Visions Through a Shattered Lens

By James Beaumont

How do you know what is real and what is not? Do you trust your mind enough to make the distinction? You might think you see the world clearly, but maybe theres nothing clear to see; maybe the world is, in fact, distorted, as illuminated in Visions through a Shattered Glass, thirty-one stories sure to make you question the everyday.

Within, there are tales of dreamers who see things like crypts and crying mothers, unsure of the images validity. There are mysterious women, one dressed all in black, who serve to lure and confound. There are women who protect, as well, even from something so silly as a spider. Yet, are any of these happenings tangible, or has reality crumbled for this bevy of ill-fated men and women?

Author James Beaumont weaves a tapestry of horror and fantasy. He rides a carousel of contrasting moods, sometimes fantastic, other times hauntingly nostalgic, but always unsettling and ominous. Are you prepared to step into this world of alternate reality where things that go bump in the night really do wait outside your door? Come inside and find out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781491786116

James Beaumont

James Beaumont is an author from the West Coast.

Book preview

ILL

Night grinned.

Behind a thousand windows, bodies shivered. The wind blew coldly through the streets. Trash danced like caricature leaves. The sky was thick with black clouds. The streetlamps glowed eerily in the cold windy night. In a certain room, on a certain street, in a certain apartment complex lay the dying man.

The candlelight flickered. Gathered around the bed like witches at a Sabbath were the other six tenants. In the center of their gathering the incredible piece of artwork that was death crept slowly, inevitably. Terrible did he look. Like a skeleton between the pale sheets. His face was filled with a delusional look and sweat trickled down it.

Take the sheets off. He’s burning up, someone said. He’s only got one on him. Open the window, someone else said.

The window was opened and the curtains waved softly. Summoning a doctor was suggested.

He doesn’t look like he’ll make it through the hour, someone said.

The dying man lifted an arm slightly, as though beckoning a grandchild to his side. His eyes were sunken deep in their sockets and stared at the ceiling. His lips moved softly with no sound emitting. At the movement of his arm the room turned silent. They watched—waited.

He can’t breathe with all these people crowding him, someone said.

The room emptied out. Guilt dwelt in the hall. The tenants looked at each other. The silence was heavy.

One of us should stay in there with him, said Mr. Raisor.

Shall that be you volunteering? asked Mr. Hodgson.

Miss Cresswell could take it no longer. She’d stood enveloped in silence not wanting to be recognized, but not wanting to be ignored. She had kept her mouth sealed but now could not take the awkwardly standing around. Beyond the door they stood in front of a man lay dying. She brushed a lock of blond hair behind her ear.

I’m calling a doctor, she announced. Heads turned like the crack of a whip. They stared at the normally quiet Miss Cresswell who reminded them all of the shy girl you always wanted to talk to but knew saying hello would scare her away. She hurried down the brightly lit hall to her door.

Mrs. Raisor looked at the dying man’s door. Darling, won’t you go in there? No one should be left to die alone.

Mr. Raisor’s face scrunched up. Me? Why not you? he questioned.

With a look of rude offense on her face, I will than, his wife said and reached for the doorknob.

No! Mr. Raisor moved quick as a mongoose and took the doorknob before she could. I’ll stay with him, he said and opened the door, stepped inside, and shut the door.

Miss Cresswell was returning to the small crowd when the door shut. She looked at it. No one had to tell her what had happened. She saw for herself that Mr. Raisor was missing. Mrs. Raisor stood there feeling irritated, but relieved.

The doctor will be here in a few minutes, Miss Cresswell said.

No one seemed to hear. They knew the man beyond the door wouldn’t make it through the night. They would be surprised if he made it through the hour.

Beyond the door the air of the room was cool and filled with raspy breathing. A smell of sickness lingered on it. The candle was on the nightstand. Mr. Raisor pulled the chair away from the desk and sat down in a corner by the highboy. For a moment he looked toward the four poster bed. Then he turned his eyes on the wooden floor. He listened to that raspy breathing and the curtains waving. After a length he lifted his gaze and looked at the dying man.

Quite suddenly the dying man raised his arm again as though summoning his family to his side to hear his final words. The frail movement of his arm brought Mr. Raisor slowly to his feet and across the room to the bedside.

The dying man wasn’t looking at him, but toward the ceiling. He appeared delirious. In some respects he seemed to be already dead. His lips were moving, yet no words issued.

As Mr. Raisor watched, he believed the dying man was attempting to say something. He leaned his ear toward his lips. What was it? He brought his ear closer, closer …

The doctor arrived in his midnight suit, carrying his black kit. Where is he? he requested of Miss Gardam who answered the door.

This way. She led him up the stairs and down the hall. The tenants were gathered outside the door when they arrived. They stepped back at the doctor’s approach.

What is his condition? the doctor questioned.

He’s very sickly, was the answer.

The doctor opened the door and stepped inside. It was instantly recognizable by the feel of the room that a dying man lay here. There was the terrible silence. The room was very dark compared to the brightly lit hall on the other side of the door. You there, the doctor said.

Mr. Raisor looked up from where he sat in a corner.

