Creepy Doll

Creepy Doll

That clay-mold doll,
Strung up on our wall,
Is funny.

Stare out to the night,
An insomniacs call,
Red eyes stare me back,
Coarsened with fright.

That clay-mold doll,
You strung on my wall,
Is daddy.

A pale moon flight,
Three hallows prior,
Mom found him at sin,
Before stealing his light.
That old clay doll,

Strung up on my wall,
Is stretching.
Bending and breaking,
Clacking and creaking,
Faux-sect protrusions,
Of potters good wake.

That clay-mold doll,
Strung me up on the wall,
And started to sin for the old days sake.

Daily Blog 9/16/17: Chapter 15

Start at the beginning: https://bluebeard-art.com/2017/08/27/daily-blog-82717/

Silgan returns from the appointment to gather his materials per Alex’s request.

*Explicit language and gore. 

 

XV

Present Day-Silgan

 

Silgan hurried into the apartment lobby, the fluorescent nightmare had diminished in response to the morning light creeping in through the many windows. Ms. Caldwell, Lauren, was still working the front desk. Noticing Silgan, she smiled, flirtatiously, and asked, “Rushing like that, Mr. Sheffield…might give a girl the wrong impression. You trying to dodge me?”

Silgan paused, embarrassed, and returned her smile. Indignantly, he explained, “Me? Never! You know you’re my favorite, Lauren. I’m in a hurry for something related to work and I need to meet an associate in about forty minutes.”

Blushing, she caressed her bottom lip with her left thumb, and said, “I hadn’t realized we were on a first name basis, you know, there’s a lot of things you can do in forty minutes. I’m sure your friend wouldn’t mind if you were just a little late.”

Taken aback, Silgan stuttered, “Any other day, Ms. Caldwell, but this could be a matter of life and death.”

Pouting, Lauren said, “Well, I mean, move your pretty little ass if it’s really that important. Besides, you know where to find me.” She winked coyly before turning back to her ledger.

Relieved, Silgan said, “Take care, Lauren.” as he turned towards the elevator room. Silgan walked past the first two, public, elevators, and swiped his RFID on the old management elevator. The old gate opened slowly and Silgan stepped in, turning to press the button that read “13”. As the elevator began its sluggish ascent, he shuffled his feet, fretfully. Okay, we need to clear out everything I can’t easily replace.

“That’s seventy percent of what’s there, dumbass.” The voice of an elderly woman mocked.

Then we can booby trap the room, as a precaution.

Cackling, the woman’s voice gained power, “So you can piss off Haskell even more than you already have? Quite the headache he must have, pondering how to deal with his star extractors insubordination.” Silgan’s spine tingled with anxiety as his right hand started to tap his suit-pants to the tune of staying alive. “I bet he’s already got a man waiting for you up there, no time to prepare now. See what you’ve done? You’ve fucked over all of us, all your friends, we, he guided and supported you when you needed a push to do the right thing.”

Does torturing an innocent woman qualify as the right thing? The elevator came to a halt and opened. Silgan walked out, turned right and headed towards the narrow hallway. At the intersection, he turned left, walked five more steps, and inspected his tan colored door, marked “1304” in silver lettering. You do raise a good point though, I need to make sure no one’s waiting for me on the other side of the door. Silgan set his briefcase down, opening the side pocket opposite to where he had stored the tracker gun. He pulled out his customized 220 Sig Sauer and slotted the chamber back. Loaded. Turning the safety off, he leaned down to examine the doors lock. It’s scratched up. Fuck. Expecting the worst, Silgan took out his key and slowly inserted it into the lock, Sig Sauer loose in hand. Slowly, he turned the lock, and heard a click. Leaving the key in the slot, he stood back, tensing his quadriceps and gluts, preparing a kick. With his left hand, he pulled the handle down, pushing forward slightly. His hands were perspiring, his breaths came shallow and fast. With a small grunt, he kicked the door open, quickly recovering his balance, and raising his pistol. Looking through the holo-sight he started forward, scanning back and forth rapidly. As he walked through the doors small frame, he could hear a quiet movement. It was coming from behind his bed.

“Hey, come out, I see you!” Silgan shouted, snarling in his rustic baritone. Abruptly, the rustling stopped. Silgan felt light headed, as his vision became hazy. Realizing he’d forgotten to breath, he gasped for air, trying and failing to keep his aim steady.

