The Mind Virus

Chapter 10 - Part 1

The body had been sitting in Terry's trunk for the entire duration of the ride, yet he still felt it weighing down his shoulders. Sweat was dripping from his brow, and his pulse was pound-pound-pounding in his temples. The man was well and truly dead, but that didn't stop his haunting voice protesting from the back of the car.

"Do it, you coward... my people are coming for you... is that a police car?... coming for you... coming for you..." The phantom tones of the man who was once known as Mr. Bach were relentless. Terry knew it was all in his head. Hell, for all he knew, this was some other sort of symptom from the virus that was residing in his brain. He tried to drown it out by switching on the radio, but none of his saved stations could be caught on this side of the mountain.

Driving far to dispose of the body was the only option. Terry had been careless when he kidnapped him, and although he had been considerably less careless when he interrogated – no, murdered – him in the depot that he knew was abandoned, he also knew that wasn't good enough. It's true, no one heard the man's screams, but there was so much mess left behind – so much blood, so much... Terry didn't rightfully know what the bits and pieces that were coming off the man toward the end of the interrogation – no, murder, murder murder – were, but it had been a grisly sight. Lymph, bone, sinew, cartilage – biology was never his strongest subject.

A peculiarly-placed and unmarked speed bump caught Terry by surprise as he drove over it at full speed. The body in the trunk made a gruesome thump as the car stabilized.

"Watch your road, Mr. Howell. It would be most unfortunate if some ill were to befall you," the ghostly voice mocked. "Also, I'm not wearing a seat belt back here, which I'm quite sure is illegal in this state. You wouldn't want to get pulled over, would you?"

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. That would be all Terry needed. He had tried his best to clean off all the blood from the exterior of his car, but the interior was still a mess. Specks of blood marred the cheap upholstery, while instruments of horror and skulduggery bounced around the back seat.

"Not to mention li'l ol' me in the trunk," the ghost of Mr. Bach finished Terry's thought.

"You're not real," Terry sputtered out loud.

"You wish I wasn't real, Terrence, but alas, I am. I'm sitting here just a few feet away from you. I've got a front row seat to your demise."

"You're nothing but a voice in my head. The real 'you' is dead, and there ain't no coming back from that."

"Are you so sure about that?"

"I am, and the only show you'll be seeing is the one where I dig a shallow grave for you, dump you in it, and forget you ever existed."

"How cute. You think burying me is going to make me go away."

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he considered the prospect of being "haunted" by the man who ushered in Terry's own death with that ill-fated job. It was poetic, he supposed.

"That's one way to think of it, Mr. Howell. 'Poetic' – I like that."

"You're nothing but a manifestation of my stress," Terry said out loud. "There is no you. You're all in my head. The real you has already started decomposing. You're dead. You're over. You're finished."

"Stress, you say? What would be stressing you out, my boy? Is it the fact that you kidnapped someone? Yes, I can see why that might stress you out, being illegal and all. Or maybe it's that you tortured someone. I don't imagine any jury is going to be looking sympathetically at you once they see the photos of what's left of me. Oh, wait, I know. You're stressed out because you murdered a man. Bad enough on it's own, Terrence, but the way you did it... Not to be pessimistic, but you're probably going to get the death penalty for that level of barbarism."

Ignore it. Ignore it, and it'll go away.

"No, Mr. Howell. You won't be getting rid of me that easily."

The road ahead blurred as Terry tried to focus on it through stinging tears.

*

"I like it here, Terrence. Not bad for a final resting place."

Terry could swear he could see the corpse's mouth moving from the corner of his eye. Why did he even unload it from the trunk? He should have left it there until the grave was ready.

"What, and risk someone stumbling across mangled ol' me? Don't second guess yourself, my boy. After all, look where your many good decisions have brought you." The disembodied voice gave an unpleasant cackle.

Ignore it. Keep on digging. Ignore it. Keep on digging.

"Where will ignoring me get you, Mr. Howell? Personally, I think we could use each other's company. It sure is desolate out here. There probably isn't another person for miles. Well, except for that ranger over by the big tree."

Terry spun around to face the music, but there was no one there. "Just shut the fuck up already!" he cried out.

"Relax, I'm just fucking with you. Or am I?"

Why did this voice in his head sound so much like the real man? His mannerisms, his tone of voice, his personality – all seemed perfectly reproduced in Terry's head. What a waste of his mental faculties. He stopped for a moment to consider the possibility that he was truly being haunted by a real ghost. No, it couldn't be. It must be the stress, the adrenaline. There's no such thing as ghosts.

"Keep telling yourself that, Terrence."