He turned the page and there was another picture, smaller this time, more recent.
If he hadn’t known he would have sworn it was a different woman.
The welcoming glow in her eyes and the warm smile had been replaced by a
vision from a mortuary. A gaze devoid of understanding stared back at him from sockets which looked as though they’d been hollowed out of the skull with a trowel. The mouth was thin-lipped, little more than a gash across the face.
Hair which had once been lustrous and shiny now hung in unkept hunks, unbrushed and lifeless like kelp. Set side by side the most recent picture seemed to exist almost as a mockery to remind him of what once had been.
Vernon swallowed hard and read the report: SUBJECT NAME: VERNON. JANET (CATHERINE. NEE HAMPTON. AGE: 50
MARITAL STATUS: MARRIED. DATE OF COMMITTAL: 14/5/78 TRUSTEE. VERNON. STEPHEN
PHILLIP. RELATIONSHIP TO SUBJECT: HUSBAND. DIAGNOSIS: DEMENTIA. PARAESTHESIA, CHRONIC PARANOID DEMENTIA, SERIOUS IMPAIRMENT OF SENSORY-MOTOR FUNCTION.
CAUSE:
Vernon closed the file and slammed it down onto the table, almost knocking over his glass. He snatched it up but found, to his annoyance, that it was empty. He looked across at the half-empty bottle of Haig and contemplated re-filling his glass once more but, eventually, decided against it. The file lay where he’d put it, a memory as painful as a needle in soft flesh.
Six years.
Dear God was it that long since he had been forced to commit his wife? That long since …
The thought trailed away but he knew that he could never erase the memory of what had happened.
What had sent her to the verge of insanity.
Vernon got to his feet, turned off the fire and extinguished the lights, then, carrying the file, he trudged upstairs not bothering to put on the landing light. He moved slowly but easily through the darkness until he came to the locked door.
The wind had increased in strength and was howling now, like a dog in pain.
Vernon paused before the door, a cold chill enveloping him like some icy invisible glove which squeezed tighter the longer he stood there.
From the pocket of his cardigan he produced a key and, steadying his hand, inserted it in the lock.
There was a sharp crack from beyond the door, like bony fingers on glass, skeletal digits playing a symphony of torment in the gloom.
He turned the key.
The lock was well-oiled and opened without difficulty.
Vernon stepped into the room, shuddering as he did so. He felt like an intruder in this room. Like a thief in a church.
He heard the harsh clacking of the tree branch against the window and it startled him momentarily but, recovering his composure, he reached over and turned on the light.
The room smelt slightly of neglect, a faint odour of damp mingling with the more pungent smell of mothballs. There was a thin film of dust on everything.
On the bedspread, the sideboard, the chairs, even the photos. He crossed to the wardrobe and opened it. Her clothes still hung there, the smell of naptha more powerful now.
He had kept her in this room for three months before finally committing her.
For three months after it happened he had brought her food and tried to feed her as a parent would feed a helpless child. For that was what she had become.
His Janet. His wife. The woman he had loved so much.
The woman who had been reduced to the mental status of a cabbage by what she had witnessed those six years ago.
He had tried to cope as best he could, he had tried to help her but she had withdrawn deeper inside herself until Vernon had felt as through he were nursing a corpse. Only the movement of her eyes, bulging wide constantly, gave any indication that she was even alive. He had used all his expertise to try and salvage what was left of her sanity but finally he had lost the battle and had her committed to Fairham. The doctors there had made no progress though perhaps it was not surprising when he considered the events which had sent her into this death-like state of catatonia. It would, he
decided, have been enough to send anyone insane.
So far, he had been able to keep his secret.
In the beginning he had thought that he could handle the problem. But, word had spread around the neighbourhood — rumours, speculation and guess-work until finally, he had found that there was no other solution but to lock her up. No one knew why Janet Vernon was in a sanatorium and he knew that, for ail their do-it-yourself detective work, none of the neighbours could ever imagine anything as horrific as that which had caused her to lose her mind.
Now he stood in the room, looking around, listening to the wind outside.
He had left the room just as it had always been. For six years, only he had been inside. It contained too many memories, too much pain.
Vernon flicked off the light and retreated back on to the landing, locking the door behind him. He stood looking at it for long seconds then turned and headed for his own bedroom.
Six years.
He had searched for answers for so long and now, he felt that he might be close. The research was furnishing him with what he’d always sought. A way to cure his wife. A way to unlock her thoughts. No one must be allowed to stand in his way.
But, as he undressed, a thought passed through his mind.
What effect would it have on her? The horror of what she had witnessed that day had festered in her thoughts for so long.
Dare he release those memories?
13
New York
‘It sure beats the shit out of E. T.,’ said Rick Landers, gleefully.
Beside him, Andy Wallace was similarly impressed.
‘You bet,’ he murmured, watching as The Thing devoured another victim, ripping off both his arms below the elbow before exploding from his stomach cavity.
The two boys watched mesmerised as the alien head detached itself and then dragged itself across the floor using a tentacle.
‘Rewind it,’ said Andy. ‘Let’s see it again.’
Rick nodded and scuttled across to the video, his finger seeking out the appropriate button.
‘Yeah, E.T. was OK for kids,’ Andy continued.
‘My mum met the guy who made this picture,’ said Rick, smugly.
‘John Carpenter? Wow, when was that?’
‘At some party I think.’
He pressed the ‘play’ button on the video recorder and pictures once more began to fill the wide screen. The two boys settled down again.
They were both nine years old, Andy perhaps a month or two senior. Both attended the same school about three blocks away. Rick knew that his mother didn’t like him watching too many horror movies, She’d turned the video off halfway through his fifth viewing of The Evil Dead but, today, she was out filming a commercial until six o’clock so that gave him and Andy another two hours.
Andy lived about three houses down from the Landers place. His father, Gordon, wrote scripts for one of ABC’s most successful comedy series and his mother, Nina, was a theatrical agent, so Andy was no stranger to the crazy world of showbusiness.
The Thing had just sprouted spider’s legs and was about to scuttle away when the picture on the TV broke up into a network of lines and dots.