“Worthless!” the woman’s voice mocked. “Can’t even aim a pistol without nearly passing out, you’re going to get all of us killed, Simon.”

Shut up!

Biting his lip, he moving forward. He could hear a pathetic whimper, a forlorn moaning. It reminded Silgan of the time he’d hit a deer, getting out of his car, only to find the deer dying, struggling through the door to its next reality. Moving quickly around the foot of his bed, Silgan shouted, “Hands up!” He lowered his weapon, mouth parting, eyes widening in horror.

“I’m trying Simon, my arms, I can’t move them.” Wailed Hadley, with deep crosses cut into her wrists. Her skin wasn’t right, it was cracked, a dark and hallowed green. She’s not real, Simon, she’s dead…you buried her. Taking a deep breath, Silgan stepped back from Hadley. Hadley’s eyes grew desperate as Silgan backed away. “Please…Simon don’t leave me here, it hurts baby, it hurts so much worse than when I did it. I’m so sorry, help me Simon!”

Tears welling, Silgan responded, “I…I can’t help you. I failed you, I’m sorry Hads. I miss you every day.” Silgan turned away, forcing himself to look his cabinet. Focus. Productivity, what will help you survive. Grabbing a small duffle at the foot of his bed, he walked to the cabinet, set the Sig Sauer on the cabinets counter, and zipped open the duffle before throwing it back onto his small bed. Opening the cabinet, Silgan suddenly felt overwhelmed. There must be two-hundred separate ingredients here, how the fuck do I decide which ones to bring? Christ, I have room for fifteen or so. If that. Silgan cringed at the terrible moaning as he reached for a case of empty dart-syringes. Ignoring Hadley, he put the pack into his bag, eyes darting across the various chemical labels.

Silgan froze, as the woman’s voice returned, “You’re going to let her die, again? You coward. And for what? So you can turn tail and run?”

You’re right, I am a coward. But why show me this, I know I can’t save her. But I can save that poor girl, Nessa, and that’s what I’m going to do.

Suddenly determined, a wave of clarity drowned the wails and Silgan realized the chemicals he needed. Quickly, he grabbed a fast acting spasmodic, a cyanide potassium solution, and three cryo-contained vial of , or mustard gas. He packed each vial in a rubber stabilized mold before setting them next to the darts. I only have one more pressure resistant mold, I need to pick carefully. A moment later, Silgan grabbed two clear and unlabeled solutions, and packed them into the mold. Hurrying, he reached for two small vials of adrenaline, a small tub of batrachotoxin–he’d scraped it off the backs of poison dart frogs himself–and a cryo-vile, containing VX. He’d have to be careful not to be caught with the VX if he traveled, as the UN classified it as a weapon of mass destruction. The worlds stockpiles had been destroyed twenty-five years ago, but it was relatively easy to synthesize. It was essentially a liquid nerve agent that had a low boiling point, making it an easy to use gas.

Silgan packed the rest of the vials into the rubber chassis before gently resting it in the duffle. Finally, he ran to his chemical work-bench and retrieved three gas masks, as well as a few extra filters. He packed these into the side pockets of the duffle, carefully mounting the valuable bag over his shoulder.

Turning to the cabinet, Silgan picked up his Sig Sauer and turned the safety on before holstering it into the specially stitched pocket in his suit coat, hidden by his left lapel. Just the pills now. Moving to the kitchen drawer, he wiped some of the lingering dirt off his white dress shirt. Silgan opened the small drawer before rummaging for his painkillers. He removed the oxycodone, Vicodin HCL, Secobarbitol, and Compro, before setting them on the counter. He unsaddled his duffle and set it on the counter, then stashed the Vicodin and oxy in the duffle’s left pockets. Those are less conducive to performance than the Compro. Silgan opened the Compro, took two pills, then closed it, before stashing it next to the Vicodin. As Silgan opened the Secobaritol, his shaking hands jerked unexpectedly, causing him to spill the pills on the floor. Shit, my nerves are frayed. He fell to his knees, gathering the pills back into their container.

Freezing, Silgan focused on a small black circle on the bottom of the counter. It can’t be…was someone in here after all? Moving closer, he squinted at the black smudge. A transmission mic. I’ve been bugged. A nauseous anxiety spread from his core as he finished picking the pills up. He left one out, and dry swallowed it. “Eh, Silgan everything alright in here?” asked a voice he couldn’t quite place.

