Scribner Horror Bundle: Four Horror Novels by Joshua Scribner Read online

  Scribner Horror Bundle

  Four Horror Novels by Joshua Scribner

  Seed

  The Coma Lights

  Fear and Repulsion

  Nescata

  Seed

  By Joshua Scribner

  Originally titled Bone Song

  Originally published by Terminus Books 2003

  Copyright 2010 Joshua Scribner

  Smashwords Edition

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the author.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  Two weeks after receiving his Ph.D., at the age of twenty-seven, Jonah Singer traveled across the country to a state he’d never been to, to take his first real job as a clinical psychologist. He’d seen the position advertised in the American Psychological Association’s newsletter. It was a two-year post-doctorate internship, leading to licensure in the state of Michigan. That meant after he finished his two years he could get a license to practice in Michigan and probably anywhere else in the country.

  The job description was simple. He would do nothing but psychological evaluations of the severely mentally ill for Social Security Insurance. The job appealed to him for several reasons. Foremost, he wouldn’t have to do psychotherapy. He had found already, in his short career as a student-psychologist, that he didn’t have what it took to help people. Therapy required a sort of calmness in order to deal with the weekly chaos brought in by clients. Jonah had always found himself obsessing on every detail and essentially, “missing the forest for the trees,” as more than one supervisor had told him. Therapy also required an interest in the wellbeing of people, and though Jonah didn’t wish ill will on anyone, he couldn’t bring himself to care about anyone either. Evaluations for SSI didn’t seem like something that would require him to care.

  Then there was the extreme factor. Jonah had learned that severe mental illness was less complicated than the gray area of mild to moderate neurosis. If you were truly messed up, to the point that you were seeing things, couldn’t get out of bed in the morning, or needed money from SSI in order to survive, then the prognosis was simple: Patient is fucked. You could take some pills and experience some sense of normalcy, but the prognosis didn’t change.

  So dealing with the severely mentally ill would be simple, always. At least, that was what Jonah thought. After a successful phone interview, Jonah had packed his bags and drove from South Carolina to Michigan. That was where the simple became complicated. That was where Jonah met the demon.

  #

  It was mid September, a Monday morning, about three weeks into the job, when the chaos began. Jonah pulled up to the Meade Center a few minutes before 8AM. It was a small office building a few blocks from downtown Stanton, a city of about 19,000 in northern Michigan.

  Jonah had gotten up early this morning, hoping to come in at least half an hour before his first client, giving him time to set up, to make sure all his files were organized and contained the right forms, to help the day go smooth. But it didn’t matter. His home rituals kept him away until the last minute he could possibly wait. Now he knew he would pay.

  Clients were scheduled back to back, one hour each, or two if testing was needed, until eight or nine each night. There was little room for even the slightest of errors, a missing form here, a misplaced test there.

  A small lot ran along the west side of the building. A really old Subaru that looked like it had come straight from a salvage yard, faded navy blue, silver tape and cardboard where a window used to be, was in one of the parking spaces right up next to the building. Seeing it there, Jonah felt the irritation rise, as hopes of having time to set coffee brewing and have one last peaceful smoke dwindled from his head.

  Jonah parked his Dodge Neon two spaces away from the Subaru. There was no one in the other car, meaning the client had probably walked around to the front door. Knowing he should hurry, but not able to resist the anxiety that directed him, Jonah unzipped his bag and checked it one last time. There was a spiral notebook, two pens, a pack of smokes, and the eight packs of snack crackers he would be shoving into his mouth between clients. Jonah got out and locked the door, then checked all the other doors to make sure they were locked, pulling up on each handle, not satisfied to just see that the little knob was down.

  The air was cool, actually a refreshing change from a South Carolina September, where summer would still be kicking ass and taking names. But the cool air reminded him that a winter was coming that would be like none he’d ever experienced. It would be a winter he would have to adapt to and make jive with his rituals, and that thought made him even more anxious.

  Great. First work hour of the week, and I already want a nice rock to crawl under.

  Jonah thought about peeking around the front of the building, just to say, “Hi. I’ll be right there.”

  But what if the client wanted to talk immediately? And they often did. Let’s get started right here, outside on the parking lot. He didn’t have time.

  Jonah dug out his keys and opened the side door. Inside, he saw that the bathroom door at the end of the hall hung wide open. Did he have to pee? Yes, a little. He knew he should just hold it, his client waiting and all, but he might not get another chance for a while. He rushed into the bathroom, flicked the switch on, and pulled it out, his bag still strapped to his shoulder. The floor was filthy with the dried mud of people’s shoes. Stray toilet paper was scattered in a couple of places. But at least it was only paper and earth on the floor this time, and at least the toilet wasn’t backed up, this time.

  Jonah couldn’t squeeze a drop. He put it away, washed his hands and left the bathroom. He got out his keys and opened the door to the lobby. He was pleasantly surprised when he didn’t see someone standing outside the glass of the front door. He went straight back to the room he usually worked out of. He sat his bag behind the desk and was out. He took out yet another key and opened the secretary’s office.

