Recluse (standard:horror, 1926 words)
Author: Lev821	Added: Dec 01 2009	Views/Reads: 3079/1890	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Why is a journalist fearful of interviewing a famous recluse?

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

wise to leave a place unlocked, so I waited a little longer, then took 
a wander around the surrounding area for a few minutes incase he was 
busy out somewhere, but all I saw was a hovering hawk and two large 
bumblebees flying around the trees behind the bungalow. So I found 
myself back at the front door, pushing it slowly, and calling out his 
name, but there was only silence that greeted me. I took a daring step 
across the threshold, called out again, then realised that should he 
appear, I was effectively intruding, so I did not call again, and came 
to the conclusion that he was not here. 

It seemed to be a typical batchelor pad. Shoes were scattered behind the
door, and standard black and white cheaply framed prints of a 
yesteryear Texan farm were hung on the walls. I enter the living room 
and find nothing much out of the ordinary. It was certainly lived in. 
Clothes were strewn across the back of  sofa, and magazines were laying 
around. I didn't pursue it any further, and instead walked through into 
the backroom which he had converted into an office. A large desk held 
what was clearly an out of date computer on it as well as various 
papers and stationary. Around it, on all walls except near the door 
were shelves and shelves of books, all of them seemingly of a 
scientific nature. In front of the keyboard were several jars, full of 
white pills. Each of them was labelled with a persons name and profile 
which had been hastily scribbled. On the computer monitor, a post-it 
note had been attached. ‘Turn me on' it said. 

I stand there for a while, simply staring at it, and then I decide to do
just that. I sit down and wait for it to start up. While I was waiting, 
I scan around the bookshelves, wondering who on earth would write an 
entire book about the effects of pesticides on snow and ice, and 
quantum electrodynamics in the colour spectrum. 

The background picture appeared on the screen, and I can only stare as
it is a photograph of myself. I am smiling at the camera, sat in a 
shirt and tie at another desk somewhere. Only one icon appeared, and it 
said: ‘Open me'. I did, and was soon reading the text that appeared: 
‘Did you recognise the photograph? I expect you guessed that it was 
yourself. Do you know your name?' it said. Yes, I thought, I'm Duncan 
Clifford, what is this? I continued: ‘Look at the jars of pills in 
front of you' I did so, and then saw that one of the names was me, and 
the writing beneath it mentioned that he was a journalist who died in a 
motorway crash. ‘Yes', it continued. ‘You are Edward Mills, the man you 
were to interview, and you have taken the pill that gave you the mind 
of Duncan Clifford. You have shut yourself away out here to pursue 
research into your next experiment. Obviously, people won't understand, 
and the moral police will have voiced their protest before they thought 
about it, so with your access to the local hospitals and to their 
morgues, you could cut out victims brain matter, and introduce and mix 
them with certain chemicals to form them into pills, and when you took 
them, you would have the mind and memories of whomever pill you had 
taken. Taken to its potential, you will come out of hiding and have 
them sold in shops as personality pills. You will write another book 
about it, and fame shall be yours again. However, the experimentation 
is not yet complete. There is a jar of red pills without a label, and 
they are to restore your mind back to who you are, Edward Mills'. I 
stared at the jar for a few moments, wondering if this was real, so I 
took time away from the room to see if I could find any other 
photographs of myself, and I did. There were not many, but I returned 
and with a nervous hand reached forward and took the jar of red pills, 
unscrewed it and took one out. I did not hesitate to take it, and the 
effect was immediate. With a tearing thunderstorm of a migraine ripping 
through my mind, I collapse to the floor, and feel as though I am being 
electrocuted. It then subsides after around a minute, and then I 
remember. 

I stand up and look down at the desk, at the jars of tablets, at the
screen, but I know something hasn't quite clicked back into place. My 
mind is not as it was. Yes, I am Edward Mills, and I feel as though I 
have around 80% of my mind back, the other 20% is a confused mess 
culminating in a throbbing ache, a state of paranoia and stress. I rush 
out into the kitchen and look down at the large syringe on the draining 
board I used to extract my own brain matter, and subconsciously put my 
hand to my left eye, above which through the eyelid was a direct route 
to the brain. There was still a small amount of fluid left. 

Within the turmoil inside my mind, elements of Duncan's memories remain.
I see more white pills, a glass of water, then darkness. I stagger 
towards the front door of my house, but it's not really where I want to 
go, as Duncan's percentage of my psyche is in semi-control of my 
movements. I want to go and take more red pills but I find myself 
outside, walking towards the well, and I see another memory. I see a 
rope, a noose, a wooden chair, a collapsing wooden chair and then the 
concrete floor. Duncan, in his life, had made two suicide attempts, and 
I see now what he is doing to me. I fall against the well, resisting 
the urge to climb over, but he is too strong-willed, and as I fall over 
the edge and disappear into the darkness, my mind is still not fully 
balanced. Why am I not screaming? Why do I have no fear? and during the 
250 foot, three second fall onto jagged rocks, I wonder if anybody will 
find me at all, take the red pill, and continue my work.


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