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"What kind of disease is this? Explain. Unfold old sire, I say. Art thou crazed or lunatic? Tell me now." - Plautus, Amphitrou, 11. 2. 145.

A recent national study reports that 1 person in 7 living in the United States will require professional help for a psychological disorder in his or her lifetime. - Abnormal Psychology, - T. Costello and J. Costello

"I saw people I had entombed in milk bottles, putrefying, and I was consuming their rotting cadavers." - Sechehaye 1951 pp. 34.

"...we live in a universe that operates under laws of random, chaotic malevolence ..." - Soren Cabal

"I am my choices." - Sartre

ALISON MOIRÉ

Alison Moiré was 37 years old ...

... and for the last thirty of those years, every day, in the hour before dawn, she would awaken, her body raked by uncontrollable tremors, flesh slick with sweat reeking of fear, the images of the nightmare searing her brain ...

a nightmare depicting variations on a dark reality ...

She was seven years old. Playing in the "hidey-hole" in the attic of her home. A built-in dresser stood next to a recess that occupied most of the right hand wall. A metal rod ran the length of the recess bearing her mother's dresses and the family's winter coats. Beneath the clothing cartons rested. Christmas ornaments. Dishes and glassware no longer used or brought out only when company visited during the holidays; the assorted flotsam and jetsam that accumulates over the passage of many years.

For some reason there was a space behind the dresser. One got into this space - or hidey-hole as Alison called it - by way of the recess.

In this hidey-hole, into which only she was small enough to squeeze ...(Nah, nah, nah two big old smelly brothers ha ha ha!)

... she had a fluffy white bath towel ... (one of her mother's best, so she better not find out)

... that she used for her rug. She had a miniature tea set - a birthday present from her grandparents - spread out over that rug. She had her two favorite dolls sitting against the back of the dresser: Tina and Mrs. Spam.

Occasionally she would peek out, peering between the hems of dresses and coats and stacked cartons, imagining that she was a spy or secret agent hunting for bad men.

Unless one knew where to look, she could not be seen.

She poured Mrs. Spam a fresh cup of tea while scolding her for spilling the last one. A faint brownish stain was slowly spreading over the rug. She would worry about that later.

The screaming began.

She bolted upright slamming her head against the ceiling and tears filled her eyes. She bit her lip to keep from crying. If she started blubbering her Mother might hear and if Mother heard she would get mad and might not let her play in her secret place anymore.

The door burst open and smashed against the wall. Plaster cracked and flew, scattering over the floorboards. Her Daddy toppled into the room. His face slapped the floor and his cheeks rippled like waves. His eyes, open, stared into hers. Seeing nothing.

It was Mother who was screaming.

Alison heard her before she saw her. Mother backed through the door. Alison opened her mouth to call out but something stopped her. Then she saw the man. His face was lost in shadow, blurred. He grabbed her mother's hair and pulled it. He pushed her to the floor. Her Mother jerked her head at her Daddy and screamed louder. Her Daddy's lips parted and blood bubbled out. The man grabbed her Mother by the front of her blouse. The sound of ripping fabric filled the attic. Her Mother struck at the man with her fists. She might just as well have been punching a wall of bricks.

Alison wanted to run, to go out and help her mother, but she was too afraid. Her legs refused to move and she suddenly realized with hot shame that she had peed in her pants like a baby.

The man held something shiny in his gloved hand. Light caught the edge and flashed in her eyes. She felt hot and dizzy. The man hit her Mother with that hand. A crevice formed across her throat. Her Mother turned, reached out. Her hands were lathered with blood. She pressed them against the crevice. She opened her mouth and a torrent of red splattered down her chin, saturating her torn blouse and bared chest. She made a funny little sighing sound and fell over. Blood streamed thickly to the floor.

Then Mother fell.

Then Mother shuddered as if very cold.

Then Mother lay very still.

As still as Daddy.

