Inferis

INFERIS

Alex Zuchi

Translated by Rachel Lima Lopes

INFERIS

Written By Alex Zuchi

Copyright © 2018 Alex Zuchi

All rights reserved

Distributed by Babelcube, Inc.

www.babelcube.com

Translated by Rachel Lima Lopes

Cover Design © 2018 Alex Zuchi

Babelcube Books and Babelcube are trademarks of Babelcube Inc.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

EPILOGUE

About the Author

He crossed the edge and stared at the abyss. His body shaking from the contact with the divine and the profane. 

The abyss stared back at him. The throbbing darkness taking shape. The heat rising from its depths waiting hungrily.

CHAPTER 1

Man is an abyss, and I turn giddy when I look down into it.

- Karl Georg Büchner.

I told you already, I'm not crazy! The man dressed in cream pajamas said again. Something inside him was reborn to reality. Something that had been asleep. Something banished to a second plane of intentions and that now clamored for attention. It clamored for closure. 

I know that, Mr. Mayer, the old man said, keeping his head lowered. A black pen wrote down notes in the evaluation report. After all, no one in Psychiatric Hospitals is crazy, he added, looking at the man being interviewed. No one! I'd bet anything on it! The smile blossomed behind a thick, white mustache. The glasses with a thick brown frame and the white messy hair gave him a cartoon-ish air. The whole thing reminded him of a carbon copy of Albert Einstein's most unfortunate moment.

They are, the man in cream pajamas admitted. His green eyes shone. I have no doubt of that. He got up from the chair and walked to the 2nd floor’s open window.

What makes you different from them? The old man got up from behind a wooden table loaded with papers and walked to the window, stopping next to Matheus Mayer. 

I lived through everything that's in my deposition, he began as he watched an employee dressed in an orange overalls sweep the fallen leaves from the Institute's huge lawn. The grass was yellow, the summer intense. Every word, as insane as it must seem, is true, the man in cream pajamas felt a knot in his throat again.

You have to admit it is not easy to believe it, the psychiatrist called Ênio Amaral added, touching the inmate’s shoulder softly.

I know that, he answered, turning to the old man with a serious look on his face. But just because something’s hard to believe doesn't mean it’s untrue.

Obviously not, the old man agreed. Then he brought his hand up to his chin in a thoughtful pose. Matheus, he began, still watching the repeated movement of the broom. What would you say if someone told you what you told me? Would you believe it? Please, be honest.

Matheus kept quiet looking outside. He thought on that simple and direct question as he pulled his long hair into a ponytail. His next move was to sit down again.

I think… I probably wouldn't believe it, he admitted. It wasn't the time to lie. In fact, he never liked to. Shit, he said and shook his head.

That's our dilemma, the old man said, dismayed. His eyes were red behind his glasses. Sleep was a long-forgotten desire. A slow walk led him back to his table. But tell me one more thing, why are you only really rebelling now?

The man dressed in cream pajamas didn't answer the question. He felt different since they'd moved him to this new nameless Psychiatric Hospital. There's got a be a way for me to prove what happened is true, he said almost to himself. Then he looked at the doctor with an expression the seemed to beg for help.

I doubt you can prove it, Ênio countered honestly. He cared about the man and couldn't see him as he saw the other inmates from institutions he’d worked throughout his almost forty years on the job. The statement given to him however, couldn't come from someone in touch with his sanity. He was definitely talking with a different kind of man. Perhaps a special one. Time would tell. Ênio thought it unlikely. And I can't imagine how I could help you.

I know that, the long-haired man answered, disheartened. I know that.

We're stuck in what we call reality, Ênio countered in an educational way. Reality represents what actually exists. Reality alludes to a circumstance external to human perception and which is independent of it. It is law beyond man's will. On the other hand, the psychiatrist adjusted his glasses and scratched his nose, paranormal phenomena... he began hesitantly, it has never been proven, or actually, given any real importance. We live under the idea that the only events that really happen are those that we can scientifically prove. Medicine, neurology, psychiatry, the studies on neuroscience. It's on those fields that the final answer is found. The rest becomes fantasy or insanity.

Even when it's not fantasy… nor insanity?

Unfortunately, even then, the old man answered while collecting the papers scattered on the table into a yellow folder. What you speak of is not reality as we understand it. Although I do feel a certain attraction to the subject, I must admit. His smile was forced.

Matheus got up. The conversation ended like it did every time, surrounded by ramblings and inertia. This time, however, he couldn't simply leave the room. His blood again burned with the heat of decision. Like in the old golden times. Then I'll stay imprisoned here?

Yes, the psychiatrist agreed. But you know you're lucky, right?

Lucky? Matheus asked.

You know what would've happened to you if you'd been locked up, don't you? The old man asked. Then he took out a packet of Free cigarettes from his pocket, bringing one to his mouth. The charge against you wouldn't have made you very popular in prison.

