The Absent

By Maz Marik

Anthony really doesn't want to be alone for his grandad's last night before moving into a care home. Since the old man became ill, the bungalow hasn't felt right; full of odd sounds and strange things flashing in the corner of the eye...

Eventually, he tempts two old friends, Lee and Amber, to stay over with him. But as the evening wears on, the three realise they are far from alone - and have no way out. A night feels like a long time when you can't even trust your own eyes.

Suspenseful, moving and terrifying, THE ABSENT is based on genuine accounts, and may well change the way you look at the elderly forever.

SEEING IS BELIEVING

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maz Marik
• Release date: May 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310024481

Maz Marik

Maz Marik is a horror author from England. Born in the small town of Threapwood, he grew up in the Midlands and has also lived in the USA, the Caribbean, Spain, Mexico, Turkey and Egypt.He currently lives in the south of England, a setting he has employed for his debut novel End Storm, which was published as an e-book at Amazon and Smashwords on December 1st 2012.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Fog.

Fog. It dominated Lloyd’s vision, filling the world with a murky gloom. It was a common enough sight down in the valleys, but it wasn’t normally as thick as this. In the distance were shapes, ghosts of people, drifting and shifting vaguely around him. Some of them were sort-of familiar, in a comforting way, but others were hulking figures, deformed and terrifying. Nevertheless, the fog kept them at bay.

Why am I alone? Where is everyone?

Not a lot made sense. A dozen muffled voices filled the air and they too were tangled and slowed by the all-encompassing haze. Occasionally a high-pitched squeal would pulse in and out among the waves of mist.

Where is everyone?

He shivered as an icy cold hand rested on his shoulder. A voice broke through the fog, a female voice, soft and insistent.

Dad?

Was there another lost child in the fog, calling for her father? He tried to respond, but his mouth moved awkwardly, and sounds seemed to get lost before they could escape his lips.

Nearly there, Dad, the voice said.

He ran. It was the only thing he knew how to do. The mist hung tangled, tattered tendrils, twisting and dragging him back.

It’s OK, Dad.

The icy hand scythed across his scalp.

Lloyd closed his eyes and felt himself falling.

*****

It’s OK, Yvonne whispered, running her hand through her father’s wispy hair. He looks terrified, poor thing. She turned to her husband and shook her head. How long are we going to have to just sit here? They had only spent ten minutes in the waiting room, watching the endless stream of the ill and frail, but it felt like hours.

Won’t be long now, Roger replied, his face hidden behind a gossip magazine. There was not much choice; it was either that or stare at the pale walls and their peeling medical posters and health warnings.

She rested her hand on her father’s knee and leaned forward. We will be in to see the doctor soon, Dad, and hopefully he can do something about your bad dreams.

Her father sat in his wheelchair, staring blankly ahead. His condition had deteriorated considerably. Whereas only eighteen months earlier he would still walk into town to do his own shopping, these days he was unsteady on his feet and rarely ventured outside his home. Even within the comforting walls of his familiar bungalow, he struggled to shuffle from room to room.

Another patient limped through the door and joined the queue. The seats in the waiting area were already filled to capacity.

Roger put down the magazine and opened his newspaper. Ah, brilliant.

What?

There’s football on the TV tonight.

The receptionist called out a patient’s surname, and an old woman slowly made her way to her appointment. We must be next, Yvonne said. I think that woman was just before us when we got here.

Oh, and James Bond is on afterwards.

Yvonne rolled her eyes. If we’re here much longer, you’ll have to go back to the car and get the blanket. Don’t want Dad catching pneumonia.

"Goldfinger."

What?

"Goldfinger, Roger repeated, lowering the newspaper. Sean Connery."

That’s good. Now shall we get the blanket?

Roger returned his attention to the paper. You won’t believe it.

What’s that?

There’s a Bond movie on every day for the next two weeks!

Yvonne tutted and stood up to go to the car when the receptionist called out again.

"Mr Featherstone?"

Ah, yes, that’s us! Yvonne shouted, waving.

The receptionist frowned at her. The doctor will see you now.

Thanks! Right, come on, Dad. She led the way while Roger pushed the wheelchair.

The doctor’s room, like the reception area, was bland and sparsely furnished: a tidy desk, a few chairs, a set of scales and a shelf full of files and folders. The only untidy thing in the room was Doctor Jones himself. He always looked like he had just woken up. His longish hair was as wild and unkempt as any local tramp or drunk, but he smiled the same smile that had comforted Yvonne since her own mother had first brought her to see him decades before.

Hello, and how are we? the doctor said.

Well, my father is bad again. The pills worked for a while, but now he just seems constantly confused. Isn’t that right, Dad?

Her father did not respond.

What do you mean by ‘bad’?

Well, he shuffles around all night, thinking his friends are coming round for tea and biscuits. He struggles to get dressed or clean his teeth, and has vivid nightmares. He says there are people visiting him, who I know have been dead for years.

I see, Doctor Jones replied, typing something on his computer.

Yvonne sighed. I mean, I know what Parkinson’s-related dementia is, and that there is no cure, but there must be something we can do. We’re all exhausted trying to make sure he is safe and has not fallen again. For once, she was glad her father was paying no attention to what she was saying.

Roger shuffled closer to the doctor. Is there any kind of support you can offer? Respite? Or someone to check in on him a couple of times a day?