The man removed his coat. Underneath he wore a uniform like the one worn by the janitor at her school. Inside the coat were many pockets. The man reached inside these pockets and removed more shiny things. Some were long and some were short but they all shone as if freshly polished. The man laid the shiny things on the floor and left the attic.

She heard the stairs creaking.

Eternity passed.

The Man came back carrying both of her brothers. One slung over each shoulder like sacks of meat.

She lay on her side with her thumb in her mouth. She hadn't sucked her thumb since she was two years old. She did not whimper. She breathed as slowly and as shallowly as she could. She knew this man was a bad man and if she made a sound he would hear her and he would find her and he would do bad things to her.

And pretty soon she would wake up. She would be in her nice frilly bed surrounded by her dolls and stuffed animals and any second now her Daddy would come into the room and grab her and cover her with kisses and she would giggle and he would carry her downstairs to breakfast ...

... and if she were really lucky her Daddy wouldn't have to go to no yucky work and they could spend the whole day watching their favorite TV shows and maybe go to the dollar store and buy candy and angels and ...

The man began to do things with the shiny objects.

A second eternity passed before the man finished and left.

He turned off the light before closing the door, plunging the attic into night. The cold sodium glow of the streetlight out-side shone faintly through the curtains over the front window, etching the slaughter scene in dense black and ice blue.

Alison's eyes closed and she fell into sleep.

When morning came she crawled out of the hidey-hole and clutching Mrs. Spam tightly to her chest, looked at what the bad man had done. The buzzing of flies made her head throb and the sickly sweet odor in the air made her want to throw up.

Instead she went next door and told the neighbors what had happened.

The police came and a nice policeman talked to her for a long time. He had turquoise eyes. He asked her a lot of ques-tions. She couldn't tell him what the bad man looked like. Every other detail was crisp and clear, in perfect focus, but when she tried to see the face of the bad man, all she saw was thickly grained haze.

Blockage the doctors called it and nodded knowingly. Traumatic shock. She might remember at a later date. She might never remember. She didn't want to remember.

Because when she tried to remember she heard cruel laughter and knew that the bad man was coming back for her ...

... and when she shuddered into morning the red-hued images were as fresh in her mind as new born memory.

SOREN CABAL

When Soren Cabal dreamt, he witnessed a vast, unfathomable void. And in the center of that churning darkness lurked a great, howling goat god shrieking its black hatred at the very soul of the world.

... and that howling blew like wind through his mind, searing his brain with a hot, metallic fury.

... and to quiet that hideous, ebon sound, Cabal would take up the metal and feed it flesh and fluid.

... and when at last the interior of his skull was without sound, he would contemplate what he had done.

... and he would find it to be very, very good indeed.

THE ASYLUM

The asylum did not dream.

It towered over the fence that encased it; a fifteen-foot wrought iron cage thrusting black, evil looking spikes at the sky. The myriad of narrow lancet windows that lined the sides and the huge circular stained glass window that dominated the upper half of the granite facade appeared covered with nictitating membranes. Flanking the front, two cupola-topped turret-like battlements sprouted from the ground, soaring past the pitched roof where they blossomed into four granite joists. Each joist ended in a snarling beast-head, the features a strange hybrid of man and carnivore. Crusted lengths of chain draped the observation deck railing, bleeding rust.

What there was of lawn between the cold iron shafts and the damp stone was brittle and dead. Only the small greenhouse, dwarfed on the northern side, bore any signs of life.

In the far northeastern corner, a squat transformer building cowered like some discarded offspring.

For fifty-four years the asylum held the insane close. Seldom did any of its charges exit its dark confines on their own.

For thirteen years it had sheltered a single man. It watched him decline and it watched him die.

For the last twenty-three years the asylum held empty halls filled with silence broken only by the creaking of its settling foundation and the moaning of wind through its battlements.

And if it could dream it would have dreamt of shadowy figures howling in cages.

But the asylum did not dream.

The asylum waited.