I'd bet not. 

A man accused of murdering his wife and daughter would've had many enemies in prison and...

You know I didn't kill them! The inmate answered, interrupting the old man. They had known each other from prison.

Ênio smiled, but the image on his mind wasn't even a little bit funny. It was a blessing you were sent to a Psychiatric Institution.

I've told you a thousand times! Hook me up to a lie detector! His voice was loud. I'm telling you the truth! Strange as it may seem!

That's not how it works, Matheus, the psychiatrist said quietly, putting his cigarette back in the packet. The police officers found you holding your wife's bloody corpse. They saw the knife in your hand. They found only your fingerprints on it. And don't forget, it was a knife from your house, the old man finished, dropping his glasses on the table. His brown eyes were showing even more signs of tiredness. By the way, I could easily fool that machine. I bet you could too.

I didn't kill her!

You were beyond yourself, screaming in the direction of the woods. Talking about demons and portals, the old man said a little louder, directly confronting the inmate's words. Then he got up from the chair.

They took my daughter… my little girl... Tears threatened to fall. Matheus did his best to push them back.

Your daughter is dead, the psychiatrist said bluntly. For about ten years you've been moved from one Psychiatric Hospital to another. Don't you understand? She was never found! She'll never be found alive! Confess that you killed her!

She's alive! Matheus yelled harshly. She's alive! A punch to the table to emphasize his conviction.

The office door opened quickly. From it, two men in white uniforms entered the room. Both were strong. Both were looking at Matheus.

What's happening here? One of the nurses asked with a deep but calm voice. 

Roberto Lima was a tall, muscled man. A black man, almost six-foot seven, that had played basketball at a private college until he tore his ACL. Cássio Oliveira looked like his twin brother.

Matheus turned to them. He knew that he'd have no chance against those two nurses. He didn't care.

Let me go! He yelled with all his strength threatening to go through the employees. I need to find her!

What do we do, doctor? Cássio kept his face impassive. He moved closer to Matheus.

We'll sedate him, the old man answered in an equally quiet tone while slowly opening the table's drawer.

Let me go! He asked. I can find her! Matheus kept a firm stance.

Where is she? The psychiatrist asked the patient, the syringe hidden by his body. Where is she? Where did you bury her?

She's in hell! Matheus screamed. A little spittle flew from his mouth. She's in hell! His face transformed into a hateful mask.

The three men were struck dumb. You could see the hairs rising on their arms. You could see their fearful expressions.

I know hell! The man dressed in cream pajamas roared in a deep voice. I've been there! His open arms seemed to want to embrace the spectators' horror.

Ênio raised his hand to his mouth to smother a scream when he saw the inmate's expression. The syringe fell near his feet. There was something about him that words couldn’t fully describe – flames seemed to shoot out of the inmate's extremities. He saw fire reflected in Matheus' eyes, as if flames rose behind those orbits. He saw the reflection of torment in the now cruel face of the inmate. 

The three men didn't dare breathe. Perdition came in crimson tones. In hellish tones. The manifestation that irradiated heat was no longer Matheus Mayer. Not in that moment.

After a few moments when no one dared to move, the inmate's eyes no longer reflected only flames. There seemed to be shadows exploring behind his eye sockets. Inhuman shapes that edged closer to each other and used Matheus' eyes to watch the Psychiatric Institution’s three employees. 

His eyes looked like a portal. A portal to a world of atrocities.

Matheus scream was loud and terrifying. The roar was completely different from the inmate's usual tone of voice.

A few seconds later, which seemed like hours to the three men, they noticed, and silently thanked God, the inmate’s appearance starting to revert back to normal.

Matheus Mayer was coming back. His eyes no longer reflected that flame-and-agony world. His eyes searched for something to support him.

But the return to conscience was brief. 

The long-haired man did find support, in the darkness of a collapse. 

1.

He could feel the darkness’ heartbeats while he wandered aimlessly. His body reacted with fascination from the contact with the mysteries that echoed through the dark, while at the same time feeling so nauseous he could barely see straight. A foul rotten smell filled the unfathomable hallway as if the walls were made of meat that had been rotting for eons but that had never stopped giving off the smell of death and pestilence.  He closed his eyes and prayed to his indifferent gods. Their comfort was denied to him. As it always had been and always would be.

The man focused before the unknown, searching for the strength that lay dormant inside himself.  A forceful breath cleared his senses, reawakening the olfactory horror.  Then he opened his eyes to the visual torment. The visitor looked at the scenery around him in all its splendor.  The darkness retreated against his close attention, against the determination of a man who wanted to save his own. 