  The secretary, Steph, would be in at nine. Steph was the one thing about the Meade Center that was well kept. She was younger than Jonah, twenty or twenty-one, a part-time community college student, short brown hair, small but not too small, cute. Already, on several occasions, Jonah had gotten the quick little glimpses of her that women often give men: Down her shirt at a bright colored brazier and the upper part of a tit, down her pants at the rim of her matching panties. Steph had worn a dangerously high skirt one day and bent down in front of him to pick up a conveniently dropped file. Before he had looked nervously away, Jonah had made out the outline of her crotch underneath a pair of red panties. And Steph touched him frequently, usually on a shoulder or bicep. She had leaned into him a few times.

  Jonah had wondered if she were coming onto him, and at home he had fanaticized about it, but he’d not done anything else, and he doubted that he ever would. Three times in his life he had been with a girl. Two were relationships, and
one had flat out said, “I want to have sex with you.” Never had he made the first move. There were just too many thoughts involved in that. It was easier to wait and to use his hand in the meantime.

  Aside from Steph, Jonah, the clients, and hopefully a maintenance person, no one would be there this week. On Friday, Jonah would drive down to David Meade’s main office in Lansing for supervision. David, according to Steph, only visited the Stanton office a few times a year.

  It hadn’t taken Jonah long to figure out that David had brought him in as a money making arm for a town far away from his main office. SSI paid ninety dollars per hour of evaluation. Jonah got eighteen of that. David got the rest. With more than thirty hours a week, Jonah was sure he made David enough to cover the little bit of overhead from the Stanton site.

  In Steph’s office, on top of a metal filing cabinet, sat all of the files for today. Jonah grabbed those and took them to his desk. He opened a drawer and took out the release forms that allowed them to communicate about clients with SSI and sat them on the desk. He went back out into the lobby. He saw the client through the front door, but the man was facing away, smoking a cigarette.

  Time.

  But what for? Jonah knew he should check the files, make sure all the forms were there. Or he could make coffee. The forms would make the day go smoother. He’d had two cups of coffee at home already. The choice was simple. But then the thoughts hit him: Steph didn’t always make coffee when she came in, and he couldn’t bring himself to ask her to. He might not have time to make it between clients, especially since he would have to smoke. What if he got tired? What if he couldn’t concentrate while he was with a client?

  Jonah grabbed the decanter and went to the bathroom facet for water. He got the coffee brewing before the man was done with his cigarette.

  Catching the client’s glimpse, Jonah smiled and opened the door. “How are you?” Jonah said to him.

  He was a small man, early forties, but still boyish looking. He wore baggy, ripped jeans and a green jacket far too big for his body. He gave Jonah an inquisitive look, which didn’t catch Jonah off guard. Around here, it had been the southern accent that got people. Yes, I’m from the South. No, I don’t own a rebel flag, grits are not a staple of my diet, and I don’t consider Hank Williams a God.

  After a couple of seconds, the man nodded at Jonah, then walked quickly passed him into the building. Inside, he turned toward Jonah, and then Jonah realized that the stare was more than “You talk funny.”

  Here we go, Jonah thought. The evaluations were done for SSI, who contracted with David Meade. Not always, but a great deal of the time, what went into the report was used to make the final determination about whether the client would receive a monthly check from SSI. Hence, the crazy act. Even clients who really had problems sometimes overdid it, doing themselves more harm than anything. Patient seemed to represent symptoms in an exaggerated manner.

  “You want to come back with me, and we can get started?” Jonah asked.

  The man didn’t respond, so Jonah just nodded and walked by, assuming he would follow him back to the office. He did. Jonah went behind the large desk and waited as the client walked in.

  “You want to get the door,” Jonah said before the man could sit in one of the chairs in front of the desk.

  The client stopped his slow walk and did just that. That was when Jonah noticed that the man was shaking profusely. He wished now even more that he’d been early. Then he could have taken time to check the file, known what to expect. Maybe this was PTSD, which would have explained the anxiety and vigilance. Or maybe there would be several past reports in the file with several different diagnoses, pointing to malingering.

  Moving slowly, the man seemed to take forever to get seated. By the time he was ready, Jonah had retrieved the SSI interview form—thank God it was there—from the file, placed it on his clipboard, and shoved an information-release form across the desk.

  “Before we get started, I have a . . .”

  Jonah looked up and caught a set of eyes that looked as if they might come out of the man’s head. Tears came from those eyes and streamed down his face. His mouth opened and closed a few times before words actually came out. Then, with a high-pitched sob, the man uttered, “You . . . You . . . You . . .”

  No, Jonah thought. It’s not about me. It’s about you. And it’s only about you for an hour. So let’s stop with the dramatic bullshit and get on with this.

  Of course, he couldn’t say what he thought. The SSI evaluations didn’t require that he be exceptionally warm. In fact, according to David, SSI frowned on that. But he couldn’t be rude either.

