Read Online Asylum - 13 Tales of Terror by Matt Drabble - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Matt Drabble
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happily.
“Sorry,” Duncan said to her, “Just wool-gathering I guess.”
“Look I don’t want you to think that I’m forward or anything, but would you like to go for a drink with me sometime?” She asked.
Duncan could only stare back at the picture of cuteness asking him out, “Really, me go out with you?”
“Oh hey, there’s no need to be rude, I only thought that you might like to,” she said taking his inference completely the wrong way around.
“Say yes,” the voice said.
Duncan could only stare on in disbelief as she stomped away.
“Say yes or I’ll give her a stroke,” the voice prodded him.
“Yes, YES!” He shouted after her.
----------
It was nine months later; Duncan and his new bride had moved in together at her apartment. It was large and spacious with glorious views out across the ocean. He had sold his parents’ house and banked the money into a joint account for them both. Their life had been gloriously happy; she loved him and he was the luckiest man in the world - well almost. He still had the voice to contend with, but he had grown to believe that it was a relatively small price to pay. The voice in fact had helped him greatly during his clumsy wooing attempts. The voice gave him strength and confidence that he never knew he had. The voice had told him what to say and how to say it; it had been his very own demonic Cyrano de Bergerac, and the courtship had been successful.
He was now working mainly from home as a freelance graphic designer and he got to pick and choose his assignments. He had put together several album covers for moderate to successful bands and his reputation was growing. His work was dark and almost Lovecraftian. His mind was full of long tentacles reaching out of the blackness; great hidden monsters that lurked just out of sight threatening to destroy a man’s sanity with only a glimpse of true forms. He had grown into a compromise with the voice; an understanding that would allow them both to survive and thrive. Once a month he headed into London’s murky inner city dwellings, to streets that ran with dark promises of cruelty and malice. The voice was in charge for those days; he would lock his own mind away in the vault. He would only dare to emerge when the soft sounds of crashing waves and the call of the seagulls drew him home. When he returned, the only remnants of the voice’s expeditions would appear in his work. Shadows and red slashes of death would flourish and the ghoulish metal bands would be grateful. The only trouble was that the voice had now been absent for the last two months. Normally he would feel its junkie fingers scrabbling around his mind ready for another excursion into depravity. Only in the deepest darkest corners of his vault did he realise that he had begun to miss the voice. As depressing as it seemed, it had been his oldest and closest friend. The voice had missed one monthly appointment and that was now drifting towards two.
“Primrose, is that you?” he called when he heard the apartment door open and then close softly as someone entered. He stood puzzled by the absence of her gentle voice rising to greet him.
“Prim, is that you?” He tried again.
He walked across his home office space warily; his wife had been to the doctors this morning, as she had been feeling a little under the weather for the last couple of weeks. She had dismissed his concerns saying that it was just a bug going around at work, but he had nagged her into going. She had finally agreed this morning just to put his mind at rest. She had made the appointment and he had fully intended to go with her - as much to make sure that she went as for support - until work had intervened.
“Prim?” He called again growing frantic. What if it was really bad news? What if the doctor had found something? “PRIM!” He shouted, panicking. He rushed out of the room to find her in the kitchen waving a bottle of champagne at him.
“Pull out a glass,” she
“Sorry,” Duncan said to her, “Just wool-gathering I guess.”
“Look I don’t want you to think that I’m forward or anything, but would you like to go for a drink with me sometime?” She asked.
Duncan could only stare back at the picture of cuteness asking him out, “Really, me go out with you?”
“Oh hey, there’s no need to be rude, I only thought that you might like to,” she said taking his inference completely the wrong way around.
“Say yes,” the voice said.
Duncan could only stare on in disbelief as she stomped away.
“Say yes or I’ll give her a stroke,” the voice prodded him.
“Yes, YES!” He shouted after her.
----------
It was nine months later; Duncan and his new bride had moved in together at her apartment. It was large and spacious with glorious views out across the ocean. He had sold his parents’ house and banked the money into a joint account for them both. Their life had been gloriously happy; she loved him and he was the luckiest man in the world - well almost. He still had the voice to contend with, but he had grown to believe that it was a relatively small price to pay. The voice in fact had helped him greatly during his clumsy wooing attempts. The voice gave him strength and confidence that he never knew he had. The voice had told him what to say and how to say it; it had been his very own demonic Cyrano de Bergerac, and the courtship had been successful.
He was now working mainly from home as a freelance graphic designer and he got to pick and choose his assignments. He had put together several album covers for moderate to successful bands and his reputation was growing. His work was dark and almost Lovecraftian. His mind was full of long tentacles reaching out of the blackness; great hidden monsters that lurked just out of sight threatening to destroy a man’s sanity with only a glimpse of true forms. He had grown into a compromise with the voice; an understanding that would allow them both to survive and thrive. Once a month he headed into London’s murky inner city dwellings, to streets that ran with dark promises of cruelty and malice. The voice was in charge for those days; he would lock his own mind away in the vault. He would only dare to emerge when the soft sounds of crashing waves and the call of the seagulls drew him home. When he returned, the only remnants of the voice’s expeditions would appear in his work. Shadows and red slashes of death would flourish and the ghoulish metal bands would be grateful. The only trouble was that the voice had now been absent for the last two months. Normally he would feel its junkie fingers scrabbling around his mind ready for another excursion into depravity. Only in the deepest darkest corners of his vault did he realise that he had begun to miss the voice. As depressing as it seemed, it had been his oldest and closest friend. The voice had missed one monthly appointment and that was now drifting towards two.
“Primrose, is that you?” he called when he heard the apartment door open and then close softly as someone entered. He stood puzzled by the absence of her gentle voice rising to greet him.
“Prim, is that you?” He tried again.
He walked across his home office space warily; his wife had been to the doctors this morning, as she had been feeling a little under the weather for the last couple of weeks. She had dismissed his concerns saying that it was just a bug going around at work, but he had nagged her into going. She had finally agreed this morning just to put his mind at rest. She had made the appointment and he had fully intended to go with her - as much to make sure that she went as for support - until work had intervened.
“Prim?” He called again growing frantic. What if it was really bad news? What if the doctor had found something? “PRIM!” He shouted, panicking. He rushed out of the room to find her in the kitchen waving a bottle of champagne at him.
“Pull out a glass,” she
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