The Fresh Man

The Fresh Man

by

L Lyott

(2nd edition)

Copyright © 2020 L Lyott

Published by Eggo Publishing at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

About The Author

L Lyott's website is- youwillbelieve.com

Contents

Prologue

Devil Knows Why

It Never Rains

The Appointment

No Gratuities

New Warley

Marie Came Back

Animal

The Document

Falling

At The House

The Warley Legacy

Father Bradbury

Chapter 13, unlucky for some-The Fresh Man

Faith

The Devil

Epilogue, almost...

The Sickness

The Author's brief Introduction- and the Prologue

'Madness constitutes a right as it were, to treat people as vermin'

...Lord Shaftsbury 1827

Crazy, creative ideas come from crazy, creative minds. Such minds visit crazy places that may open doors best left closed...

The tale of The Fresh Man sprung forth from a simple writing challenge that later grew into a novella. However, here in these pages, the story springs forth from the mind of a young boy who becomes a great writer but a writer who is inadvertently mentored by a dark Spirit. I researched the history of Warley Hospital, and from that research, it was easy to create Richard Eggo- The Fresh Man was in his head, and there was nothing that could be done.

Prologue

The Essex Lunatic Asylum stood tall and proud, silent and empty, an attraction to all who lived nearby or who passed by. When the doors had opened on the twenty-third of September 1853, the number of residents quickly grew. Between eighteen fifty-three and eighteen fifty-eight, four hundred and fifty of the five hundred accommodation places were taken. The asylum was not intended solely for Essex people but was to serve the whole country- such was the hope and expectation of this majestic asylum built amidst the woodlands and fields of Brentwood, in Essex. From the Medical Superintendent's Annual report of eighteen seventy-four, the optimism had not waned. He had written, 'In a word the direction of the asylum aims at making the institution really an asylum, a place of refuge and retreat from pain and sorrow: a Hospital and a home.' Progress, however, is rarely a speedy acquisition- for many of those who were to pass through the doors of the asylum, it would resemble anything but a home. For many unfortunate souls, The Essex Lunatic Asylum, once a place of hope, of dreams and expectations, took away all hopes, leaving only despair.

The residents' dreams for remedies and freedom would very often become their nightmares. The long arm of the law was never long enough to reach into the asylum- the law's inadequate expertise in matters of sanity could never override the judgement of a Medical Superintendent. Once placed in the care of the asylum, only the inmates of the wealthy could later be returned to the care of the outside world. All too frequently, however, it had been inmates' families who had requested their incarceration to rid themselves of the family member.

The estate had been built partially on swamp grounds, and drainage was poor and inadequate. Building alterations were occasionally undertaken, but frequent sewerage leaks and poor standards caused intestinal illnesses, cholera and typhoid. Over the many years, patients had died from both natural and unnatural causes. Amongst death's variety of acts were cholera, typhoid, tuberculosis, suicide and murder. The place had its own brewery, and water was not the preferred beverage of staff. A measure of drunkenness amongst staff, especially night staff, was to be expected and with it came a measure of assaults and abuse. One member of staff died from lockjaw having mysteriously fallen into a brewery copper.

Death was a regular occurrence at the asylum. During the food rationing of World War One, starvation indiscriminately took both staff and patients. Even after armistice, starvation passed three hundred and forty-six souls into death's hands. Throughout its history, hundreds of patients and staff were buried in the hospital's cemetery, including children, yet of gravestones, there were very few.

The dark negativity that had remained at the place continued on into the twentieth century. In nineteen twenty, the hospital name was changed to the Brentwood Mental Hospital, but the scent of its rose remained the same. Shortly afterwards, one medical superintendent named George Evans, who only a few months at his job, had written... 'This dreadful place has got on my nerves and I cannot rest day or night. It is this place with its awful intrigues that has driven me mad. No honest man can live amongst it all.' While his young wife remained downstairs at the breakfast table, George had placed his note on the dresser and then shot himself. Some years later, in 1930, when the term asylum had been banned, a worker on the night shift died from drinking disinfectant. Suspicions were commonplace at the hospital.

