(No "action" in this one, FYI)
There was a last-minute addition to Randy's schedule. A complaint about Old Oaks. It was a small facility, built in the late fifties.
He drove right past the street it was on during his commute...
As soon as he synced the e-note to his phone, keys were tapped on a terminal in the server room.
That record was deleted from the email database.
It was his pattern to clear out of the office speedily on Fridays. This one was no different. Tricia, his boss, was on the phone - so he just waved as he went. She'd get his report on Monday.
He had no idea there was an invisible stowaway in his car...
Just before Randy walked up to the front desk, the visitor log flipped over to a new page.
It didn't seem unusual that no one was at the desk. Shift change, probably. He signed in and looked around. Okay. That door led to the hallway he needed to see.
As he disappeared into the hallway... the logbook page he'd signed was torn loose from the binder rings. It floated up to the ceiling, and followed him inside before the fire door closed.
The hallway he needed to see was directly accessible from the lobby. This made no sense, but at the time Old Oaks was built it was thought to be convenient for visiting therapists. Easy in, easy out.
The facility hadn't been trusted with a violent patient or an "escape artist" in years. If any of the isolation rooms had been in use, policy required a staff member to be present at the front desk.
Randy got out his phone, skimmed through the complaint and started peeking in each little chamber. Five more minutes, tops, and he would be on his way home...
According to the patient's complaint, the room he'd been kept in had a solid door - no viewing window or peephole. That had been forbidden for a long time. It weakened the credibility of the entire report, which was bizarre from start to finish. Randy had been an administrative investigator for almost two years, and he'd seen some doozies. This one was right up there.
It certainly wasn't the patients' fault that they had these delusions, but they still had to be checked out.
Six calming rooms, all empty. Okay. He had done his job. Sighing with annoyance, Randy started to walk back out.
There was a sound behind him. A quiet tick. Nothing remarkable. Old buildings settled, ductwork expanded and contracted...
No one else was in the hallway, and he turned around anyway to make sure. Yup, just him.
Randy eyed an old passage that bordered isolation room 6. The hallway narrowed and took a weird right turn. There were no live facilities down there. Oh, maybe there'd been an office or two, in the old days, but mostly it was a backup route to the fire escape. Even an old facility wouldn't have locked rooms in a dead-end hallway...
When he left he'd have to ask somebody how long it had been since a patient was even put in one of the isolation rooms. "Okay," he said to the hallway spur, and started walking. It wouldn't take more than a minute to check that old passage.
The overhead lights were off, which made sense. Dead space. There was a big window at the far end. Locked grate, frosted glass. Next to it was an remote-controlled door - that was definitely the fire stairs. He knew the design even from a distance.
No runaway was pushing that door open unless a whole bunch of fire sensors were reacting. It was probably the most expensive enhancement Old Oaks had seen since it was built.
By the light that managed to seep through the old window, Randy counted four doorknobs. The hallway was sorta creepy. There was a musty smell...
The mood did fit the wild claims in the patient's complaint. It was hard to imagine that the staff would let anybody come down this way, though.
The closest door had an old metal sign - JANITOR. It was locked, as the regulations said it was supposed to be. The smells of ammonia-based cleaner and funky old mop water seemed like enough confirmation, to Randy.
Both of the doors to his left led to a former day-room. Old furniture and chart racks were laying around.
Only one door remained, at the far end of the hall, on the right.
Eager to get the visit over with, Randy walked to it quickly.
The solid steel door was slightly open, and it swung out without resistance or noise.
He felt along the wall for a light switch - and touched clammy rubber. So this had been an isolation room. Randy was surprised they'd never found some other use for it in all those years... but these rooms were really off the beaten track.
Ah, okay. The switch was right next to the hinge. Nothing happened when he pushed it up. No surprise, there - it was an abandoned room. There was furniture stashed in here too, toward the back.
Maybe the patient had snuck down here by himself, found this place and dreamt up the whole abuse scenario. Sometimes they just needed a source of inspiration, and the complaint they wrote up was too damn creative.
He pushed the door open further. That had to be some really old furniture.
What the hell was he squinting at? Maybe the supports and frames for big-ass conference tables.
But that didn't fit either. He was at a loss. Antique hospital fixtures, from well before his time? Somebody who worked there could've been saving old stuff from the trash heap - many facilities had a little collection of sorts, a ragtag museum. Nothing dodgy about that, really, so long as the patients weren't endangered -
Randy leaned back on his heels. That was the thing. A patient had reported abuse, really crazy stuff, and it did sorta seem like he'd been describing this quiet room.
And then the narrative had gotten downright freaky.
Exaggerating things was what they did, usually, but what the patient had written didn't sound anything like unauthorized discipline.
But that's what they paid him to investigate, so...
Randy stepped inside.
He caught a whiff of something. Toilet smell. Urine, or shit. Well, they must've knocked a hole in the wall, back in the day, to deal with a plumbing problem.