09:50

Wellsville, New York - Oct. 27th

Late fall in that part of Western New York, known as the Southern Tier. It was beautiful country, with forested, whaleback hills. Picturesque towns and quaint villages were surrounded by acres of pastures, veined with quick flowing streams, thick with trout.

Late Fall is that thin membrane of time that separates the rapidly fading vestiges of late summer: green fields buzzing with insects, and trees alive with birdsong, from middle winter, brown weeds cracking under heavy snow, barren trees sketched in skeletal lines against a sky gone mottled gray. A sadness descends over the land like a veil. Even the air seems heavier. Colors less bright. Shades deeper. And shadows less willing to reveal what they hold.

09:51

In town ...

Theodore Rand, 57, contemplated his greasy counter. It definitely needed a wipe down but he just didn't feel like doing it. Business would be slow until the lunch crowd so what was the hurry?

Yawning, he wandered to the front of his diner and gazed at the clearing sky. Hell of a lightning storm last night he thought. He'd stayed up late, sitting on his bentwood rocker protected by his covered back porch watching threads of frenzied light crisscross the belly of heaven. One hell of a show.

One hell of a one ...

09:55 AM

It was not quite ten o'clock. Most of the shops on Main Street were still closed. An asphalt sky laced with tendrils of smoky cloud, all that remained of the previous night's torrential downpour. Suggestions of fog wafted up the distant hillsides.

Phyllis Silas, 52, face weathered by a lifetime of gardening, body widened by a lifetime of good food and plenty of it, stood outside the bakery sniffing distastefully at the lurid poster lacquered to the wall near the entrance. Something called the Apocalypse Consortium was going on at the Olean Stockyard. A drawing in a headache of bright colors looked like some Nazi war machine from hell.

Some noise-ridden punk thing, thought Phyllis, or one of those satanic heavy metal bands.

Or some of those gawd-awful rap people.

Thank heaven, the local radio station only played honest, God-fearing country and western music.

Holding her nose in the air, she pushed open the bakery door and entered. She'd have to speak to them about that poster.

10:00 AM

Across the street a young mother walked into Earl's diner, hand in hand with her daughter, whose golden curls danced around her chubby face as she talked gibberish and laughed. "Home of the Fruit Cup Drinkers" proclaimed the garish sign taped to the entrance window. The happy pair sat at a table near the front where they could watch the town come to Saturday morning life while eating breakfast.

"Daddy's coming pretty soon," said the young mother.

Her daughter flashed a bright if snaggle-toothed smile. The young mother's chest ached with the sudden realization of how truly beautiful her baby was.

"Daddy," said the daughter and giggled, the sound brightly innocent.

10:01 AM

Theodore Rand, back behind the counter, still wondering if he should wipe it down now or later, greeted them and said he'd be right over.

10:05 AM

Outside, coming from the south end of town, Erma Duece, 84, drove with excruciating slowness. She was sitting so low in the seat of her mint 1957 Cadillac that only the very top of her head - covered with hair the color of pissed-on snow - was visible over the dash. She was on her way to Millie's to get her hair done. She spent the better part of every Saturday getting it done. It was the highlight of her week.

10:07 AM

A fresh-off-the-lot Trans Am wheeled down the north end of Main Street. Behind the wheel a young man named Richard Lords who owned "The Catherine Wheel," a boutique specializing in works made by local "artisans." He purchased the works for pennies then sold them at a substantial profit to out-of-towners visiting for the skiing or to attend the yearly mid-summer festival that honored western "film star" Gabby Hayes.

Hayes had been born in the town and had retired there. In between he'd gone to Hollywood where he gained fame as a crotchety old sidekick in sundry low budget westerns produced between the thirties and the fifties.

Richard was extremely grateful to his buyers. They had, after all, purchased this brand new Trans Am he was driving and it sure was good for picking up women. He called it his "pussy magnet."

