Once Upon a Black Kraken

  Part 17 | Part 19 I couldn’t sleep yesterday. That fucking creature that escaped the cliff’s cave and spent last night howling was coming back. I felt it on my broken shinbone. That tingling that irradiated my left leg pushed me into preparing. I stashed the golden coin I had retrieved from the pirate treasure in the only drawer my office had. In retrospect, it wasn’t my best idea. With a kitchen knife, I carved a spear out of a wooden mop robbed from the janitor’s closet. From Dr. Young’s office I retrieved his wooden desk and the old spring-exposed hypnosis couch to build a barricade. Some rotten planks that were leaving their place reinforced the construction. The utensils from the cafeteria and the gardening tools buried under the wrecked shed would have to be enough as defense spikes in the castle I’d erected on top of Wing A’s tower. As the last sunray hid under the west tides, that frightening roar shook the whole island. From the questionable safety of my block...

  Part 16 | Part 18 Without any more pending tasks, I strolled around the island. I needed at least one night out of that haunted building. Grabbed a rope from the destroyed shed. The moonlight was projecting creepy shadows on the stones. The tides smashing the rocks became louder as I approached my destination. The salty breeze dried my face skin. The boulders grew bigger as I got close to the distant end of the island. It was better than the soggy wooden cage I’d spent almost a year in. I arrived at the cliff. Exactly to the point the shining ghost lady pointed with the lighthouse. Time to figure out what that meant. Tied one end of the rope to a big rock, half-buried in the ground and with a bigger lump on the top to avoid the cord from slipping. I made sure it was secured, and rappelled my way down the cliff. Water pushed me against the stone and cold airflows attempted to freeze my descent. I found a place to take five. A little rest in a big cave. An imposing rock ...

  Part 15 | Part 17 After almost a full term (9 months) of guarding the Bachman Asylum, I’ve learned to be in this place. You never investigate anything bizarre or abnormal that happens if it is not an issue. Yet, stupidly and by pure instinct force, I went up the stairway to the second story. To the dorms. The sobbing had been bothering me just for a couple of hours. Unsurprisingly, the cry was coming out of the red “X” room. At approaching, the whining intensified exponentially. The “X” seemed painted with bare hands using blood as pigment. A couple of spots were coagulated, and the ends had distinct finger strokes. A flickering light escaped into the hallway through the lower aperture at the weeping’s rhythm. Fucking job. I entered. *** It was like traveling through a time portal. The dorm was in excellent condition. No broken window nor rusty bedframe, but an unperforated mattress and fresh sheets. A young woman sat on the bed, crying. With my first step approach...

  "I’m gonna recommend the helmet," I announce to Susan. "Gonna get the report, I'll leave you watching the video.” I hold back my urge to inform her that I feel the same way as that last night of university when she decided to continue as an accountant for an appliance company, and I ended up in this clinic specialized in making helmets to correct the deformed heads of babies like hers. It breaks my heart that he is not mine. I run out of the room. Ignore the memorized multimedia. “Bands for 23 hours a day,” “growth-based,” “correct brachycephaly." They request a medical PhD for this business; fixing babies' heads is significant, but fitting and trimming helmets is executable after just a week of training. I abandon the toys and colorful walls area, which disguises our work as not a quasi-medieval way of torture. I am swallowed up by the gray and homogeneous office area behind the scenes. Head to the break room, coffee is urgent. The mission fails d...