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HOUSE OF PAIN by Philip Sadler

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In the day I sit alone surrounded by shadows and silence, and at night I dream of demons and
blood.

Sometimes, when the wind blows forcefully I could swear I hear voices taunting and laughing at
me. At other times, whether night or day but most commonly at night, I fancy I spy things
moving in the dark corners of my cell. Now and again, when the night is moonless and the rain
falls hard, I'm sure there are shadowy creatures running amok through the grounds outside, far
below my window. All this is irrelevant though, because I am a madman and nothing I say is of
any consequence.

I've had constant nightmares since I left the House, and they've been getting worse. It's almost
as if something is coming for me. I have spoke of these dreams many times to the doctors that
visit me, but they just nod, smile and take notes.

The dreams, ah yes, they are always dark and always involve fire... fire and blood. Yes, an
inferno rages all around me and I sit in a pool of blood. I sit there every night waiting for the
shadow-creatures to come for me. I never really get to actually see the creatures, just fleeting
images of them, warped and distorted, but that doesn't stop me from greatly fearing them.

Am I mad? That's what the doctors keep telling me, they say I'm insane and a danger to both the
public and myself; after all, was it not I who burnt down and killed all those inside the House?
Of course it was me; but those weren't people I killed, they were demons and abominations.

They all deserved to die.

Did it all really happen? Was I really there? Did I really fight and kill them all? Well, I'm pretty
sure I did, but all the doctors tell me I shouldn't think like that, because I'm just a poor crazed
arsonist. Nobody cares what I say though. In fact, I get the feeling that people would rather I
didn't say anything at all. I also get the distinct feeling that I'm not very popular around here.
That's putting it too politely. I am hated. Everyone around here hates me and everyone laughs at
me: a pathetic, degraded maniac. Who cares if a filthy murderer lives or dies? In fact the only
reason I'm still alive is because I'm afraid of what awaits me on the Other Side.

The House... ah yes, the memories of the House are still with me and still strong. I remember
well the things I encountered there: the torture, the suffering, the sadism, the blood and the pain.
I stopped it though, I stopped it all, for good. However, I can never seem to say that last bit and
truly believe it.

How long have I been here? How long have I been locked up in this empty cell for? I look
around at its four bare walls and get the horrible feeling that they are looking back at me. What's
more, when it's quiet, I could swear I hear things scrabbling in the walls; desperate to break out
and get at me... How long I've been here you ask? In truth I simply don't know because one day
just melts into the next, till in the end each week, month and year are indistinguishable from the
last.

How did I get here? I'm not too sure if you want me to speak honestly. I remember the police
station, the press, the flashing lights, the baying crowds. I remember some of the trial: the
jeering, the shouting and the spitting. I don't remember much about prison though because I
wasn't there very long. Prison wasn't so bad though, better than this place; at least there were
other people I could talk to there, apart from doctors that is. At first I was glad to be moved from
the prison to a secure home, because I thought things would be easier.

It almost makes me laugh when I realise how pathetically wrong I was.

Now turn over...

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