10:10 AM

Phyllis exited the bakery trailing the aroma of fresh baked bread. She stopped to check her change in front of the display window of Ellen's, a woman's clothing and shoe store that had been there for as long as she could remember. She flashed back to a memory of standing there with her father, a kindly but stern gentleman farmer, looking at a display of confirmation dresses. She jerked back to the present. A facade of ash colored squares framed the display window. Four severed heads wearing Ray-Bans against a silver Mylar background watched her. She snorted. Those display dummies were getting more realistic all the time.

The madman crashed through the window.

10:11:01 AM

Phyllis screamed as shards of glass exploded around her, slashing at her face. The madman hit the sidewalk, bending his knees to absorb the impact, snarled a smile at her, leaped like a frog on steroids into the street and into the path of a Cadillac.

Rubber shrieked.

10:11:03 AM

In the diner Theodore Rand looked up from his order pad.

The young mother looked up from her menu.

The baby, oblivious to what went on in the world around her, blew foamy bubbles, giggled and cooed.

"What in the hell ..." cried Rand.

10:11:05 AM

In the stopped Cadillac, Erma's eyes were tightly closed. She was afraid to open them. Something, an animal - dear God in heaven let it not be a person - had jumped in front of her. She'd slammed on the brakes and shut her eyes, her bony hands clutching the steering wheel so tightly she didn't think she'd ever be able to release them. Her feet, one on top of the other, both on the brake, began to throb.

Moaning, she unwrapped her fingers, shoved the transmission into park with a trembling hand and opened her eyes. She could not see over the hood.

She didn't want to get out of the car.

She didn't want to walk to the front and see if she had hit something or ...

(Dear God please no)

... someone.

They'd take away her license for sure this time. And she couldn't even imagine what her insurance premium would be if they didn't.

A shadow fell across her.

She turned to look.

A massive figure stood against the sky. Two eyes, one the color of dead earth, the other frigid blue, stared into hers. The door opened.

She began to squawk in outrage.

Two enormous hands shot towards her like rattlers striking. Thick fingers wrapped around her pipe cleaner throat, their grip impossibly strong. Vertebrae cracked. She screeched in pain.

Without a word the madman threw her out of the Caddy and into the path of the Trans Am.

10:11:10 AM

Lords was fiddling with his CD player. He wasn't pleased with the bass. Those fucking rear speakers should have been thumping and about ready to blow out the back window. He glanced at the street. Dead. There was never any traffic this early on a Saturday. All his life he'd heard about the hayseeds getting up at the butt-crack of dawn to slop the cows and milk the pigs or was that the other way around and who gave a shit anyway ...

And what was going on with the fucking bass?

Lords looked up.

A woman who looked older than God fell screaming from the sky.

Lords bellowed and stomped on the brake. Panic flooded his mouth with saliva. He gave the steering wheel a fierce jerk. His foot slipped off the brake and jabbed the accelerator. The old woman's body slapped the front end of the Trans Am. The sound was like a rubber bag of lead crystal being hit with a recoilless hammer. Something thick and red splashed his windshield.

The engine roared.

The tach needle slashed into red.

The Trans Am surged forward and bounced over the curb. Lords also bounced, smashing the top of his head against the roof with a loud bang. Sparks flew behind his eyes.

10:11:12 AM

Inside the diner, the young mother screamed and grabbed for her daughter. The Trans Am rammed through the front window in a shower of sparkling fragments and poorly mortared brick.

Rand bolted for his greasy counter, attempting to vault it. His hand slipped in a spot of bacon grease and he twisted in mid-air. The sound of his snapping wrist was unnaturally loud. Pain ran up his arm to his head and screamed in his brain.

Lords screeched as the windshield fragmented inward. The Trans Am reared. Slammed down. Bounced. Stopped. Sudden silence.

Drip ... drip ... drip ...

The smell of gas permeated the suddenly very quiet diner.

... drip ... drip ... drip

Groaning, Rand pulled himself to his feet.