By nineteen thirty-seven, the hospital had two thousand beds. The brewery had remained, and inebriated staff had become commonplace. In nineteen fifty-three, around the time the hospital changed its name to Warley Hospital, there was a rumour of a tunnel leading directly from the railway station to the hospital, which gave rise to further intrigues and suspicions. In the sixties, a young woman was raped in the chapel. The inexplicable statistics of suffering continued, and, in nineteen ninety-six, an inspectors' report included the words, 'deplorable' and' housed only the most acutely disturbed'. Warley was a place of violence.

The Warley spirit was to dominate the area long after the hospital's final closure in 2011. It was that spirit that had found its way into a young Brentwood boy whilst he read the numerous internet pages that described Warley Hospital. The young boy, a fanatic reader of any and all literature, had a close aunt who, in her younger days, had been an outpatient at The Warley Hospital. That boy, Richard, thought of Aunt Selmer as part mad, part genius and part enigma, but one hundred per cent beautiful. It was Aunt Selmer who had helped Richard through his losses and heartache and who had given him such wonderful and purposeful encouragement to fuel his avid writing. That young lad, Richard Eggo, was to become a prolific writer- Brentwood's Lovecraft.

Unfortunately, Eggo suffered a dark secret that one day would need to be told. Poor Richard, such a lovely child, such a lovely nephew and such a lovely writer- was to become such a lost soul.

1. Devil Knows Why

Loss of blood, difficulty breathing and the shock of what had happened to him had made Richard lightheaded. For some while, Richard had been unconscious, dreaming visions of his family, the huntsmen spiders, Satan and The Fresh Man. On awaking, the inescapable reality confronting him was too much to bear. Somebody had done this to him, and knowing who would be no help.

It had been many hours since he'd lifted his two-piece ladder from the garden wall and carefully dropped it to cross from the pond's broken stone bridge over to The Garden of Delightful Horror. At that time, his mind was not only thinking of the tree limb he had planned to cut, but also of his loved ones lost- his parents, his brother Reggie, and Aunt Selmer. The garden held so many memories- wonderful memories, but the pain of his loss was ever great.

In tribute to his family and their love of old-time horror, Richard had designed and built a landscape of classic horror based mainly on movie characters and creatures. The mysterious manikins and models were subtly hidden behind, or within, the exotic evergreen and tropical plantation on the other side of the pond. The terrain on the far side of the pond had the appearance of a mysterious island. It was The Lost World, it was Skull Island, The Island of Dr Moreau, or Mordor, or Transylvania- it was horror, but it was fun horror. The horror that Richard wrote, however, was not of the same genre as his garden. Richard's horror was dark and frequently gruesome. On this day, those two horrors were to cross paths, and The Fresh Man would move a little closer.

In recent years, that tree limb had grown to partly block his view of The Angel of The Morning Star. This angel, known as Venus, or as the Romans referred to her - Lucem Ferre - bringer of light, had yet another name - Lucifer. The statue was a tribute to Aunt Selmer. It was Selmer who had explained to Richard that Satan and Lucifer are not necessarily the same person. Apparently, there are mysteries and anomalies of historical and linguistic interpretation of the name. Selmer had also spoken of Satan being the Devil and how his name and character had borne the brunt of religious propaganda. According to Selmer, the bible has numerous examples of God's cruelty but practically nothing of Satan's cruelty. God was an austere, warmongering autocrat, but Satan was simply a thinker who had been cast down because he dared to question and to want for better. Selmer had often said, 'Belief can only be justified if it comes from sincere consideration' Richard had cherished her words and her wisdom. Richard's love for Selmer remained in the symbolic statue across the pond. Selmer had been a shining light, and that light was a warm, illuminating light, be it Venus or Lucifer- Selmer was truth.

Richard needed to cut that tree limb.

At the bridge, Richard stood to admire, as he always did, his wonderful Garden of Delight. The shingle pathway on the other side of the pond led to the tree, and below the tree's boughs was The Angel of the Morning Star; life-size, feather winged with open hands beckoning and gesturing an impartial welcome to all. At the angel's feet, there coiled a three-metre Chinese dragon with jewelled eyes and white marble teeth. This creature had symbolism for Richard as the dragon was Reggie's favourite creature. In the colourful and decorative box under the creature's taloned foot was Reggie's ashes- along with Selmer's ashes and those of Richard's parents. Only the goat-headed Satan statue, also under the tree, had no family ties. However, this statue did have ties, but not to family.

