Tales Of Terror

The Artist

The man walked tentatively into the prison for the criminally insane. He tensed as he passed row upon row of cells, each one containing ruthless, psychotic killers. They seemed to be on a rampage as he passed by, men and women banging on the cell doors, screaming, saliva dangling from their mouths. This wasn't the first time the man has been here and he wasn't keen of dread that always harbored in the pit of his stomach whenever he gazed upon the dry gray walls of the prison. But this was his job, as much as he hated it he was sure good at it.

The man was sent by Toronto's head of the newspaper, wanting a profile, he said. The man thought back to his encounter.

"We need you, Jacob, you are the best there is," said Detective Mason, slowly but surely.

Jacob scoffed and gazed at his boss's Mason's hard features. His unflinching brown eyes observed Jacob's face as if trying to contemplate what he was thinking, though he would never really know. His face was always unreadable.

"I'm done with that. I don't want any part,"

Mason sighed, knowingly. "But you are the only one who can understand him. You can see through the eyes of a killer,"

Jacob's mouth twitched and then set into a firm line. "There are plenty of crazy, psycho journalists out there, I am not the only one, Mason,"

"Jacob," said Mason, gently. "You are right about that but you are the only one I trust. Your judgment is needed. Think about it at least," Mason squeezed Jacob's hand before standing up and walking off into the crowded streets of Toronto. Jacob was left to his death filled thoughts once more.

At first, Jacob was going to decline. He had it in his mind that he wasn't needed anymore. Jacob finally moved on with his life and did not want to see any more death. For a year now (after many therapy sessions, mind you) he was able to sleep without any nightmares. Jacob no longer saw dead, tortured eyes gazing back at him, no more blood, no more evil. That is until Mason came to speak to him. But he wasn't going to do it. Jacob tried to convince himself that he was selfish, that he didn't care about all of that anymore but the thought of a letting an amazing story slip right through his hands made him want to cover his ears and scream. So here he was.

Jacob sighed as he reached the desk and saw a petite older woman dressed in all white. Uniform attire at this place was just as dreadful as the walls. It seemed to put a gross kind of taste in his mouth, like liking a cold metallic knife. Which is probably what many of the psychopaths in here would do before killing their 'prey'.

The older woman looked up at him, filled with disdain. Her eyes were not any different. They seemed as if they were hollowed out, no more emotion left to feel or see. I guess that's what this place would do to you in the long run. How ironic is it that the prisoners seemed to have more life left in their eyes even though they are stuck here for the rest of their lives. Their imaginations seemed to strive more than their mental stability. Jacob could relate to that.

"Name please," The lady, droned her voice lack of feeling.

Just like her eyes.

"Jacob Williams," he said, restlessly. The lady watched with annoyance as his body swayed back and forth, uncomfortably.

The lady grimaced, for an obvious reason. She realized who he was and was he was here for.

"You're here for him," She stated, her voice quivering slightly. Jacob realized that was the first time he saw her show some sort of emotion.

"Unfortunately," he said, with dread.

The lady nodded and said "Follow me, please,"

Jacob complied and followed her down the murky halls and into the psychiatric ward. Each footstep felt like he was trudging through grey, muddy water. Every time he lifted his legs he felt himself go deeper and deeper. So deep that he felt as if he was right by the gates of hell. His feeling was correct when he lifted his head to see him.