The Median Read online

afraid visiting hours end at 5 O’Clock and we request that last entries are at four thirty,” she hung over the desk for several more seconds until Richard backed away from the door. She returned to her seat and resumed typing.

  “Well that didn’t work,” Richard stated casually as he approached Michael again.

  “Really?” he replied sarcastically, “and there’s me thinking they’d let you just waltz in.”

  Richard manoeuvred behind the rows of seats, making sure he was out of sight of the receptionist and set about inspecting a wall mounted fire alarm.

  “What are you doing?” Michael loudly whispered again, this time briefly drawing the attention of the single waiting patient.

  “Just looking,” he pulled the sleeve of his jacket across a clenched hand, “with my fist,” he quickly hit the alarm, breaking the glass and almost immediately a loud buzzer began to sound. The receptionist looked up abruptly and scanned across the room, including the now innocent looking Richard, and then hurried through the door behind the desk.

  “Problem solved, no-one will bother us now.”

  Michael looked around as Richard set off towards the doors again. “I can’t believe you just did that! Do you know how much trouble you’ve just caused them?”

  “Relax,” Richard said turning back for a moment, “they’ll realise it’s a false alarm in a few minutes and everything will be fine,” he questioned briefly whether it would actually be that simple but came to the conclusion that it wasn’t worth thinking about. “Now come on, it’s given us just enough time to get into the morgue.”

  “This isn’t even a good plan,” Michael mumbled, looking around in a panic one last time before rushing into the main hospital after Richard.

  With the alarm blazing, assorted personages hurried around trying to find out what was happening and doctors concerning over their patients and their own safety. In the confusion the two interlopers were as good as invisible, slipping through the bustling corridors without so much as a second glace. They arrived at the Morgue and slipped in just as the alarm ceased. Richard looked up and around. “Damnit, thought it’d keep them busy longer than that,” he swung round, taking in the room as he did, “we need to hurry.”

  There were a number of stainless steal tables, bodies led neatly on each, with thin linen blankets draped across them. To the side of the room positioned under a large hanging light was another table, this one with rolling tables scattered around it, filled with assorted medical tools. Michael took a step forward to inspect closer only to find that the table had another individual led on it, this one already having been victim to the mercy of the pathologist making him shudder.

  “It’s not Chris is it?” asked Richard, making Michael start backwards in fright.

  He took a shallow breath, realising how foul the air was as he did. “No…No, I don’t think so,” he moved away from the autopsy and took up a position next to the door as Richard started towards the covered bodies. “How come we found this place so fast, it’s almost as though you knew where you were going.”

  Richard took hold of the top of the sheet on the first table tentatively and then threw it back, only to sigh when he found it was not Chris and move on to the next one. “Let’s just say this isn’t my first visit here,” he grabbed hold of the second cover more confidently this time and again threw it back but was forced back by an invisible force, gasping loudly. After composing himself his gaze followed something across the room for a few seconds and then through the back wall. He shook his head and gritted his teeth. “Inconsiderate bastard,” he quickly moved on to the next corpse, this time pulling the sheet off while keeping a distance. He peered at the body and smirked slightly, “bingo!”

  “You’ve found him?” he stepped in and examined the body. It was Chris’ alright, unwashed, unshaven and still damp from the previous night. What colour that had been in his already pale complexion had now seemed to be sapped from his body to leave an almost grey husk.

  “They’ve taken his coat,” Richard suddenly stated, somewhat concerned at the fact, “check in the draws,” he threw his arm back and pointed at a steel wall cabinet with several roller draws contained in its lower section. “He might’ve left something in the pockets,” as he spoke he inspected and searched the body, finding nothing but dirt and linen.

  Michael opened the top draw and pulled out a long, stained trench coat which unfurled to full length as he held it and hung heavily to the ground. “Is this it?” he padded the pockets tentatively and removed a folded note from one of the side pockets.

