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Mental Asylums Augustus Remier Did you hear that? That scratching, scraping sound? Shhh. There it is again. I’ve heard this sound before. It’s the sound of death. They’ve come for me, having taken everything but my life. But I’ll be safe here. Safe and alone - with only my memories to keep me company. Looking back, the signs were there; I just didn’t see them… and it cost me dearly. With one child and another on the way, my family had quickly outgrown its one bedroom apartment. We went to look downstate for a new home because the housing there is more affordable and it’s a great place to raise a family. It meant another hour in my commute to work, but it was worth it. The prices were still a little out of our range, but then our realtor showed us a beautiful house: two stories, a basement, six bedrooms, two baths and a huge backyard. Sarah and I looked at each other like “does our agent think we’re millionaires?” When she showed us the price, we looked at each other again. It was less than anything we’ve seen thus far. When I was a kid, I would sometimes daydream about living in a castle. I could still see it when I closed my eyes. This is probably as close as I’ll ever get. Our agent said the owners were motivated sellers but it had nothing to do with the condition of the house. That should have been my first clue. The house passed the inspection with flying colors and we snatched up the opportunity. At this point, things couldn’t have been better. Jane, our daughter, loved the new house. Sarah was given a clean bill of health from her doctor. We found out she was going to have a boy this time. I couldn’t have been more excited. Two days later, my wife had a miscarriage. We didn’t talk much after that. She was hard to approach and I didn’t feel like making the effort. I started spending more time at work. I was behind on my project and my boss was on my case. Sarah continually complained that I wasn’t home enough, and when I was home I was avoiding her. She was right. I had set up the den as my media room, with my speakers placed around the room and my chair in the middle. The room was big. Bigger than the entire apartment I lived in as a child. (I had lived with my parents and brother in a cramped one-room unit. It eventually killed my parents. The walls just kept closing in until they couldn’t breathe anymore.) When I had the den the way I wanted it, I would spend every night in there listening to the Smashing Pumpkins’ ‘tonight, tonight’. The sound was almost tangible. That’s when… that’s when strange things started to happen. We had only been there a little over a month when our dog Max would come home with scratches and nasty cuts. There was so much dried blood that it matted down his fur. We took him to the vet who said he probably got into a scrape with another dog. To prevent further fights, we kept Max in the house. A couple nights later, no sooner had we put Jane to bed, than she started screaming. I rushed in to see what was the problem. She said she had seen a shadow move across her window. I managed to convince her it was nothing more than an owl. This continued for a few nights and her complaints started to become more descriptive; disturbing accounts of scratching and tapping and things crawling across her window. She started sleeping in our bed with us since she refused to sleep in her own bed. Upon investigation, I came to the conclusion that it must have been a branch from the tree outside (even though it was several feet away). That was the only explanation I could come up with. More missed clues. Max was starting to heal up, so we let him out into the yard. That night there was barking and growling, and a yelp from outside that woke Sarah up who in turn woke me up. I got the flashlight and headed outside. It was completely silent which made me uneasy. I called for Max as I shone the light up and down the yard. Then I saw him, or what was left of him. The poor thing had been killed and torn up pretty bad. When I got closer, it looked like something had eaten him. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t leave him out there to be scavenged, and I didn’t want to bring that bloody mess into the house. I decided to put him in a garbage bag and move him into the tool shed until the next morning when I would bury him. I turned on the floodlight and aimed it at the spot where my deceased pet lay. Hoping to finish before whatever did this came back; I picked up the carcass and fumbled to get it into the bag - trying not to get any blood dripped on me. I scooped up the rest of the parts and dumped them into the bag, which I then dragged into the shed. I called the vet when I got to work the next morning asking if he ever heard of anything so strange. He had no clue as to what could have attacked my dog and eaten him. Dogs don’t usually eat each other. I moved it to the back of my head and went about my job. It was dark when I left work and when I pulled into the garage I knew something was wrong. I can’t explain how I knew; I just sensed it. My stomach churned as I opened up the door. The scene was horrific. There were two-dozen nightmarish creatures throughout the house. Crawling on the floor, perched on the furniture, hanging from the walls and ceiling. They were beastly creatures on all fours but their front limbs looked more like arms than legs. They were the size of a large dog and had red eyes and sharp teeth. The house was destroyed: lamps and chairs knocked over: trails of blood left by the creatures themselves littered the floor and walls. Then I saw my wife. I couldn’t recognize her by her face, but that lump of blood and bone had to be her. My daughter’s body was right next to her. Sarah had obviously been trying to protect her from the vile demons. By this time, I gained the monsters’ attention: they were sizing me up before they attacked. A mixture of emotions swirled around me: fear, hatred, revenge, sorrow, remorse. And these feelings spawned my options: fight or flight. That decision was made for me as one of them launched at me. Others followed suit. We tumbled into the kitchen and my head banged against the floor. They clawed and bit at me opening up multiple cuts. As I wrestled with the beasts, punching and kicking, I managed to get back to my feet and toss one of them onto the stovetop. It knocked over a pan with the dinner Sarah was cooking (now burning) and caught on fire (furry little buggers). Like a fireball, it bounced around spreading flames wherever it touched. This distracted the others giving me enough time to grab a newspaper and set it afire. I threw it at them and it exploded into a hundred pieces of fire that fluttered to the ground like bright snowflakes. The scene was quite surreal. It doesn’t take as long as you might think for a house to catch on fire. The monsters all fled breaking through windows and doors to escape. I decided to follow their cue and ran out to the front lawn. I can’t tell you how long I stood out there watching the flames consume my house. The overbearing heat stood in stark contrast to the cold I felt inside. I stood there numb, without a flicker of thought in my head. It was as if the flames said it all for me. I hadn’t noticed that the fire engines arrived until the firemen started moving me back. I tried to explain to the police what happened, but they thought I was crazy, and I can’t say I blame them. That’s how I got here, locked up in a psychiatric ward for evaluation. I wonder if they’ll find anything. I doubt it; because now when I close my eyes all I see is the inside of my eyelids. The monsters have gotten closer now. The beasts have made their way in through the vents, too small for humans but large enough for their likes. And now I realize my final mistake: these lockups don’t keep things out - they keep them in. “Help me! Open the door! Open the door!” But these cries go unanswered, for the asylum has been ravished by these demons with nothing left. The reach of these beasts is far, and still growing.
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