  “All right, sir,” Jonah said in a quiet but stern voice. “I want you to take a few deep breaths and try to calm down. You’re going to get through this.”

  The man didn’t seem to hear him. “You . . . You . . .”

  Jonah restrained a sigh, thinking of how this was probably going to take the better part of the hour if not more, and that would mean no time to grab a smoke before the next client. That meant DTs while performing the next eval. Or maybe he’d just have to sneak out anyway and be that much more behind.

  “You,” the man said. “Youuuuuu!”

  Jonah, not knowing what else to do, pointed at the form and said, “This is our release of information form. If I could just get you to sign here.”

  The client was no longer speaking. But he wasn’t looking where Jonah was pointing either. He was looking around the desk in front of him. His eyes finally fixed on the big Swingline stapler. He reached out and grabbed it. He cocked back the hand that held the stapler.

  Boom! Jonah was in a new place. It had happened twice before. And, in memories, those times came back to him now.

  Age fifteen, Mom’s drunk boyfriend coming at him. “What, boy! You want some too?”

  Sophomore year at USC. Rednecks catch him outside at night. “What’s up, Nigger-loving, liberal bastard!”

  He was suddenly calm. The rest of the world had melted away. He was like someone else. “What ya plannen on doen with that stapler, boss?”

  The man shot to his feet. “No! Make it stop! I don’t want what’s in you!”

  Not sure why, Jonah got to his feet.

  The once slow-moving man darted out the door.

  Jonah walked out of the office, but he didn’t move fast enough to see the man again. Standing outside, he felt his usual self return. What did he do now? The client was gone. Did he need to call SSI? Should he call David? Should he do something immediately or try to calm himself with a smoke first?

  Jonah went back to the office to get the pack of smokes from his bag. On his way behind the desk, he stopped for a second and noticed the room. What had just happened to him? He was not a brave man. He avoided confrontations like the plague. But behind the desk was where he had been. There had been no out behind him. The only way out would have been through or around the man.

  Backed into a corner. That had to be it. Just like Mom’s boyfriend. Just like the rednecks.

  Jonah got the Camels from his bag. He took them outside. He put one in his mouth. It didn’t feel right. Jonah laughed in exasperation. He had forced himself to buy the filtered cigarettes, promising himself that he would smoke them as they were this time.

  But what if it didn’t satisfy him and he just ended up smoking again?

  “Fuck it,” Jonah said, then ripped the filter off.

  #

  The last client walked out that night at 9:15. It was supposed to be nine, but the fat woman with fibomyalgia had wanted to vent, giving him way more information than necessary for his report, and he was too tired to dig out of his bag of psychological tricks that he would need to stop her.

  All had showed after the initial walkout. So it had been more than twelve hours straight. With the exception of the last, they had all been timely enough. After each client, he’d managed to smoke, grab a cup of coffee, and shove a couple of crackers in his mouth, before he had to start the nex
t one.

  Now, sitting in the chair, his body protested the day. His nerves were shot, too much caffeine and nicotine firing on muscles and a brain that couldn’t do anymore, resulting in a spinning headache and an electric, but tired, body. His stomach, having only the peanut butter crackers in it, was begging him to eat, but, at the same time, telling him it was too nervous to hold food. Get up or stay sit? Eat or not eat? It didn’t matter. He was going to be sick anyway.

  Jonah knew the last thing he needed was a cigarette, but that he didn’t need one didn’t matter too much. Jonah got up and went outside.

  #

  Jonah supposed it would have taken most people less than five minutes to get out of the Meade Center once the last client was gone. Really, it should have just been a matter of grabbing the files, hitting the lights, and locking up. But, of course, for Jonah, there was the checking factor. He had grabbed his files, hit the lights, locked the front door, got in his car, got out of his car, went back in the building, checked the lights, checked the doors, then went back to his car. Afterward, he had almost gotten away, only to feel the anxiety overwhelm him again. He got out and repeated the entire sequence, promising himself this was it.

  Again, sitting in his car, he tried to fight it. He lost, but it was a loss with a compromise. The next time he got out of his car, it was to check only the outside doors of the building. He pressed down on each handle and held for a five count.

  Jonah felt satisfied when he left the lot. Tonight, the compulsions had been extra, but that wasn’t unusual when he was so tired and at the same time so keyed up. He was a block away, before the image to the coffeepot entered his head. He thought he had turned it off, but he wasn’t sure. That is, he was only 99% sure, which, in the mind of an obsessive compulsive, is only seen as not sure. He went another block and turned the car around.

  #

  It was a little before ten when Jonah pulled onto Stanton’s main road. Already, he was dreading the days in front of him. Tuesday and Wednesday would be similar to Monday, back to back clients until he was ill. That would leave him with around thirty reports to call in. SSI had a telephone dictation system, where he could call in and read his reports to a machine. The reports would later be typed by a transcriptionist, then mailed to him for proofreading and signing.