  “What did you find?” Richard took the piece of paper and flicked it open. The note was damp and the writing scrawled, barely legible with the paper damp and the ink smeared. He read it and sighed deeply, gazing at the words sorely. “I’m sorry my friend,” he laid a hand on the corpses arm for a moment and then took the note with both hands. “The end is coming,” he dictated, “they are all gone, bar one. A powerful spirit who promises me release, promises me her. I don’t believe him. But I can’t resist, I’m too weak. I hear him, though, hear his schemes. ‘Seven of one and I shall be born again’ he tells me and I am the one.”

  “What does it mean?” asked Michael, “seven of one and I shall be born again?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know,” he folded the note again and reached into his pocket pulling out the strange book, “but it’s got to have something to do with this,” he waved the book loosely and leant against the table, placing it down.

  “Richard,” Michael suddenly said slowly, stepping backwards as his eyes widened. “It’s moving,” he pointed to Chris’ corpse whose arm was rising, the fist clenching as it went.

  Richard bolted upright and drew his gun, swinging around. The grey body sat up and looked around, examining the room and settled on the book Richard had left at the end of the table. “This has never happened before,” he told himself, unsure whether to think what was happening before him was real.

  “The text has awoken me,” the corpse said in an unsettlingly deep, grating voice, reaching for the book, “it has been too long.”

  Richard shuddered at his best friend’s body and voice being used like some puppet. “Freeze right there!” he shouted, pushing the gun forward as the zombie gripped the book with dead hands that seemed to move independently from the rest of its being. “Just what the hell are you?”

  “Richard Weignright. I should thank you for awaking me and returning my text,” it held up the book, grinning on half of its face. “Although, you have done so somewhat earlier than I had hoped.”

  “I said who are you?” he thought for a second and grimaced, “and how do you know who I am?”

  “I know you, Rich…” it readjusted its wrist with a sharp snap, “I know everything this host knew,” it peered back at Michael and saw fear wash across Richards face and began grinning yet more. “Does that concern you, my friend? And, oh yes, you know me. I had you within my grasp, someone of your…talents, could be very useful to me, but you slipped away.”

  “No, it can’t be,” he backed away slightly putting up a free arm to try and protect Michael, “you were who he was talking about in the note. That’s why you were after him in the border world.”

  “Yes. Control the mind, control the body. And as for that note, I tried to stop him but his will was a great deal stronger than I had anticipated. As a result I had to dispose of him.”

  “You son of a bitch! You killed my best friend!” Richard growled.

  “Indeed,” the embodiment of Millaian turned on the table and slid from it, grasping the notebook tightly, “I must thank you again, but I no longer have a need for you.” With slow deliberate movements he removed a scalpel from a nearby tray.

  “I said don’t move!” he pushed the gun as far forward as he could while trying to back away from the psychopathic corpse. “I’m warning you!”

  “Come now, we both know that it is empty,” his words were calm and gentle as he started to move forward, knife in hand. />
  “Good point,” Richard breathed quickly, lowering the weapon. “But this isn’t!” with his free hand he spun around reaching into his coat and pulling the vial from his inside pocket, popping the cork and throwing the liquid at Millaian. The substance impacted his face, burning deeply into the tissue, with a loud hiss making him drop to his knees, screaming in agony. Richard hustled Michael out of the door, running through corridors and crowds of bewildered medics until they arrived outside. The sun was as good as down and twilight had firmly set in.

  “That’s it!” coughed Richard, gasping for breath. “We’re getting to the bottom of this!” he growled, storming towards the car.

  “What was that stuff you threw at him?” asked Michael, still cringing from what he had just seen.

  “A mixture of extracts and oils. I normally use it to send spirits back to their rightful plane if they don’t cooperate. Perfectly harmless to mortals. I’m just glad I didn’t use it last night, that was my last bottle,” he gave a slight chuckle amidst his anger as he moved towards the drivers door of the car.

  “How did you know it would work on him, then?” Michael was rather concerned at the fact he felt he was about to receive an ‘I didn’t’ reply.

  “Best guess,” he replied, shrugging slightly, “I figured he wasn’t mortal so something had to happen.”

