I'm sorry, sorry sorry sorry," Mr. Mendes whimpered, sitting forward, moaning low in his chest.

"It's alright, Mr. Mendes, you won't be alone here unless you ask to be, please don't worry," the psychologist soothed. She took a slow breath and tried to calm the racing of her heart. His hand groped out for hers again, and she took it willingly, but not before tapping the small button on her wristband that would place the orderlies on alert to help her if she pressed it a second time. He trembled, but remained gentle. "I don't want to over-stimulate you, Mr. Mendes, so we can take a break if you wish," she said.

He shook his head quickly. "It's okay. You keep telling me I'm safe, and I just keep forgetting that. I--I can keep going."

"Alright. So you said that your captors did nothing at all to you, is that correct?" the psychologist asked.

"Yes. They didn't do anything to me, after the drugs. They only t-t-tortured themselves in front of me," he confirmed, his voice a harsh whisper. His skin had taken on a terrible grey tone. "Took turns. Mutilation. Horrible. They never even made a sound."

The psychologist's brow furrowed as she regarded the man on the hospital bed. "I-- I understand. Alright then." She glanced at her watch and frowned a little deeper. "Can you tell me, Mr. Mendes, how you managed to escape?"

He hesitated, then carefully withdrew his hand from hers. He leaned back against his pillows and drew his knees toward his chest and rolled partway toward the window. "I don't understand that part. I don't know how long I had been there, maybe hours, maybe days, it's all jumbled together-- they just untied me and left the room. I waited, I was terrified, but no one came back for a while. Then I just panicked and ran. I didn't know the way out, didn't remember. They all saw me, watched me go, they were everywhere in the hallways and the rooms, they didn't try to stop me, just looked at me with their plastic faces and their empty-- their empt--" he choked on a sob and clutched at the back of his neck. He murmured something else, too low for her to hear, and therefore too low for the recording.

"I'm sorry to ask you, Mr. Mendes, what was that last thing? I couldn't quite hear you," the psychologist asked.

Mr. Mendes turned back toward her. "I can still see them," he repeated hoarsely.

The psychologist nodded but said nothing for a moment, collecting her thoughts. "You've done very well today, Mr. Mendes. Thank you for sharing this with me. But let's leave this session on a positive note. Can you tell me when you realized you were safe?"

"It was when someone spoke to me. I had finally made it out of that place, and I was running down the streets again, and screaming for help, and a man reached out to me and spoke to me. I don't know what he said, it wasn't in English or anything I knew, but he said words and I knew then I was safe. I looked at him and he looked at me and I knew I was safe. He might have been a policeman or a soldier, it looked like he was wearing some kind of uniform, he brought me to a hospital and-- and I guess the rest of the story you must already know." He had relaxed now, was almost smiling, laid back against his pillows, his colour closer to normal.

The psychologist smiled too, a little nervously. "I do know that part, yes. Now, unless you have something more you want to discuss, I want you to really think on how you felt when you knew you were safe again. We will talk more again tomorrow, but it is important for you to get your rest." She got up from her chair, turned off her recorder, and patted his foot under the blankets. "I suspect the nurses are wanting to change your bandages as well."

As she reached for the door, he called out, "Wait, Dr. Oh? Dr. Oh, what do you look like?"

Her skin prickled and she looked back at Mr. Mendes. He was turned back toward the window again. "I--What I look like? That's a-- difficult question to answer." She cleared her throat and said briefly, "I have dark hair, cut short, and brown eyes. I'm five-foot-one, medium build. I'm of Asian ancestry. I--I don't really know what else to say."

"That's fine. Thank you," he said softly.

She opened the door and the nurses, as expected, swept in with gauze and tape. She watched, silent, as they chattered to him while they unwrapped his arm and carefully redressed the stump of his right wrist. Then they started to unwind the gauze from his head, and she hurried out, before he could stare at her with his horrible, empty sockets.

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AUUUUGH SO CREEPY I'M SCARING MYSELF.

Ok. Phew. Thanks for reading! good luck to all other other competitors, and if you're into scary stuff, check the rest of them out!