Turning, Silgan saw his neighbor Herald looming ominously in the door-way. “I’m good Herald, did I make too much noise or something?” asked Silgan, ambivalently.

Smiling easily, Herald stepped forward, and said “Nah mate, I mean I heard you talking to someone, you sounded upset.” Herald leaned forward examining the room, looking back and forth. “Musta been on the phone though, it don’t seem like nobodies here right now, besides me that is.” Herald chuckled at his joke. He wore a dirty T-shirt and torn jeans. He was probably in his early fifties, though his voice was clearly smoke damaged and made him sound much older. While his facial structure was handsome, his meth-cracked skin and teeth were not. His eyes were jaundiced, his nose was the kind of red that only twenty years of binge drinking could lend.

“Yeah, I was fighting with my brother, a financial matter.” Lied Silgan.

Laughing loudly, Herald responded, “You know, Hadley is a weird name for a brother if you ask me. But my parents weren’t too creative either. Coming up with Gerald than Herald, I mean who rhymes their kids name?” He must have been the one who planted the bugs.

Face hardening, Silgan asked, “Herald, I don’t suppose you know anything about who might have tampered with my lock there, do you?”

Herald tensed, responding, “Eh, what you tryna say, bud? Man ought to be careful about accusing a co-worker of something like that.” That face, no way in hell it wasn’t him.

Silgan’s muscles tensed, anticipating a fight, as he said, “You know, it’s the funniest thing, I just found a small microphone glued to the bottom of my counter, right before you walked in, Harold.”

Harold sighed, relaxing, and said, “You got me Silgan!” raising his arms above his head in mock exclamation. “It’s not like I did it for fun though, order came from Haskell himself, just a few hours ago. He wanted me to keep an eye on you.” Harold paused, smiling cruelly, he continued, “So imagine my surprise when I hear you, one of our most skilled laborers, over my lil radio talking to your dead wife. I don’t suppose Haskell would be happy to hear you’ve lost your fucking mind, eh bud?” Harold croaked loudly, laughing as Silgan blushed and looked down. “Don’t feel bad, bud, you know I kinda miss that girl I got pinched for assaulting. Sometimes I talk to her too, mostly when I got a whore up here who’s willing to act though, you know.” Haskell already suspects me, it’s now or never.

“I’m going to give you one chance to get out of my way, Harold.” Silgan said, flatly, meeting Harold’s eyes. Harold looked amused, and took a step forward.

Closer now, Harold whispered, “A’ight coach, what you gonna do? Cry to your bitch an’ tell her ol’ Harold’s given you a tough time?” Harold shoved Silgan, hard. Croaking again, as Silgan stumbled, Harold followed up with a wide right hook which landed squarely on Silgan’s left cheek. He fell hard, head hitting the floor with a crack. He shouldn’t have done that. Silgan reached for his concealed Sig Sauer, clicking the safety off with his right thumb. “That all you got big man? You a fake bud, can’t even take a punch.” Rolling onto his back Silgan aimed the Sig Sauer’s holo-sights at Harold’s face. “Oh shit! What the fuck man, it was just a tussle.” Harold raised his hands, desperately murmering, “What? You gonna shoot me with that thing, unsilenced? Whole buildings gonna hear it mate.”

Silgan pushed himself back to his feet, keeping the firearm trained on Harold. Quietly, Silgan said, “I’m crazy, remember? How about you apologize for calling my wife a bitch, scum.” Harold stayed silent, smiling slightly. Moving forward, Silgan grabbed Harold’s dirty T-shirt and shoved him up against the wall. “Say…you’re…sorry.” He set the guns point to Harold’s left jaw.

“Man she musta had a vice grip on your tiny balls, I’d never let a bitch–BANG!” Harold’s eyes twitched wide in surprise as the lower half of his face was torn off by the Sig Sauer’s blast. His broken jaw dangled from what remained of its right hinge. Bleeding heavily, he slid down the wall, and let out a hideous, gurgling screech. Silgan stepped away, letting him fall, letting him struggle. Harold’s tongue waggled back and forth wildly, finally coming to rest near the base of his throat as he fell to his left. Blood quickly pooled. Silgan felt sick. What did I just do?

                “Well I can’t say I approve, but at least you’re showing some initiative now.” Said the woman, malevolently.