The dark tones changed into crimson hues. The heartbeats were even more noticeable. The outlines of the environment materialized with growing surrealism.  That’s when he saw the puffs of smoke rising from the pulsating floor.   First, he cleared it with his hand, the smell of sulfur joining the rotting meat one, then he saw weak flames crackling on the walls.  He felt the heat of the increasing fire that sprouted from each pore of the furnace that enclosed the way forward.

The man continued his journey despite the fire that touched his body and clothes. Even though he could feel the increase of heat, he didn’t feel the deadly effects of the flames, or any kind of pain.  The tunnel ahead bifurcated. Two paths to choose from. Both seemed free from the mystical flames. He took the left one. The path of opposites. Of inversions. The path to hell.

Even though the passageway was narrow, it was large enough that he could walk through it without being forced to touch the wet walls. That pleased him. Ahead, little pockets of fire, spaced and emerging from the floor, guided him through the unknown path. For a time that he didn't dare be exact about, he remained resolved to maintain his quest to the bowels of that grim world. His mind uniquely focused on the possibility of reunion.

About two hundred yards from the fork, the man again saw big discharges of fire, that didn't come from the tunnel around him. Moving forward, he felt the heat intensify and, if it wasn't for the light coming from the half-burning walls, he would've fallen down the cliff that emerged from under his feet. Motionless, he saw a new landscape.

The room beyond him was massive. The man thought it had to have a radius of at least 0.3 miles. If not more. From where he was, he could see hundreds of tunnels that opened at the room. Infinite paths to a mortal destiny. Still standing there, he was sure he'd reached the center of the underground world. Leaning forward a little, he tried to determine how deep the abyss was. It was impossible to measure due to the darkness that filled the bottom. The man imagined that it was endless. The smell was stronger there.

Scattered flames lit specific points of the landscape, and still, he couldn't see a way down. Raising his head a little, searching for an access point, he felt his blood freeze. A cross lightly hung from a rusty chain over the fathomless pit. The visitor didn't immediately understand how a cross could be found in a place that clamored for malice. A place that irradiated agony. The answer came quickly, when he looked closely at the amulet. 

An inverted cross pointed to contrast. Evil as a blurred reflection of good. Christ was crucified upside down, looking at the hidden darkness of the abyss. The darkness of intentions. Looking at the Messiah's body, he noticed some still-open sores; he saw the streams of blood running down the body, dripping into the pit. Christ was alive. Alive to an eternity of pain. His mouth seemed to move, but no sound was heard.

The man coughed, but also didn't say a word. He didn't look for explanations. He was the intruder there. He would accept what was enforced in that merciless world. 

The visitor was already decided to turn back, when he accidentally saw the reflection of a metallic object embedded in the bottom portion of the tunnel he was in. Quickly, he bent down and touched the piece of metal set in the wall beneath his feet. Leaning his body forward, being careful to rest his right hand on the mouth of the tunnel, he saw another metallic point aligned to the first one. It looked to him like a possible access point. For a few seconds he remained motionless, evaluating his chances. With his left hand he tried to shake the steel bar. It didn't move against the pressure. It was enough for him. Slowly and carefully, he descended through the passageway.

At the bottom level he realized the heat was more intense, even though his body didn't drip one drop of sweat, he also saw many other flames spots. Countless tunnels also meandered through that level and the man didn't know which one to take. The idea of a labyrinth came to him, the comparison that he was a lab rat that was supposed to find the way out. He imagined smiling scientist placing bets. The little human rat hitting on the walls with no way out. The exhaustion coming in a relentless tide. Along with the impotence.

After hesitating slightly, he walked on. Still uncertain of where to go. He let his instincts take the lead. He didn't fear for himself. The man had almost done a lap around the circle when, looking down one of the tunnels, he thought he saw a shadow. The decision of which one to take had been determined.

With confidence given to him by Providence, he went in pursuit of the manifestation he thought he'd seen. His steps quicker and quicker trying to find it. Then he noticed he wasn't quick enough and he started to run with all the energy he had, but still didn't see anything. The tunnel narrowed, his body almost touching the edges of the throbbing, putrid mass. Ahead it was impossible to stand up straight, the darkness once again permeating the atmosphere. A few steps more, the man had to crawl on his knees.

The darkness was now looming. The man took a deep breath and kept crawling. His only apparent companion – the increasingly nauseating smell. A low noise made him stop. He didn't question his sanity anymore. He was completely numb. Nothing would move him from his well-defined intentions.

Suddenly, he felt a cold touch on his left hand, a touch that made him feel repulsion along with the cold. His immediate reaction was to pull his arms against his chest. A fraction of a second later, he saw a face a few inches from his. A face white as a sheet of spotless paper. A pair of completely black eyes. An open mouth showing dirty pointy teeth.

Then he couldn't see anything else, the darkness was inscrutable.

2.