The doctor turned his head toward the four poster bed and saw the dying man. He hurried over and looked at the skeletal man whose skin was like snow and whose face had already taken on the sunken familiarities of death. The doctor had never thought such a thing possible, but now he looked upon a man whose appearance made it very clear that he would be dead by morning.

My, the doctor whispered. He turned to the man in the corner. How long has he been like this?

Three days, Mr. Raisor said.

The doctor looked back at the dying man disbelievingly. He did not seem aware of the doctor’s presence.

Sir? Sir, can you hear me? the doctor asked the dying man. He made no indication that he could. It was obvious to the doctor that he was of no use here. He motioned with a hand for the man in the corner to follow him.

In the hall the doctor explained his conclusion. There is nothing any of you can do. Get some rest. Call a funeral home in the morning, he said.

Oh doctor, are you positive that you can’t do anything? Mrs. Raisor asked.

The doctor patted her gently on the hand. Make him comfortable is all I or any of you can do at this point, he said. Goodnight.

Let me walk you to the door, Miss Gardam said and went with the doctor down the hall and stairs.

Mr. Raisor waited. His wife would say something eventually. He sat easily in his Morris chair watching the clock on the mantle. Time was a precious thing. This occurred to Mr. Raisor as he waited for something to be said. He did not wish it to come immediately, but would wait. For he heard echoing in his ears something that he couldn’t quite make out. A suggestion perhaps. He knew the voice speaking the words. It was the dying man’s. It was like listening to a leaky faucet in the middle of the night. Your body too tired to stand, but you just lay there listening to those solitary drops of water striking the porcelain.

Drip … drip … drip.

In his ears he heard the dying man’s words.

Drip … drip … drip.

Mr. Raisor closed his eyes partially. Time was ebbing. He heard it running out slowly as an irritating ticking. He groaned. He set a palm on his forehead.

Are you feeling well? Mrs. Raisor asked from the doorway. She stepped into the room and went to her husband.

Yes, Mr. Raisor said. The uncertainty in his voice betrayed him. He felt his wife’s gentle hands upon his shoulders. Her head leaned close to his while her lips spoke of assurance. But this did not stir Mr. Raisor from his cocoon of brooding. He felt his wife’s breath on his face but heard only the dying man’s words; drip … drip … drip …

I need some fresh air, Mr. Raisor said suddenly, standing.

Mrs. Raisor watched her husband leave and couldn’t help feeling sorry for the pain he no doubt felt. How long had he stared at the dying man knowing there was nothing he could do—nothing anyone could do?

Miss Cresswell heard footsteps pass down the hall. For a second she felt like jumping up and running to the door to see who it was, but didn’t. She remained sitting on the sofa with a cup of hot tea in her hands. She could still see the look of hopelessness on the doctor’s face. Had the dying man seen it? What must he have felt?

Miss Cresswell noticed her hands had begun to shake again. She set her teacup down, leaned back, and continued to softly weep.

Stepping outside, Mr. Raisor sat on a step and held his head. He felt many things. But what he felt strongest was hate.

This surprised him. This scared him. He was a leech whose nourishment was anger. He looked up, looking for anything to give him such. Here, a solitary newspaper page blowing down the street. Damn people littering! There, graffiti on a wall. Damn vandals!

Mr. Raisor felt his hands twitch. He heard the dying man’s words; drip … drip … drip.

Jumping up, nostrils flaring, he reached for the doorknob and stopped, shocked. He was very enraged.

Oh, Mr. Raisor thought. He held his hands, shivering. He looked toward the door with watery eyes and felt a widening smile upon his face.

Mr. Hodgson watched the blades of the ceiling fan slowly spinning. His eyes followed them like trying to follow a certain animal on the merry-go-round. He thought of what the doctor had said. He thought of the decision of the other tenants.

He won’t make it through the hour.

Mr. Hodgson sat up. A breeze came through the open window and sighed on his face. There was guilt upon the air. He could sense it. It seeped into him and chilled him. To think that in the morning there would be a dead man in the room across from him. Mr. Hodgson lay down and resumed watching the blades of the ceiling fan, feeling very uncomfortable.

Mrs. Raisor looked up. Her husband was there. He shut the door not looking at her. You’re quiet suddenly, she said.

I know, Mr. Raisor replied. He walked into the kitchen and drained a glass of water. His throat felt very dry. Setting down the empty glass, he realized his hands felt dry. He held them, looked at them, felt unbearably awful.

In the washroom he kept his hands under the running water for several minutes. As he dried his hands he heard those words like a leaky faucet. Soon his hands were still, the towel entangled in the fingers.

The voice.

Drip … drip … drip …

The tub.

Mr. Raisor’s eyes widened. He loathed the idea and loved it at the same time. He won’t make it through the night, he whispered.

Stepping into the living room, Mr. Raisor slumped down into his Morris chair and looked at the clock on the mantle. The hour was nearly exhausted. The hour that they, the tenants, had agreed the dying man would not live past. The minutes were slowly ticking away. Ticking, ticking. Like a tub dripping, dripping, dripping …

Are you okay?