Yvonne glanced at her father to make sure he was not paying attention. Obviously we would like for him to get better, but I know from here it’s a downward spiral. It’s only going to get worse. I’m not sure how much longer we can keep doing it. We’re running low on favours we can ask.

The doctor gave a sympathetic smile. Well, an increased dosage may help with the hallucinations. As for care and assistance, it may be worthwhile contacting the local council. You can pick up a leaflet on the way out which has all the contact numbers and email addresses. He walked over to the wheelchair. And how are you, Mr Featherstone? I hear you have not been too well?

The silent stare persisted.

This can go on for hours, I’m afraid. And then, for a moment or two, he is as clear as day. Lucid, aware, like everything’s back to normal.

The doctor took his seat and typed again. OK, I have increased the dosage. The confusion and hallucinations may reduce as a result, but the doses have to be taken at set times.

We’re very used to that, Doctor. He has so many pills we put them in labelled containers so we know where we are every day.

No need to change the system then. How is his mobility now?

Yvonne shook her head. Not great. He had a fall the other day, and seems to have lost a bit of confidence. But he still gets around the bungalow.

Try to encourage him to use his walking aids. If nothing else, it reduces the risk of falling. If you like, I can get him a visit from the nurse, to see how much his situation has changed and take it from there. But for now, let’s see if we can calm his confusion and restless nights. Try the extra dosage, and come back in eight weeks to discuss his progress and other options. He passed her a prescription form and dazzled her with his smile again.

Thank you, she said, standing up to leave. If we can stop these bloody visions from terrifying him silly, I’ll be happy with that.

*****

Feeling himself being tucked into bed, he opened his eyes. A familiar face stood over him with warmth in her eyes and a loving smile.

There you go, Dad, the woman said, kissing him on the forehead. I’ll be in the other room for a while until I head back home, but I’ll be round first thing to make sure you’re OK. You’ve taken your evening pills, and I’ll give you the morning ones when I get here for breakfast.

Struggling to recall ever taking any tablets, he watched as the woman left the room and turned off the light, keeping the door ajar to allow the glow from the hallway to seep in. He tried to speak, but words failed to emerge, just a faint, raspy whisper. His energy had vanished, and even speaking was too hard. Like giant boulders, his limbs struggled to budge.

Frustration began to gnaw at him. He wanted the woman to return. A friendly face. Weakly raising his hands towards the light, still trying to shout out, he tried to plead, but the sound of the television drowned out his meagre efforts.

In the edge of his vision he could see something moving; a figure watched him from near the curtains. He closed his eyes, sensing its unwelcoming nature. Once again, he tried to call out, lifting his hand as high as he could.

And then the bed moved. The cover on top was slowly dragged across. Moving his head, he could see another shape crawling across the duvet towards him. She was naked, and even in the partially lit room he could see her features, pale and expressionless like a reject doll. He turned as the woman sniffed his neck, her odour making him heave.

He screwed his eyes shut again. Something was wrong. His thoughts were clouded, his mind agitated with contradictory messages. Images from memories flitted and danced inside his head like leaves in a storm. Nothing made sense. But a recurring, warming notion calmed him.

The friendly face. He knew her, that much he was sure of. And he wanted her back.

The bed had stopped moving and, slowly opening his eyes, he was relieved to see that the naked woman had gone, as had the dark figure by the window. He needed to get up. An escape. Anything would do. The feeling of deja vu banged inside his head relentlessly. But his legs still seemed unwilling to move.

A young boy scurried past the door in the hallway, followed by a few small animals which he could barely make out. The boy, too, looked familiar. The television blared.

His ragged thoughts were cut short when he found himself struggling to breathe. Trying to inhale proved impossible.

Then, from the darkness, a face emerged. He stared into its eyes as it leaned over him. Hateful eyes. And cold hands against his skin. He was powerless. There was no way out. His legs trembled as he fought to wriggle free. Deep down he knew he was beaten.

The boy from the hallway had entered the room too, approaching the bed, and then the room was filled with a familiar smell as another figure appeared. It was female, with long flowing hair and pale skin, and a completely blank, featureless face.

Mr. Featherstone closed his eyes.

SIX MONTHS LATER

CHAPTER ONE

Yvonne packed a few more ornaments into a box and smiled as one of them brought back a wave of childhood memories: a small wooden sculpture of a man holding a ladder. Until recently, it was hidden behind endless dusty photographs and cheap souvenirs from other people’s travels, but in her childhood home it had held pride of place above the mantel. At Christmas, tinsel would be wrapped around the rungs of the ladder. Happier times.

But that was a memory. Long ago. And even though there were two people in the bungalow who had been present at those cosy Christmas firesides, she was the only one who remembered.

She closed the box and walked over to her father. You must be excited now. You’ll be in the care home on Monday and have all the attention you need. Not for the first time, a twinge of guilt gnawed at her even though she knew she could do no more. As a family, they had taken turns looking after him, but it had become too much for any of them to handle.

Some nights he would set off down the street in his pyjamas or his Sunday best, walking in circles or banging on doors, confused about where he was. But most of the time he just sat, staring blankly as if someone were talking to him. Occasionally, his hands reached out to grip non-existent objects, like he was pulling on an imaginary rope.

Dementia had taken over.

His conversations had faded over the months. Before, he would sometimes re-emerge back into the moment and reality, more or less coherent. Yvonne would treasure those times, as though her father had returned from a long and tiring