The blond man woke with all his joints hurting, even though he couldn't remember doing any kind of physical effort. A plastic tube stuck in his left arm limited his movements. A needle penetrating his skin, bringing the drowsiness of the serum. Sweat soaked his pajamas and face. His long hair made it difficult to see. The heat of March still going strong, not even a hint of abating.

Matheus Mayer hated the heat. He hated that warm room, that everyday brought in more and more inmates. With difficulty, he sat up on the bed and pushed the hair from his eyes. He liked it long. His wife did too. He’d sworn he'd never cut it, even if he started losing it. He’d promised himself that he'd be a long-haired bald man if destiny so decided to punish him.

He looked around and saw an empty room. That wasn't normal. He looked at the room's open door and didn't see any movement. He savored the silence. The urge to pee took precedence over his hazy thoughts. Slowly and mechanically, he stood up. Then he took the IV bag from the pole next to the bed and, holding it, walked to the bathroom. 

Inside, he hung the bag on a metal hook and raised the seat. As soon as he started peeing, he heard a noise from one of the cubicles to the left of the entrance door. Matheus turned his attention to it. 

Is anyone there? He asked while his urinary flow lost its intensity.

The shits... A voice was heard from the closed cubicle. The shits... The tone was melancholic.

Matheus smiled. He knew that voice. They had arrived on the same day. You got the shits again, Everton? He pulled up his pajama pants. The flush took away the yellow urine.

The shits, the man repeated. Again. Then he laughed. A loud fart echoed through the bathroom, then a noise of something hitting the water.

The blond man was hit by the smell of shit that dominated the bathroom. That stinks! He said, raising his hand to his nose. You have to stop eating canned food, man!

Everton Camargo was a fifty-year-old man. Short and fat, with a round face, pink cheeks and a shining bald head. He left school after 3rd grade, and said a lot of words incorrectly. He was one of the first admitted to the new Psychiatric Institution. He suffered from schizophrenia. The man was almost always quiet and gentle. When, for a moment, he wasn’t, he killed two children that were playing ball in front of his house with an ax. His reason: they weren't letting him watch cartoons in peace. The old Mrs. Rosa Camargo, his mom, caught him in the act of trying to bury them in the backyard, in the middle of telling them they were good boys, but a little noisy. 

I had sweets potato! Everton, also known as Fatso, laughed. And radish for lunch. So good!

I can tell, the blond man agreed. You've had lunch then?

Uh-huh.

Don't forget to wash those hands well when you're finished! He said leaving the bathroom still carrying the IV bag.

When he entered the room, he saw that the six beds were still empty. The room was a little dark with the curtains closed. The room was stuffy, and the smell of sweat permeated the sheets. All the patients and workers were still at lunch. Matheus wasn't hungry. Standing next to his bed, he carefully removed the needle still in his arm, putting it next to the bag and the tube on top of the bed. A small droplet of blood emerged from the wound; the man didn't really care, and only unfolded his pajama sleeve, covering his arm. And, before anyone could arrive, he decided he needed some air.

Going down the stairs to the ground floor, Matheus Mayer tried to block all the thoughts that came to him. And there were a lot of them. Focusing, he was able to create a wall inside his mind. An unbreakable stone protection. He had learned the basic mind control and brief pain management technique from one of the doctors that had treated him in the first Psychiatric Institution he had been thrown in for almost three years. Gilberto Araújo was his name, a tall man, thin and always polite, who had retired a few years ago. The long-haired man wondered where the man was now. He doubted he'd ever know.

Matheus now built the wall with the intention of blocking the anguish in his head. A solid wall, built carefully by skilled hands. It would block the kind of thoughts that so tormented the inmate, like the pain from the savage acts he'd lived through in the past, the loss, the loneliness, along with hazy thoughts of freedom, peace, and moving on. If that was possible.

The two flights of stairs were beaten with difficulty. His legs hurt too much, and he still couldn't remember doing any kind of physical effort in the last few days. Life inside the Psychiatric Institution was boring to say the least. In the main hall he saw Roberto and some of the other nurses drinking coffee. He walked by not paying them much attention, after all, Ênio Amaral had granted him permission to walk freely within the grounds of the Hospital. Standing at the door to the main entrance, he peeked outside. More than anything, he wanted to be alone for a moment.

He looked at the sky, the sun strong and lord-like over the tiny white clouds. Again the weather would postpone the rain that had been needed for at least a month. Matheus felt the heat waves from the star. The long-sleeved cream pajama stuck to his body, a terrible choice for such an intensely warm day. In front of him he saw a concrete bench under the shade of a great Java plum tree and started towards it.

Sitting, he felt a slight breeze mess his loose hair. A feeling that was always welcome. Next, he discarded his slippers and touched the remaining grass with his bare feet. The effect was inviting. Matheus started to find himself in the