Sure.
It was a reasonable explanation. But that didn't sit too well with Randy either.
He patted his pockets - and dug out a penlight. Something in the back of his mind had told him to grab it from the car door's pouch. What was - oh, yeah, the victim had made a big point of saying that he couldn't see his abuser. That was hard to swallow, but that same phrase was repeated three times.
It was probably bullshit, meant to get somebody's attention...
The stupid flashlight went out. Maybe the switch was fried. "C'mon, dammit," he said to it, tapping the end against his palm as he took a couple more steps inside the room.
The beam of light really didn't travel far at all, but he could make out a mattress on the floor, close to the far corner.
He thought that over - and snorted. It was a pretty gothic place to take a nap, or meet for a little nookie on the clock. But it couldn't have been further away from any possible foot traffic, so at least there was no lack of privacy.
A low bench was along the wall too. Thick wood and iron, falling apart. The frame was strange, like a cross between a weight bench and a clothes rack.
That puzzled him until he swung the light to the corner.
A narrow X-shape, padded, round metal rings -
Randy shook his head. Can't be.
But it was. He couldn't figure out any other use for it. Straight out of a torture chamber, or an old monster movie.
Now that was a rack...
To the left of it, chunky bands were bolted to the wall. Spaced just so -
Fetters. That's what the patient had called them. Incredible.
Something else fell right into place. He swung his penlight back to the bench. Flattened loops of iron were clustered around the sides. Strategically placed.
They were attachment points. Rope, straps -
And that slab of wood, laying under the end as if it had fallen there? The big holes in it were level, sized equally... and they were padded.
He couldn't come up with the right word - it was scaring him - but their use was plain enough. Stunned, he brought the flashlight beam back to the mattress. The black lines weren't rags, or mildew - they were straps.
The round pieces, near the corners, were black leather cuffs.
Randy started backing out of the room.
The patient's complaint had described all these things correctly. It appeared the staff here had some serious explaining to do. He needed to get back here with a camera before anybody -
His hair moved.
Huh? There was a breeze...
Behind him.
The cause was immediately clear.
Randy tensed up. Aw, hell.
There wasn't time. He'd never make it.
This couldn't really be happening...
He looked back, and watched the door close.
No one was doing it.
Well - no one who was visible...
He expected the lock to close.
And it did. Yeah, that figured.
The instant that wind hit his back, Randy knew exactly what was going on. He should've seen it coming. Unstoppable, inevitable -
Twenty seconds ago, give or take, Randy walked right into the damn room, fussing with his penlight. Soundproofing still on the walls, no handle on his side of the door. All this gear to hold him. Restrain him.
Shit like this just couldn't happen.
But here he was. Unbelievably calm, because he knew what was coming. Panic just seemed like a waste of time. Useless. Inadequate.
The patient knew he was licked. He was a big guy, too. Like Randy. Healthy, strong -
"Oh hell no," he said. Even that came out wrong. Detached, way too flat...
Well, there was just no point in pretending the outcome might change.
It was so easy to read the report and think damn, that guy's got a screw loose. Too bad for him, really. Inventing a story like that?
Invisible hands. And sometimes they wore gloves... but the point was clear. The patient had meant what he said.
He really hadn't seen his torturer. But it was stronger than him.
Many hands.
The door hadn't just shut and locked by itself. Randy was sure he hadn't heard a peep from anyone else. And now they sure as hell wouldn't hear him -
"Oh, c'mon," he told himself. Don't buy into it. You can peel the soundproofing off and find a piece of scrap metal, bang long enough for the psych aide to come and let you out...
And that all sounded great, except it would be kinda hard to put that plan into action when his wrists were pinned by those cuffs.
It was amazing, really. Shit floating around. Coming to him. Randy would wish he was nuts, himself, because the alternative was too weird and unbelievable. Just not at all possible.
Randy heard a soft click behind him. He jumped -
Faint light grew...
Yup. Rack, mattress, bench, manacles.
Foot-stocks.
He forced himself to turn around. There was a old chrome lamp-tree, and only one socket had a bulb in it.
Someone, or something, had just turned it on.
Invisible hands...
And the room had power outlets that worked. That couldn't possibly be turned against him - naaaah.
It was totally stupid to assume that the other guy had described so much correctly, and made the rest up. There was no point where his story just took a hard left into crazytown. He'd described things that had no place in a mental hospital...
And torments that nobody should ever have to endure.
It scared the shit out of Randy. He couldn't even say the word to himself. Stretch a guy out and do that to him.
All night.
Hands that didn't get tired. Or bored, apparently.
Night after night, the patient had been hauled in here. The guy had stones - really, how could he find the courage to admit what he'd gone through? Of course no one would actually believe a story like that.
The stuff in the room made sense, if the patient told the truth. He'd have to be restrained. No way to get the hands to stop, then.
