Necro Files: Two Decades of Extreme Horror

the color of his cheeks now matching his hair.

Ernest ignored him. “Thing is, there’s no turning back now.”

Caleb shook his head and said, “Get to the point. What did you do?”

Ernest stared at Caleb as if deciding how to proceed, whether or not to let Caleb in on the secret. “It’s already begun. I need to know what to expect from you guys. Because let me tell you, if I go down, we all go down. One for all, and all that stupid Musketeers bullshit, okay?”

He sat back in the chair and rubbed his palm across his mouth. “Here’s the thing. I think I can safely say I understand your character. I trust you guys. I think the three of us are of like minds.”

There was no argument so far; the three were of like minds when it came to politics and religion. But Ian wasn’t entirely sure he shared the same belief system as Ernest, or shared his ethics. He was willing to listen, however.

“I found a … a test subject. I’d like to see how much it will take to … to, um. For him to break.”

“Break?” Ian asked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Caleb snickered. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Ernest shrugged and began to laugh.

“Oh, god,” Ian said through fingers splayed across his mouth. He leaned forward in his chair, and his face brightened as he finally realized what Ernest was talking about. “You’re talking about what? Breaking some guy’s will? Right? Am I right? Holy shit, Ernest! Who’d you pick?”

“Nolan Pierson.”

“Who?” Caleb asked, but Ian knew the guy. Nolan was in their psych class, and was in Latin and chemistry with Ian and Ernest. Nolan was rather forgettable, with butchered black hair and oversized Buddy Holly glasses. The scholarship kid. His father was a janitor in the Harper Building on the west side of the campus. Every school has at least one Nolan — the kid whose Sears suit was never quite up to par, whose Pay-less shoes always fell apart a few months into the semester. The kid who wanted to fit in but just couldn’t afford to, his clothes and his efforts always being second rate.

Nolan was a throwaway human being.

And suddenly, the three seemed to realize almost simultaneously that they were of like minds. And like ethics.

“Him?” Caleb said. “I know who you mean. He won’t last — the guy’s a loser. He’s on scholarship, for god’s sake.” He whispered the last part, as if naming a dreaded disease, as though naming his social status might inflict it on him.

“I think you’re wrong,” Ernest said. “And there begins our experiment. Who better than some poor schmuck who’s had to struggle all his life to get what he wants? A guy who tries to fit in but never manages to. If he didn’t have some strength of character, I think he’d’ve blown his brains out by now, n’est-ce pas? This guy has what we’re looking for.”

“You’re awfully empathetic,” Caleb remarked, his eyes at half mast. He snorted. “Like you really give a shit what this janitor’s kid’s been through.”

Ernest opened his mouth but Ian cut him off. “What are you going to do to him?”

“Me? Not me — we. What are we going to do to him.”

“Sure. Right. Then what?”

“Some tests.” Ernest turned toward Caleb. “And to answer your question, dickhead—”

“I didn’t ask any fucking question. All I said was you’re full of shit. You talk about him being poor and struggling and all that but you don’t care.”

“Like you do?”

Caleb shrugged. “Never said I did. In fact, I don’t. But you. You’re full of shit.”

Ernest smiled. “Oh yeah? I already have him in the house. Doesn’t matter whether I feel sorry for him. All I wanna do is some experiments. Like I said, this has already begun. I invited him over and slipped some shit into his drink.”

“Well, I guess it’s started then,” Caleb said. “I’m with you. I’m in.”

“Just like that?” Ernest said.

“I trust you, man,” Caleb said. “We’re like brothers. And I think this sounds fucking exciting.”

They stared at Ian. He chewed his bottom lip. “I’m in. You know I’m in.”

Ernest slapped his hands together. “We have the house to ourselves. My folks gave everyone the night off since they’re going into the city for the weekend. So there’s no one left to, um, hear anything. Besides, Nolan’s tucked away in a safe place. Soundproof.”

“They gave everyone the night off, did they?” Caleb scoffed.

“Fuck you, assbag,” Ernest said. “Not everyone has staff who wipes their dick for them.” He led them across the room and reached behind the bookcase. “You see those old movies with the creepy old goth mansions that have these hidden passageways and shit?” He pushed a panel concealed behind a copy of The 120 Days of Sodom by the Marquis de Sade. A door disguised to look like part of the paneling creaked open. A light, musky air assaulted their nostrils.

“Oh gimme a fuckin’ break,” Caleb said.

“Shut up.” Ernest ushered them inside and closed the door. They each held a flashlight, and Ernest led them down a hallway where the only sounds were their footfalls and the steady plinking of a leaky pipe.

They passed through several doors. At the last door, Ernest reached up and punched in a series of numbers on a keypad, locking it behind them. “Can never be too careful. We don’t need company.”

“Did you install that? It looks modern.” Ian brushed cobweb remnants out of his eyes as they approached a small room. He smelled something burning.

Ernest told them, “I didn’t install it, but I doubt my parents know about that secret panel upstairs, or even about this place. I just discovered it myself a few months ago. I wonder what kind of sick shit the previous owner got himself into down here.”

Light overtook the blackness. In the center of the room was a large, thick butcher-block table. Tied naked and spread-eagle to the table was a young man with black hair. He was blindfolded, and his glasses had been placed on a tray beside his head. He was gagged, but that seemed unnecessary since he appeared to be unconscious. The slow rise and fall of his thin chest indicated he was still alive.

That burning smell …

Ian looked at the corner of the room. A large pot had been set up, and something inside was simmering on a platform above Sterno canisters. “What’s that?” he asked.

“Metal,” Ernest said. “A combination of metals, actually. Some old figurines, melted down. Lead and tin mostly. Silica. A bunch of stuff. Carefully mixed and tested.”

“Tested? On what?” Caleb asked.

Ernest looked up. “Strays. Mostly.”

“What, uh, what’s the metal for?” Ian asked.

Ernest snapped opened a container of smelling salts and ran it beneath Nolan’s nose. “You’ll see.”

Nolan’s head jerked from side to side. He strained against his bindings.

On a tray table beside the butcher block was an assortment of instruments. Ernest stood beside it and picked up a notebook and pen.

He tried to hand them to Ian, who refused and backed up a step.

“You have to keep notes, Ian.”

“Why me?”

“Because Caleb is stronger. I may need his help with … you know. Other stuff.”

“No way. I don’t want my handwriting in any journal.”

“You idiot,” Ernest said. “We’re all in this. Someone has to keep notes, and I can’t fucking do it. I’m going to be too goddamned busy to write, asshole. Besides”—he pointed at the camera mounted on a tripod in the corner—“I’m recording all of this. So fuck you and your handwriting. There’s a permanent record.”

Nolan screamed a series of desperate and incoherent sounds into his gag.

Ian snatched the notebook and pen out of Ernest’s hand.

Caleb moved across the room and studied the tray of instruments. “Ernest, you are one seriously disturbed