Mr. Raisor looked up from his thoughts. There was a clothed hourglass. Underneath it was the stuff of life: warm pink flesh and bone like moon colored ice. So fragile was this shape, like a vase, like a mind, like a knife cutting through butter. On the armrests of the chair Mr. Raisor’s hands twitched. His lips quivered. There was a smile forming there.

Yes darling, yes, he said softly, gently.

Across the hall Mr. Hodgson watched the blades of the ceiling fan like a careless dream going nowhere.

Mr. Raisor embraced his wife and stroked her blond hair with a smile burning on his face.

A tear crept down Mr. Hodgson’s left cheek.

Mr. Raisor’s eyes were shut tight. In the darkness he was free from the world and himself.

Mr. Hodgson raised a hand.

Mr. Raisor’s fingers entwined his wife’s hair.

Mr. Hodgson wiped away the tear from his cheek.

In the dark the words of the dying man were clear. No longer was it a steady dripping, but like a vein in Mr. Raisor’s head splitting open and the blood leaking out.

Mrs. Raisor’s closed eyes flashed open.

The brief scream tore Mr. Hodgson from his lazy sea.

Mr. Raisor looked at the linoleum floor as he opened a kitchen drawer.

Sitting up, Mr. Hodgson waited for his startled heart to cease pounding. Then he stood and walked over to the door, opened it, and peered out into the hall. The brightness of the hall hurt his eyes after half an hour spent in darkness.

A door opened and Mr. Raisor stepped out with his wife in his arms.

What happened? inquired Miss Gardam who also peered into the hall to see what the scream had been.

My wife, she fell. I’ve got to get her to a doctor, Mr. Raisor said hurrying past her and Mr. Hodgson.

What an awful night, Miss Gardam said shaking her head and shutting her door, Mr. Hodgson following suit.

It was early in the morning when Mr. Hodgson reopened his eyes. Outside it was still dark and silent. He raised a hand and massaged his forehead for a moment.

Mr. Hodgson stood from the couch and drew to the window. Outside the street was asleep. Something dead and waiting for the light of dawn to rejuvenate it. Then it occurred to him, oh, the dying man.

He should check on him. The doctor had said that he wouldn’t make it through the night. Mr. Hodgson opened his door and stepped out into the hall. He took five steps toward the dying man’s door and noticed that Mr. and Mrs. Raisor’s door was open a crack. Poor Mr. Raisor had left in such a hurry that he hadn’t closed his door completely.

Mr. Hodgson walked over to close it. Hand on the doorknob, he hesitated. Was Mr. Raisor back? His keys were on the floor. Mr. Raisor? he called, pushing the door open. Inside, the place was dark and silent. Mr. Hodgson walked through the rooms finding each one as lonely as the last. He turned into the washroom doorway and froze.

He saw an exposed arm hanging over the rim of the tub. Turning on the light and hurrying forward he looked in and saw—

What?

Mr. Hodgson felt very confused. He rechecked the rooms, even the kitchen where an arrangement of knives was set on the counter. There was not a drop of blood anywhere. A tub had caught it all! But if Mrs. Raisor was here, who was the woman carried out last night in Mr. Raisor’s arms?

Mr. Hodgson thought, who is the only other woman in this apartment complex with blond hair? The answer shocked him. The sound froze his heart. It was the sound of the front door opening.

Turning off the light and closing the washroom door halfway, he walked down the hall and ceased. Mr. Raisor stood there. He looked easily at his unexpected guest. Mr. Hodgson looked at him with frightened eyes.

Dead, Mr. Raisor said simply.

Mr. Hodgson couldn’t decipher whether this was informing or inquiring. Yes, he took his chance.

Mr. Raisor lowered his head. As the doctor said. He stepped into the living room and slumped down in his Morris chair.

Mr. Hodgson moved carefully into the room. The door was open and I thought you were home, he explained his uninvited attendance. How’s your wife?

Mr. Raisor looked up, confused. What?

You’re wife. How is she? Mr. Hodgson asked.

Did something happen? Mr. Raisor asked, looking around concernedly.

Mr. Hodgson felt confusion brush his senses. Then he had an idea in the form of a question. What are you doing here?

I live here, said Mr. Raisor.

You just walked in. You don’t work nights, Mr. Hodgson said.

Hearing this, Mr. Raisor looked suspiciously at his guest and then at the room with equal suspicion. At length he stood. Mr. Hodgson stepped back.

Has someone called a funeral car? Mr. Raisor asked.

Yes, Mr. Hodgson lied. Is your wife here? he added.

Mr. Raisor was very confused. Of course she’s here. Why are you asking me these things?

Mr. Hodgson motioned with his eyes and a slight turn of his head toward the hall.

Mr. Raisor looked there and then back at Mr. Hodgson. Finally he turned and walked down the hall.

Mr. Hodgson waited.

The cry came.

What did you do! Mr. Raisor yelled, charging into the room.

Mr. Hodgson was shocked. Me? Mr. Raisor didn’t hear. Anger had deafened him. He threw himself at Mr. Hodgson despite there being an obvious size differential between them.

Mr. Hodgson held Mr. Raisor in a headlock and pulled him toward the door. Calm down, he said, thinking afterward how inappropriate the phrase was at the moment considering the