Soundproofed walls did the trick. Made sure no one interrupted...
A soft noise behind him got his attention.
There was a piece of paper floating to him.
The sign-in sheet.
Randy's legs threatened to buckle, so he sat down on the floor.
Think, dammit. He'd talked to somebody. Right? At the desk - no. Wasn't there anyone he nodded to before...
But his car was in the parking lot.
The security service didn't stay onsite. Another vehicle in the lot - no, dammit, someone on the staff might wonder but he couldn't see anyone get concerned enough to actually...
"Shit," he said. The hands just had to move his car. Hide it off the property. According to the sign-in book, he was never here!
They'd figure it out at the office. The complaint was on file. In the database...
Friday afternoon. Two days of unthinkable tickling, no matter what.
Unless...
He looked around. That was really impossible. Egotistical.
"How did you know?" he said, looking around. "That I'm..."
This was bigger.
Randy put it together. He was a good investigator. So, turn it around.
The hands set him up but good.
It had to be irritating, and risky, to return the patient to his room each morning before headcount. What the hands wanted was someone who wasn't being so closely supervised. A guy who had access to the hospital... who could walk himself right into the cell.
Somebody who ticklish, like the patient.
Inexhaustibly... ticklish.
So they rule out the current staff. Sneak a total stranger in, drugged and gagged? Or let a dude from Admin stroll right into the trap? So you pick the most unlikely target - make sure he's susceptible - maybe even wait until his girlfriend moves out. With his damn dog.
If they'd been determined enough to go to the office, the hands would figure out how to wipe the record.
And shred the file.
No loose ends...
Or maybe there wasn't even a patient who'd been in here. They could just submit the complaint themselves.
Whatever it took to snag a guy like Randy. The hands knew - they had to have poked around while he was sleeping, something like that - just how deathly ticklish he was.
He and the room were made for each other.
No one can find out. That would spoil the fun. A little fun is good, but unlimited fun... Yeah.
Weeks. Months? Why not?
Keep him fed and healthy, hide his car well, and no one finds out. In the soundproofed room, no one finds him.
The party won't have to end each morning -
A whimper snuck out of his throat.
Hell, no telling when it would end.
He nodded. The overall theory fit.
As if that was a signal, Randy watched a box float over and land a meter away.
Rubber gloves.
"No," he said to it. "Please."
Something pulled the first glove out. He watched it rise...
And fill.
The fingers moved slowly.
Another glove was snapped free from the box.
Fourteen hands surrounded him.
Numbly, he wondered if there was some significance to the number. They could work him up to twenty-eight gloves, tickling and tickling. Right? A hundred gloves? The hospital storeroom had cases of 'em. All kinds of tools that could be used on his feet...
One of the gloves descended slowly. He saw no point in backing away. Just no chance at all now.
It stuck fingers into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone.
"Son of a bitch," he said. Cursing himself. Forgot all about the phone. Or, at some level, he just knew they'd won already. Slam-dunk.
Maybe he was too stupid to end up anywhere except a room like this. Well, there couldn't have been a signal in here anyway -
He had a wonderful thought. Bittersweet, 'cause he was still going to be tickled beyond all reckoning for a couple days. But the bastards couldn't keep him here indefinitely - not now - and moving him somewhere else kinda defeated the purpose of tricking him into this particular torture chamber, made for the occasion. No, wait, it was here when he was born. Were there other guys who had done time here? Was that why it had been forgotten?
Randy hoped it wouldn't matter. "You think you're so smart," he said to the gloves. "Gonna hack the cell-tower records next? Huh? They're gonna look for me. I don't show up for work, Tricia's gonna have 'em check my house. And they'll pull the phone's location data, see that I came here..."
He laughed triumphantly.
The glove brought the phone to his face.
Buttons were pressed, the screen was swiped - those ol' invisible fingers again - and Randy stared at the phone information screen for a few seconds.
Then he got it.
That wasn't his phone number.
Oh hell... it was a different phone. Same model. Same apps -
Incoming calls had been forwarded. Or they switched it on him today. There would be no tracking of where his phone had last been that would lead anyone near Old Oaks. His real phone would be found in his car... or better yet, his house.
Leaving no clues.
"This ain't... my phone," he said to it.
There was activity starting to happen, but Randy was too dazed to do much of anything. He couldn't come up with a single reason why anyone would look for him here.
The gloves took hold of his arms and picked him up. One shoe, then the other, were pulled off. His shirt was ripped open, his belt unbuckled...
And then he was being carried to where the stocks hung in midair, open and waiting. Little straps were dangling from the outer side, positioned to catch and hold his toes -
A cart had been rolled up alongside the bench. A gallon jug of oil was flanked by a bowl. Between them was a terrifying, diverse assortment of brushes, forks, dermatobrasion buffers, feathers, files...
He started to yell and fight as the cuffs floated down to his wrists, knowing it would do absolutely no good.
07apr13