Screams in the Madhouse -- A Sequel to Janus House by Jacob Francis Malewitz

Screams in the MadHouse

By J.M. Francis

Copyright Jacob Malewitz

jfmalewitz@gmail.com

Book 1: Back to Hell

CHAPTER 1

“I want to stay mad. They take care of you. They feed you and let you eat ice cream all day. And pills. Oh-my-God. The pills!” Alice Amy laughed, looking at Zebra across the table. It was a round table, enclosed by several walls, where you occasionally could see people playing ping pong in the other room; sometimes there would be a movie on and she always had the best angle to the TV in the corner. But who was Alice Amy, really?

#

Paul Light walked into his parent’s—his father’s—home and yelled out. “Hey dad, where’s the damn music and beer for your son?” After walking into the living room he stopped, dropping his bag, the cigarette falling out of his mouth and hitting the cheap carpet. Christopher Light, his father, was sitting in a pool of blood with a gun on the table and a note scrawled in crayons on top of it. From here, Paul could see the big letter A on the paper, but little else. He stepped forward, his heart racing, only to fall flat on his face in tears. He wept for several minutes, but this day had always been on his mind. He grabbed the paper, put it into his bag carefully without even glancing at it, pacing himself all the way; he then went to the phone and called the East Lansing police.
                “911 emergency.”
                “Someone died on Cedar Street,” and he dropped the phone in time to see a reddish figure, at the top of the stairs, appear and disappear. At that moment he didn’t mind his eyes playing tricks on him, because now that his father was dead and mom long gone, back in the glory days she passed, he knew he was finally on his own. “It had to happen, it will happen, it happens.” And he laughed for a moment, scared and hopeless at the same time.
                He sat down, pulling a cigarette to his mouth and lighting, only to throw it to the ground. He went back to his father’s swollen body, and saw something in the color of the blood which immediately reminded him of the figure he saw upstairs. “No time for chasing ghosts,”  he said to himself, but couldn’t get past the letter. Finally, he pulled it out, noting a picture of exactly the creature—creature?—he had seen waiting for him at the top of the stairs. The words above it were scribbled in haste with a blooded hand, and looked quite like another language. But it was English. It said “Tell no one my secrets, and my ideas, for ideas are the true beasts.”
                “What did you mean—“ A knock at the door.

2

Paul Light watched them leave, taking the body, asking little if any questions. All he could think of was why, why he died, why they didn’t even same to scare. Did they expect it as much as he did? This could have been a murder; the figure at the stairs might have been--
                And—
                Slow down. Slow down.
                He stopped thinking and went to his bag, passing the table without thinking. He wanted a cigarette so bad, but they were quite unhealthy especially when you smoked 2 packs a day. Disgusting. Remembering the red image dashing, he slowed at the stairs. This house, built back when building was the A-Business in Mid-Michigan, had an odd arrangement. Its stairs were right there when you opened the front door; they happened to be next to the phone as well. You went up, two bedrooms, one for mom and dad, one for the best son who-did-some-dope-but-recovered Paul Light. He almost laughed, thinking of the apparition. It came down to mom: neither of them could ever let go, but Paul was better at blocking it out than dad.
                He went to the bathroom and washed his hands, spotting his somewhat dirty complexion in the mirror, remembering so long ago putting water on the toothbrush so dad would think he did in fact brush his teeth. It was quite the ruse.
                Again he laughed, and surveyed his father’s bedroom, or what was left of it. There were books all over the bed; barely enough space to lie. The TV, oddly, was on with MSNBC filling the screen; dad liked news. The radio was rewired and the rest of the clothes were tossed all around, dirty or clean Paul could only guess.
                He went to the books on the table. “Madness in Babylon.” “Secrets of Madness.” “Hanging onto Guilt.” “Handling Schizophrenia.” “Send Down Fire.” “Artists and Their Worlds.”  A different compilation of books; what was dad searching for? Again, movement with a dash of red to it, but again he second guessed himself looking at the TV screen and seeing a Child Alert hitting the screen; a six year old missing. Amber Alerts always disturbed Paul.
                He repositioned the books, but kept them close. A writer, but failed college student, Paul worked as a part time journalist and aspiring non-fiction million dollar bestseller; he knew good books. Who better to teach him than dad? Dad would send him boxes full of arcane books by oddly named authors like Lovecraft and Jung and Rand; he had different tastes. Laughing at this, he stepped on another book on the ground and picked it up. It was almost finished, the bookmark on the last chapter; “The Demons Within Us.”
                “Odd.” And he put the book on top of the others.

3
The police came back on a rainy night—it was so cold at night in Michigan rain—and Paul could hear them walking up the stone steps to the solid oak door, pounding it and making jokes to themselves. “Kid couldn’t kill a fly.” “What if he did kill a fly?” “No jokes, bro, he’s had it fucked.” He opened the door, pretending pain when in fact he was feeling downright happy.
                “Hi. “
                “Paul, may we come in?”
                He recognized him. Joe Santiago. Went to school together. But he didn’t know the other one.
                They sat at an old gold and white couch, the kind you hang onto and make sure stays in good shape; Paul went to work. A cup of hot black coffee for Joe, and the partner who never gave a name asked for nothing.       
                “Paul Light. Resident non-fiction writer. How you been, bro? Ah shit, man, that was stupid.”
                “No, Joe, I’ve been good. My dad really hasn’t been alive for a decade.”
                “So you’re a writer now?”
                “Journalist, just a typist.”             
                “Any books? Any big deals? Movies?”