Richard carried the ladder onto the broken stone bridge and dropped it to complete the causeway for him to cross into the Garden of Delight. Stepping carefully onto the ladder, he began the three precarious steps to the other side. As he did so, he noticed something in the dense foliage around the Grotto, something upright and human but not one of his exhibits. He wavered, stumbled across the ladder and fell clumsily to his knees on the pathway. From his kneeling position, he immediately looked to where he thought he had seen someone. Now, still, staring into the dense foliage, he saw only the latticework of branches, palm fronds and the dagger-like leaves of the yuccas, all amidst the masses of ivy that grew everywhere in this part of the family garden. Having convinced himself he had seen nothing, Richard turned and picked up the ladder, carried it the short distance to the tree, and positioned it safely against its tall trunk. After, he went to The Grotto shed for the tools.

He switched on the electric light, walked to the middle shelf of a large shelving rack and picked up an electrical extension cable. With the cable in one hand, he used his other hand to drag the heavy electric chainsaw from its place on the same shelf. With the heavy saw swung down to hang by his side, he carried it and the extension cable, to the open door, out into the garden and onto the waiting tree.

Stepping his way to the tree, he trod around the mock opened gravestones, some with decomposed hands trying to push back the heavy stone plinths - Thriller. He dropped the cable and the saw by the tree. Then, the ladder was carefully positioned against the tree to climb up and off onto the selected bough that would be his working seat. The tree had a broad vertical column trunk that rose nine feet before its first boughs jutted out almost horizontally.

Set within the shingle around the tree base was a vivarium in the shape of a coffin. The vivarium was heated and housed Richard's giant Huntsman spiders. Richard had chosen giant spiders not because of a love for spiders but because of his obsessive fascination with them- and a phobia of them.

The Huntsman was particularly hideous to look at, and when it was not pressed crab-like against a wall, its long arched legs made it more resemble a giant version of the British house spider, and Richard blamed the British house spider for his phobia. Looking at the huntsmen would sometimes make Richard shudder, especially if the occupants were viewed from a particular angle. As Richard passed by the vivarium, he knew he could not steer his gaze away from the steamy glass. Even before looking, in his mind, he saw that shape, those legs, that ridiculous, creepy spider posture. The scare factor in his head was vast. He didn't need to look, but perhaps, when he did look, what he would see would be less scary, maybe comfortingly so. But maybe, he would see the worse imaginable shape of twisted, bent legs and headless body. As always, Richard's fear compelled him to look and almost make him want to see a size and a horror worse than ever.

Richard believed that his mix of fear and fascination was akin to people's love of horror. People abhor real horror, and yet, at the same time, they are drawn to it. Scary spiders, terrifying creatures, unnatural inexplicable beings and every type of merciless, menacing monster imaginable are all loathed and loved simultaneously. The same too for the horrors of violence and gore, suffering and evil acts. Richard knew about fear and its attraction, and he'd been able to creatively conjure up popular, successful tale after tale, year after year. He was a master of horror. Horror was deep inside him, but also deep inside him, there was warmth and generosity. Inside Richard, there were feelings, thoughts and desires for peace and love. As real and horrifying as he made them, Richard's tales of fear were fun- but serious fun. A combination of horror and fun was Richard's trademark. His tales often contained the tortures and the bloodletting of contemporary horror but with childish glee, and an intelligent style and a passion that both he and his fans shared. Richard was blessed with a power, an uncanny power for horror, for writing- and massive success. But it had not always been so. He'd had a helping hand from an extremely influential source, but it was this helping hand that had played havoc with his mind.

Peeping downward, through the condensation of the vivarium's glass, Richard saw only sand, rocks, and a few leaved branches of the vivarium décor. He made no extra effort to see what he could already see in his mind's eye. Right now, he needed to focus on the job at hand - removing that overhung, overgrown bough with the deadliest of all tools - the chainsaw.

Richard had a safe way of securing both the saw and himself, and it would take the most unlikely of events for anything to go wrong. As a writer, Richard knew that the events of fictional horror from imaginary worlds