... drip ... drip ... drip ...

Jesus, God and Marymotherfucker ...

... drip ... drip ... drip ...

Someone screaming in the car.

... drip ... drip ... drip ...

Where was the mother?

... drip ... drip ... drip ...

Oh God, where was the baby?

... drip ... drip ... drip ...

I'm alive, he thought.

... drip ... drip ... fhoom!

The Trans Am exploded.

10:12:00 AM

A fireball of shifting red and yellow like some molten blossom thrust itself out of the diner. The madman, secure behind the steering wheel of the Cadillac, could feel its heat through the glass. Grinning, he shoved the transmission into drive and stomped the accelerator. The machine shot forward. It was a good sound. A powerful sound.

The front door of Ellen's burst open and a woman clad in torn jeans and square-toed boots, holding a Heckler & Koch YP70Z in her hands, ran out. She stared at the flames billowing out of the diner. Tortured forms writhed behind the hissing flames reflecting in her gray eyes. The light caught the gold flecks in that gray and threw them back at the fire. She looked at the large woman on the sidewalk rolling in pain, crunching glass and clawing at her gore-obscured face.

She could not block out the screams. She could only add them to the chorus of agony that echoed in the deepest, blackest depths of her mind. There was nothing she could do for any of them.

Cursing, she ran to her car and jumped in.

Her name was Alison Moiré. She was a special agent with the FBI's Serial Crimes Taskforce or SCT. Her hair was short, almost militaristic. Her cheekbones were high, hinting at some Native-American ancestry. Her nose was thin, slightly upturned at the tip, lips practically non-existent unless generously painted. She would never consider herself beautiful - or even barely attractive - though she was, in a fragile, ethereal way. But there was nothing fragile about her.

Alison shoved the key into the ignition and twisted. The engine roared. She brought a heel down on the clutch, shoved the stick into first and hit the gas. The car surged into the street, burning rubber. She grabbed her car phone and jabbed a special four-digit number into it. She spoke quickly to the operative on the other end, giving her current position and the direction she was heading, then tossed it onto the seat.

Coming around the corner, car tires protesting the speed, she spotted the Cadillac going off the main route onto a dirt side road. She floored her car and followed. A brief image of the area map she had glanced at months ago appeared before her. It developed into sharp focus on the film behind her eyes.

Photographic memory.

She had the ability to scan even the thickest manuals in minutes - sometimes seconds if they were more symbols and diagrams than words - and retain a minimum of 98 percent of the information they contained. It was a gift that had served her well all though her life, particularly in academia. It had made her first in her high school, university and police academy classes and at the FBI's National Academy (NA) at Quantico, Virginia.

The car bounced onto the heavily rutted dirt road. It forced her to slow down or risk busting her head open with repeated bashings against the roof. Either that or the undercarriage would end up somewhere behind her. A faded metal sign read Seasonal Route - No Maintenance. Oct - April. The Cadillac didn't seem to be having any problems. It skimmed the surface.

Both vehicles tore around a curve, flinging mud. Woods closed in on either side. Heavy stands of spiny firs holding a cool darkness. Deep rainwater ruts carved the road. Alison's car was wracked with a constant shudder. They snaked around another bend, the road slanting upward now. The Caddy roared up the hill, and vanished over the top. Cows watched from behind strands of rusted barbed wire. She crested the top. Swore.

In the distance a stained railroad signal was clanging, flashing red. A black diesel pulling a line of boxcars barreling along the track, horn blaring. The Caddy roaring toward the crossing.

He wasn't going to stop.

Alison jammed her foot down on the accelerator. The whole car vibrated wildly. She shifted faster than she'd ever shifted before. The engine screamed. She screamed in rage and frustration along with it.

The Caddy was going to make it.

She wasn't.