  Michael rolled his eyes and leant on the roof of the car. “So where now then?”

  “Chris’s apartment. It’s the only option, I did some-” he took a deep breath in, “-things for him there.”

  Michael looked suspiciously at him and eventually nodded, still trying to get his breath back. “Ok then, lets go,” he rubbed his face and pushed his hair from his eyes “I’m too freaked out to question anything more at the moment.”

  Millaian, still on his knees, cradled his hosts face. As he pulled the hands away, seared and melted flesh covered them, with a thick blood that began to drip between the fingers and pool on the ground. He shook with pain and rage and clenched his fists, each bone in them cracking in succession.

  Two doctors burst through the door and were abruptly stopped in their tracks. “What on earth happened here?” one asked, looking around the room while the second stared at the knelt body.

  “I live,” came Millaians voice from the ground. As it did, he began to straighten up and unclench his hands, reaching to either side of him to recover the notebook and the scalpel.

  “Get security,” the second doctor whispered to the first, making him rush off again. “Don’t worry, everything’s going to be alright.”

  “No, it won’t…” he turned his head and in the light the doctor saw his true appearance. Nearly all of the skin on his face was missing, what was left was disfigured and burnt beyond recognition. His eyes bulged from their sockets and swivelled precariously on the bone. Holes in his face, covered only by surviving tendons, seeped a brown puss and congealed, post mortem blood. He smiled a lipless grin and got to his feet. “At least, not for you,” striking, he lunged and forced the razor sharp blade forwards towards the doctor.

 

  I must have been crazy. Michael may have been ‘freaked out’ but on the way to Chris’s place he still started to ask questions that I daren’t answer but which I couldn’t just leave. He wanted to know how I knew where Chris lived and how I knew so much about it, that alone I may have gotten away with but the truth was that I was the one who paid the rent on his flat, I had done so for all these long years and that wasn’t something I could just explain away. I just avoided his questions and said barely enough to make sure he didn’t think I was ignoring him. What had happened tonight was almost incomprehensible. If it had that effect on me then it must have blown his mind. Michael wasn’t safe anymore, Millaian had made that clear. I needed answers though, but by the time we got there I realised we were in for much more than we had ever bargained for.

  Across Chris’ door were various scores and marks, each tinted with a different colour, as though the wood had been treated in some way. “Protection,” Richard stated abruptly, reaching in a pocket for his bundle of keys. “The things I said I did for him,” he waved his hand over the markings, “simple incantations and oils in the wood. Trickery basically, but they made him feel better. Something slightly more powerful inside, though,” he spoke with particular self satisfaction about his work. He found the key and slid it into the lock, opening the door with the ease of a person who did it regularly. “And don’t ask me why I have a key.”

  Michael put his hands up in defence and just let Richard talk, knowing that even if he did understand any of the answers to his questions he probably wouldn’t like them. He stepped in line with Richard as he passed over the threshold, noticing a trail of salt along the carpet just inside the doorway. “So this more powerful thing?”

  Richard moved into the living area and pointed to a table in the corner with a large section of amethyst perched centrally on it.

  “Amethyst?” Michael said, clearly unimpressed, “is that it? A nice table decoration?”

  “Table decoration? Do you realise how much those things cost?” he snapped, turning harshly.

  Michael placed his hands on his hips and stared at Richard. “A bloody lot I should think, they’re rip offs, its probably not even real quartz!”

  “Look, it is real and if the people selling it knew just what it could do then it’d cost a whole lot more,” he calmed down and breathed slowly. “It’s a prison, of sorts. You could say it’s naturally tuned to the wavelength of bad spirits, those who would want to inflict hurt on someone, especially someone in Chris’s state, and it captures them,” he looked back at Michael whose eyes had now glazed over and were gazing into a world of his own. He watched him for a few seconds and then shook his head disapprovingly before walking off into Chris’s bedroom. “Never mind.”

