Shadow Fabric Mythos Vol.1: Supernatural Horror Collection by Mark Cassell

Author:Mark Cassell [Cassell, Mark]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Herbs House
Published: 2017-05-08T04:00:00+00:00

I had always pictured memories as compartments in my head, little cabinets and drawers accessible by the grasp of a mental hand, opening on silent runners to reveal files and folders of varying widths, colours, and condition—much like filing cabinet divisions. Not like an office, no. Nothing so impersonal nor cold. Nothing so uninviting.

My bank of cabinets were locked up. And somewhere some bastard had the keys. I could see the blank-faced compartments, all of them, yet was unable to access the damn things. Perhaps one contained a list of my crimes. Was I a bank robber, a murderer, a rapist? Was I imprisoned for grievous bodily harm? Who was Amy? Had it been domestic abuse against her?

This was worse than not knowing anything about my past. A sickness churned in my stomach.

Under Stanley’s control, as my feet took me through the House herding potential stitchers, it was as if the occasional sheet of memory would poke out of a drawer. The shadows leaking into an odd compartment, pulling out a random memory.

It happened first when I dealt with the father and daughter. When I’d first seen them a few days before, back when I met yoga instructor, come nurse, come scientist Katrina for the first time, the teenager came across as a spoiled and bored young girl. And the father, he simply looked troubled.

As we let ourselves into the Grieg Suite, the girl wasn’t around. The father sat beside the window reading a newspaper. He gave us a slow, quizzical look.

I ran at him.

The man opened his mouth to speak and I punched him. With a sound like a heavy book dropped on a leather sofa, the contact between fist and face surprised me, let alone him. Blood dribbled from his split lip and he dropped the newspaper. He groaned and cupped his hands to the gushing wound, his eyes tiny.

I dragged him towards me—the man was heavy. His bloody hands slapped uselessly at my arms.

In a wet voice, he said, “What the hell is this?” A redness coated his teeth as though he’d scoffed strawberries.

I wondered how many times in my unremembered past had I inflicted such pain on others.

As I held him, an image of someone else scratched across my eyes like a phantom, shimmering behind reality. For a moment, I saw the thuggish looks of a much younger man with a burning aggression, not like this father whose face oozed blood and terror. The ghost—was that it?—was like a glimpse beneath the mask of Man. Yet it wasn’t that simple, this was something else.

There I stood, my hands acting not of my own command, holding a terrified man, while another was there in the same place. Two images overlapped one another. One existing, the other not at all. The face—an incorporeal flutter—was from a memory. One of my memories long before my accident. The crash…the red car…was it real? Never before had I reason to doubt. And if it never happened, then someone please explain my

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