The Caddy roared past the front of the engine. Vanished behind a wall of speeding boxcars. Alison stomped her brakes. The back end slid on the loose gravel surface, tried to overtake the front. She jerked on the wheel, trying to correct. The wall of train grew closer. Gritting her teeth she grabbed the stick and downshifted. The engine howled, bucked. She jerked the wheel again. The car swerved, came dangerously close to a rut. She jerked it back. The train was barely twenty feet away.

She wasn't going to stop in time.

She yanked on the wheel with every ounce of strength her arms possessed. The car spun to the left, the right broadside with the rushing train. She stomped the brakes repeatedly and shifted into reverse. The transmission cursed her in mechanical terms. The back end swung at the train. She braced for the impact, the train whistle blaring.

The back end of the car jumped over the track.

Alison slumped forward and peered over her hands at the last boxcar chasing the engine.

"Shit."

The engine stalled. She shoved the stick into neutral and twisted the keys. The engine groaned in protest.

Come on baby ... start for mama ...

The engine fired into life. She pressed the clutch and said a little prayer to the patron saint of automobiles while hoping she hadn't completely ruined the transmission.

She shifted into first. There was resistance but it caught.

In the far distance: a black speck.

The Caddy.

She stomped the gas pedal to the floor and held it there. The car shook wildly. Stones pelted the underside, loud and clanging. The tach needle probed red. Something was wrong with the front end - difficult to keep it straight.

But amazingly, she was gaining.

They screeched around a curve. The front end shook. She fought with the steering wheel. The car wanted to go straight. Straight was a drainage ditch. The Caddy flew around the curve.

A house.

Alison wrenched the car around the curve. For a moment she thought it was going to flip over. Her stomach left her body. She swallowed it back.

The Caddy was heading directly for the house.

She slowed, expecting the Caddy to do the same. Instead it surged forward with a sudden burst of speed, plowing into the fence. The gate folded like so much tin foil. A support post tore out of the ground. A chunky slab of concrete embraced its base. The post flipped. The concrete end whomped down on the Cadillac's windshield, shattering it. The Caddy fishtailed, throwing up a wave of muddy water rainbowed with oil. Alison braced herself and rode over the wobbling gate. The Caddy, out of control, left the pitted drive, bounded into the overgrown yard. It bucked like an electronic bull she had seen at a bar in Texas years ago. She hit the brake and slid to a halt. The Caddy crashed into the front of the house. The sound of punished metal was deafening. The horn blared, a long, irritating wail. The porch roof collapsed crashing around the Caddy in a dense cloud of dust and dirt.

Alison leaped out of her car and ran toward the house as the Caddy was swallowed by darkness and smoke.

A bullet chambered and the gun held in front of her with both hands, she sprinted into the hole.

Inside ...

The horn was unbearably loud. She imagined the mad-man's head smashed against it and a smile teased her lips.

Stop that!

She drove the image from her head.

Not without effort.

Crouching, gun ready, body in a state known as Fudo-Dachi, meaning a relaxed state of readiness in the world of Nin-jitsu, Alison moved slowly toward the smoldering Caddy. Greenish fluid poured out of the front end, sputtering. The stench of superheated coolants fouled the musty air. Thick dust gave the scene an eerie otherworldly glow.

"Get out of the car with your hands up!" she shouted.

The Caddy had stopped short of a decayed wall, wooden slats like ribs showing through jagged holes in plaster flesh.

Rectangular eyes - two doors - both closed.

No response.

The back window was buried under thick timbers. She couldn't see inside.

Not quite within arm's reach, she leaped forward, gun at face level, ready to start firing at the slightest movement.

The Caddy was empty.

She yanked open the door. The seat was littered with glass.

She spun around.

Where was he? How had he gotten out of the Caddy so fast? He had to be hurt. Had to be!

But then it had often been said of Soren Cabal that he had the devil's own luck.

Soren Cabal. A name synonymous with death.

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Alison once again meets her nightmare from hell! Horrific and gory for sure. Will you sleep well tonight? Don't count on it!

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