  For a moment more Michael looked at the half geode in front of him and thought about what he’d been told before taking it upon himself to try and sound like he actually understood it “Yeah, well, I know what you mean. It’s just that you can’t be too carful these days. Everyone’s trying to rip everyone else off,” he began to move towards the bedroom when suddenly Richards’s voice sounded along the hall harshly.

  “Don’t come in here, boy!” the door was slammed shut and a thud followed, almost like someone had fallen heavily against it.

  Michael moved slowly along the hall, looking at the door with deep suspicion. “What’s wrong? You’re scaring me,” he reached the door and moved a hand towards the knob before hurriedly withdrawing it and instead tilting his head and placing an ear against it. As far as he could tell, the room was deathly silent, that silence broken only by the throbbing of his uneasy heart. “Rich?” he finally breathed, pulling his head away from the door and looking around the hall. He cocked his head and peered at the slightly ajar door of the bathroom at the end of the hall. Beginning to move forward again he continued to gaze round at the portal and it became apparent that something wasn’t right. Through the crack he could see that there were dark red flecks showing up brightly on the tiled floor. Tentatively he reached a shaking hand forward and gently pressed against the door, leaning in as it slowly swung open to reveal several more flecks leading towards a large pool of drying blood staining the tiles. He held his breath and looked up and around the room at whitewashed walls covered, layer upon layer, of blood, sprayed around, in an almost incomprehensible manner. As he was forced to breath, the putrid stench hit his nostrils, making him gag and cover his mouth with his sleeve. Panning around the horrific scene he laid eyes on the worst of it all. In the bath lay the contorted body of a young man, his throat slit deep and his limbs bent in ways that were not naturally possible. He was wearing what looked like a suit, now stained beyond recognition with his own life fluids.

  “He tried to escape,” came a voice from behind Michael, startling him and making him swing around. “The others didn’t even get that far,” Richard spoke in low tones, his voice quive
ring and his eyes becoming redder with sorrow every moment. He’d never seen anything like this, he never thought he would and hoped beyond hope that he never would so it was little wonder when a tear finally broke from the corner of his eye and ran, slowly down his cheek.

  “Others?” Michael breathed, horrified at the idea that there may be more in this state and shaking as Richard began to slowly nod.

  “5 more, all like him,” he flicked his eye vaguely to the bathtub. “I can’t let you stay here-”

  “I don’t want to,” Michael cut Richard off abruptly, barging past him and rushing outside.

  “Alright,” Richard whispered to himself as he heard the front door slam shut before turning back to the bedroom and cautiously approaching it again, preparing himself for the presence of at least one of the departed. He had been in the house for a while now and he should have felt something, a remaining spirit, even the after-presence of one but there was nothing but that horrific stench, filling every breath with the decay of life. He pressed against the door, which dragged against the thick bedroom carpet as it opened. Inside was humid and dark with the curtains completely drawn, forcing Richards eyes to take several seconds to adjust to the gloom. As they did several shapes on the ground came into focus. The shapes slowly gained structure and soon faces. Five more bodies were strewn about the floor, the carpet around them saturated with their blood still seeping in. Richard closed his eyes for a moment taking as deep a breath as he could without vomiting, before stepping back into the wretched room. Stepping over the bodies and treading lightly on the stained carpet he made his way to a dresser in front of the darkened window that had scribbled notes and assortments of books covering it. They were spiritual texts, similar to those lining the walls of Richards’s house; only these were bloodied and battered. Similarly the dressers mirror had been subjected to much the same fate with large cracks running its entire length and parts of it shattered entirely. It also had blood spurts and spatter covering it making an even near clear reflection impossible. Around it, he noticed, were seven small pictures of people; the victims now sprawled around the room lifelessly, each with a thick black marker line across it, bar one on the right hand side of the mirror of a woman. She looked near thirties and had shoulder length chestnut hair falling evenly around her face. He was caught for a second by her eyes, a strange dark blue that sparkled in a way he recognised. She wasn’t like the others, he knew this much.

  Looking around at the bodies he confirmed that she had not suffered the same