Bedlam

By David Gearing

Bedlam isn't just his name...it's a warning.

When she was just a young child, Jennifer Zell had a small, imaginary friend. They played together. They talked together. They had fun together. Then Bedlam got bored.

Years later, Jennifer finds herself watching in horror as her "imaginary" friend is now killing and terrorizing the city, and she's powerless to stop it.

Then there's Matthew Yorke, a humiliated cop who believes in Big Foot, UFOs, and Area 51. When he's given a filed on mysterious murders, he finds the only way to keep himself from being permanently resigned to a desk.

Just how does one stop a blood-thirsty figment of the imagination?

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Gearing
• Release date: Jul 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463951200

David Gearing

David Gearing is a recent transplant from the harsh Arizona deserts to the green forests of the Pacific Northwest. He plots, he games, he pretends to be his own living room rockstar when no one is looking. His other books range from various genres from thrillers to gothic horror and beyond. You can find him at his webpage DavidGearingBooks.com or at his publisher's website AkusaiPublishing.com

Book preview

One

Jennifer Zell's skin felt cold and sticky in the darkness of the black alley. The bricks were charred black from a recent fire, sparked by drunken frat boys who wanted to celebrate the recent NCAA basketball win.

Go cougs, or whatever.

In the middle of that October evening, Jennifer had pressed her back against one of the dark brick walls, her neck arched forward as she stared into the narrow line of darkness between the two buildings. To the left, a gay bar called Finally and to the right, an organic pizza place called Slice of Life. The music from one often carried over into the other, but the thumping bass of the EDM that night wasn't hitting the deep inside of Jennifer's chest. Holding her breath held her chest nice and tight, inflated enough that nothing—not even DJ SunRock could get her blood pumping. Her cheeks were warm, almost blistering with heat. At that moment, she felt every single inch of her skin, every little muscle, every little subtle degree shift of her normally low ninety-seven degree body temperature.

Her feet were covered in thick beige boots, work boots that her dad called shit kickers. The toes were steel (all the better to protect herself from creepers, she told herself) and the outside was a faux leather. Faux because she couldn't stand the idea of a cow being slaughtered just to cover her feet. Right now, they were the only thing keeping her upright. Those, and her knees, locked in place and feeling tingly from the lack of blood flow.

The narrow line of darkness—the alley between Finally and Slice of Life—echoed shuffling of feet. Invisible or black feet, from somewhere in the middle of the walkway. The sound wasn't plastic or rubber meeting a hard parking lot. The sound was more of a padded clapping sound—bare feet against dulled asphalt. Calloused skin patting softly against grains of sand and rock and tar.

Jennifer didn't need the light to see what was happening. There had been a gargling sound only three minutes ago. About sixty seconds ago, a faint smell of pennies in the air. She didn't need the light to see that Bedlam was bent over another shell of a human being. Teeth gnashing, pink from the mixture of saliva and someone else's blood swirling in long, thin lines out of his mouth.

And yet, Jennifer couldn't close her eyes. She could see the faint silver of the moonlight, a shadowy outline of everything. Bedlam, his broad shoulders and thick neck, kneeling down by the shell. Bedlam's shadowy figure shifted to his heels, then he stood up. He glanced at Jennifer with kind eyes but a mouth stuffed with something that Jennifer couldn't see, but she could smell it all. Iron and sticky. Oddly sweet and rotting sour.

Jennifer blinked, lowered her head and rubbed her temples. The tension had begun to build right as she had predicted. The depth of the tension pulling in from her skull, reaching out through her skin and tugging at every part of her head until her eyes felt like they were being squeezed out of her eye sockets from the inside. Round popguns that used to shoot out balls, now organic sacks of fluid and irises.

The padded sound of footsteps approached closer to Jennifer. Bedlam could see the pain, maybe even feel it. Jennifer knew the signs. She didn't have to look up to know that there Bedlam gripped the wall of the alley with one hand, his other unsure if it should reach out for her or bring the last bite up to his cracked, jagged lips.

Jennifer pressed her hands tighter into her head, pressing deep into her scalp. She slid her fingertips to her face, then pressed an index finger into her eyes. Gently at first until she started to get glimpses of yellow and green blotches, bubbles and circles, across her vision.

The tension eased, but she knew it would linger in the back of her brain. For the first time, she felt as if she could actually breathe. She sucked in a thin, careful stream of cool air that chilled her lungs. And she was grateful for the moment.

The smell of iron slowly dissolved into the faint smell of cigarettes. Her chest beat to a familiar rhythm, the EDM had come back into the world once more.

Jennifer didn't have to look up to know that in a few seconds, Bedlam would be gone, replaced by air and a cold chill across her back and neck that would result in an orange, sticky pool on the ground between her feet.

Two

Jennifer pushes past rows upon rows of sweaty dancers and drinkers, the smell of orange and cranberry juices waft up from the floor. Her boots stick to the floors about every other and step and for a brief moment, she considers, Fuck this, I'm out.

But only for a moment.

The interior was dark, painted a dark brown color that is supposed to match the red and orange and yellows of the paintings that hang up on the walls. Paintings of abstract nudes. Men, women. All independent of each other.

It was for the best. Finally catered to both the lesbian, bi, and gay crowd, with the occasional trans folk coming in whenever they heard that Larry was at the door checking IDs. It wasn't Larry's looks, exactly, but the fact that Larry used to be Lorris before top surgery. He was passing, with thick, dark hair growing around his jaw that was thicker than anything Jennifer's own dad could grow.

The particular night was Diva night, with nearly naked men wearing Mac-level make up. Not drag queens, but more colors and shades and arched eyebrows than Jennifer had ever seen in her life. The worst part was, they did it better than she ever could.

Mikee walked up to her from the other side of the bar. The four-foot tall mirror behind him showed off his back tattoo, a tribal something or another that arched in different, spiky directions across his back. If she squinted, she could make out wings.