Dea Mortem: Short Horror Stories

Derek in Silence

The following events were taken from the diary evidence of Abigale Hues- a twenty-six year old woman living in Phoenix, Arizona. She works at the local hospital as a nurse, where she has served her occupation since graduating two years prior to the events. These diary entries were confiscated by the FBOM (Federal Bureau of Occult Matters), and have not been disclosed until now.

February 17, 2000 I’m currently taking the Greyhound bus to some semi-truck station outside of Las Vegas, Nevada. I haven’t dared to return since the day Derek went missing on our honeymoon. My handwriting is not at its finest because I’m shaking too badly. How long has it been? Four years? Now I’m going straight back there?

I received a call from Gale Averie yesterday telling me that I needed to get there quickly. He wouldn’t tell me what it was over the phone, but he sounded really urgent and frantic. I know Gale to be a very “chill” guy, and I hardly ever hear him so much as cuss around a woman, but when I was talking to him, every other word was dropping some sort of vulgarity. I was worried about him, so I found the next bus out, packed, and left.

I’ve been on the bus for a few hours, and we were just barely leaving Arizona when I decided I should probably write everything now before I turn into an emotional mess in front of Gale. Since taking over the truck stations in parts of Nevada, I haven’t seen much of him and I am sure that there’s a lot I need to help him out with, so I must have a clear mind. I’ll cry now, rather than later.

Derek was so dear to me. We had dated all through high school and everyone knew we were going to get married. He had proposed to me on my nineteenth birthday, but I told him I wasn’t ready and that we should wait until I had finished college. He had been faithful and patient, and promptly after my graduation we were going to get married.

It was the honeymoon that went entirely wrong. We had come back to the hotel and slept in the same bed for the first time. I remember waking up hearing him get up from bed, but after that… I’m not sure. I woke up and found he was missing. All of his stuff was still at the room- even his phone and wallet. He had just disappeared, and no one knew where he had gone. Investigations went out, but the videotapes of the hallway at the time of his disappearance had been stolen. They had no leads.

Well, we’ve made a rest stop. I’m tired. I think I’ll get some sleep now and I’ll deal with the situation later.

~

February 18, 2000 I arrived at Gale’s earlier today, and what he had to show me was something I never expected! I think I made the right choice in coming. Oh the joys! He’s back! He’s back!

I guess explanations are in order.

Gale’s truck stop was one of the resting stops on the bus trip, so it wasn’t hard to come directly here. He greeted me at the door of the bus with a hug and much welcome. He had been waiting for me to come, and had spoken with me on the way to the station’s building about what I was about to see. He was shaking so badly, and still looking worried, often looking around him as though sensing to spot someone watching us. I’ll try my best to quote his exact words.

“Abigale,” he told me, “there are many things in this world that are hard to understand, but I want you to try not to understand them. You may be a nurse, but you’ll drive yourself insane trying to figure this out.”

He opened the doors and let us in. He had me wait while he helped the customers before promptly turning the sign to “closed”. He made haste to lead me to the back rooms- where he had made his home.

There was a man laying on the couch with some sort of thick machine over his mouth I could only guess was a respirator of some kind. It looked like a gas mask, but that couldn’t have been it, could it? It sure did look like the kind that went over the nose and mouth, then branched out into two filters at the sides. He was covered in perhaps three thick blankets, so I couldn’t see much of his form except for his face. He had a thick scar running down the right side of his face, down his eye and disappearing under the mask. Where the scar was, his eyebrow had refused to grow back on the scar tissue. There was also a nasty scar around his throat, as though someone had taken a knife and drew an uneven circle around the circumference of his neck. He looked around my age, with fair hair that had grown out past his shoulders.