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Authors: Madyson Rush
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covering the vision with popping blisters. Coldness whipped around his body and shouted in his ears.
Come!
The old man hissed.
Ian fell to the floor .
T he man let go of Ian’s hand and the vision vanished. The flames receded into the walls.
Ian could hardly breathe. His heart slowed to its natural rhythm and his mind returned to the hallway. There was something wrong with his right hand. With numb fingertips, he dug through his pockets with his left hand for another match. He struck it against the floor.
The stairwell was empty.
There was a biting sting in his injured hand.
Five bloody symbols— slanted at the edges from the sloped contour of sharp fingernails—were engraved into his flesh.
The demon had left a message.
Chapter 16
MONDAY 2:01 a.m.
Eilean Donan Asylum
Near Dornie, Highlands, Scotland
Arthritic fingers clutched a dull pencil and scribbled madly over the inside of a manila envelope. The old man drew tiny spirals, miniscule whorls that crashed together, some overlapping, all smudged with ashen lead that spread like exhaust as he dragged the edge of his writing hand back and forth across the paper. This continued until there were no blank spaces, just thousands of squiggling vortexes, imperfect in their curvature because his body shook with age.
Folding the envelope back into its original shape, he added glue to the edges and held the ends together. He wrote an address at the upper left corner on the sender line:
Dr. David Hyden
Denburn Court Apartments
Aberdeen AB25 UK
The addressee line was left blank.
SPECIAL DELIVERY - ROYAL MAIL - SAME DAY was printed in capital letters across the bottom of the envelope.
The old man rose from his seat and limped to the door. He placed one ear against the wood.
The monotonous drone of a television sounded down the hall. It was a football game. Ireland versus England. A classic rerun at least one decade old. The final minute in a tied second half.
He pressed his mouth against the door and yelled. His voice gurgled under the strain.
“Shut it!” an attendant shouted from a distance down the hall.
The old man banged his fists against the door. His yells became more outraged.
“Alright, alright!” The attendant shuffled up the hall and stopped beside the door.
Cheers echoed down the corridor as the winning point was scored.
“Bloody hell, you made me miss it!” he said.
The manila envelope slid under the door out into the hallway.
“What’s this?”
The old man listened as the attendant stooped to pick up the letter.
“You forgot the address, nutter. And there’s no stam—”
With his c rippled hands balled into knobby fists, the old man drew his breath inward, creating a vacuum that swallowed every thought, impulse, and involuntary action, and transformed inertia into energy that could be contained and controlled. His respiration slowed. Silenced at the most basic level, the mitochondrial orchestration of his body stopped. Every joule was isolated for one purpose.
With sharp exhalation, his consciousness exploded. Direct energy bombarded the attendant’s mind, twisting through synapses in a kinetic storm of confusion. Chaos was quickly replaced with a message: Send the letter now .
“Okay, okay.” The attendant stepped away from the door, sounding dizzy and discombobulated. “I’ll send your bloody letter.”
The old man smiled. This was child’s play. It had been easier than he thought, violating the attendant’s mind. Simple minds were effortless to control.
Recoiling into his cell, the old man hobbled to his bed. He sat on the mattress and massaged the muscles in his writing hand. After a moment, he lay down and stared at the ceiling. The escape from London’s underground, the message burned into the palm of Brenton’s eldest son, everything was coming together as planned.
All he had to do was wait.
Fortunately, the quiet of the vast asylum provided space large enough to entertain his welcomed
Come!
The old man hissed.
Ian fell to the floor .
T he man let go of Ian’s hand and the vision vanished. The flames receded into the walls.
Ian could hardly breathe. His heart slowed to its natural rhythm and his mind returned to the hallway. There was something wrong with his right hand. With numb fingertips, he dug through his pockets with his left hand for another match. He struck it against the floor.
The stairwell was empty.
There was a biting sting in his injured hand.
Five bloody symbols— slanted at the edges from the sloped contour of sharp fingernails—were engraved into his flesh.
The demon had left a message.
Chapter 16
MONDAY 2:01 a.m.
Eilean Donan Asylum
Near Dornie, Highlands, Scotland
Arthritic fingers clutched a dull pencil and scribbled madly over the inside of a manila envelope. The old man drew tiny spirals, miniscule whorls that crashed together, some overlapping, all smudged with ashen lead that spread like exhaust as he dragged the edge of his writing hand back and forth across the paper. This continued until there were no blank spaces, just thousands of squiggling vortexes, imperfect in their curvature because his body shook with age.
Folding the envelope back into its original shape, he added glue to the edges and held the ends together. He wrote an address at the upper left corner on the sender line:
Dr. David Hyden
Denburn Court Apartments
Aberdeen AB25 UK
The addressee line was left blank.
SPECIAL DELIVERY - ROYAL MAIL - SAME DAY was printed in capital letters across the bottom of the envelope.
The old man rose from his seat and limped to the door. He placed one ear against the wood.
The monotonous drone of a television sounded down the hall. It was a football game. Ireland versus England. A classic rerun at least one decade old. The final minute in a tied second half.
He pressed his mouth against the door and yelled. His voice gurgled under the strain.
“Shut it!” an attendant shouted from a distance down the hall.
The old man banged his fists against the door. His yells became more outraged.
“Alright, alright!” The attendant shuffled up the hall and stopped beside the door.
Cheers echoed down the corridor as the winning point was scored.
“Bloody hell, you made me miss it!” he said.
The manila envelope slid under the door out into the hallway.
“What’s this?”
The old man listened as the attendant stooped to pick up the letter.
“You forgot the address, nutter. And there’s no stam—”
With his c rippled hands balled into knobby fists, the old man drew his breath inward, creating a vacuum that swallowed every thought, impulse, and involuntary action, and transformed inertia into energy that could be contained and controlled. His respiration slowed. Silenced at the most basic level, the mitochondrial orchestration of his body stopped. Every joule was isolated for one purpose.
With sharp exhalation, his consciousness exploded. Direct energy bombarded the attendant’s mind, twisting through synapses in a kinetic storm of confusion. Chaos was quickly replaced with a message: Send the letter now .
“Okay, okay.” The attendant stepped away from the door, sounding dizzy and discombobulated. “I’ll send your bloody letter.”
The old man smiled. This was child’s play. It had been easier than he thought, violating the attendant’s mind. Simple minds were effortless to control.
Recoiling into his cell, the old man hobbled to his bed. He sat on the mattress and massaged the muscles in his writing hand. After a moment, he lay down and stared at the ceiling. The escape from London’s underground, the message burned into the palm of Brenton’s eldest son, everything was coming together as planned.
All he had to do was wait.
Fortunately, the quiet of the vast asylum provided space large enough to entertain his welcomed
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