The Booth

by Ethel Thorne

Horrific Scribes Extremity Rating:

The air shifts when I walk in. Eyes widen; someone presses a hand over their mouth to muffle a gasp. The shackled prisoner doesn’t dare make eye contact. Instead, his gaze keeps darting to the shadows as if they can help him. I laugh in my head. Nothing can help him.

I nod to the guard. He moves on cue but fumbles with the lock. It falls to the floor, clanging against stone. My vision narrows. He mutters an apology, which grates like forks on a plate. His hands tremble as he retrieves the lock.

The prisoner refuses to move his feet; the guard shoves him hard. I put my hand up, signaling for the guard to stop. He freezes.

I step forward, grab the prisoner by the face, and squeeze, forcing him to meet my gaze. He recoils. “You will go in. Whom you meet is up to me.”

When I step back, the guard shoves the prisoner again, with enough force that he almost falls. Inconsequential.

This time, the prisoner offers no resistance. He walks to the booth of his own accord and sits down.

Inspired by old-time phone booths, my machine is a masterpiece. Encased in glass, with a single bench seat, and bolted to a glistening metal floor. The glass naturally muffles sounds.

I push a green button. A whoosh of air follows, and a shoulder harness drops and locks into place. The door snaps shut. There is no way out. He fights the harness for a second, and then his body stills, hands dropping to his sides. His eyebrows shoot up. Ah, he now understands his predicament. Warmth shudders through me.

A flash of blue light signals for the audience to take their seats. Whispers rise. I stiffen. Every voice cuts off in an instant.

With a slow and steady breath, I tune a dial and close my eyes for a moment. The room goes dark. The only light emanates from the booth.

Inky black smoke pours out of a vent, accompanied by the smell of rotting eggs and sewage. The smell seeps out of the crevices and flows into the observation room. Some of the visitors gag. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

The camera I’ve placed inside the booth zooms in on the prisoner’s face. His jaw clenches, and his eyes narrow. If he could move, his fists would clench. He waits, not knowing when contact will come. I could hurry it along, but I much prefer building anticipation.

The moment they make contact is visible. His eyes become vacant. I typically prefer to hear the conversations for my enjoyment, but this one will be rather… lackluster.

His jaw releases, and his eyes soften. The dark black of them gives way to a lighter brown. His breathing slows. A small smile crosses his face.

After a few minutes, the cloud dissipates, returning to the vent. The crowd murmurs. I ignore it.

 I have an encore planned tonight, and it will be worth every bit of money people paid for my show.

The doors slide open and the shoulder harness lifts. The prisoner moves his hands and glances down at them with surprise. I walk over and remove his shackles. In his ear, I whisper, “Remember the instructions. If you don’t, I will find you.” He nods once and mouths, “Thank you.”

I give a faint nod and step back. “You’re free to go. Your sentence is complete.” He jumps up, a boyish grin overtaking his entire face. He steps out; his eyes roam over the room and light up when they catch the exit sign. In just a few strides, his long legs eat up the distance to the door.

I glance back at the audience. As I walk to the control panel, my vision sharpens. The air thickens. I turn my back to the crowd and hit the play button. A voice drifts out from the speakers. “Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, we have prepared an encore presentation. Please enjoy.”

The room darkens again. A different booth lights up, one no one had noticed, too distracted by the prisoner to pay attention to anything else. The air buzzes.

A collective gasp ripples through the room. I allow it. I show the audience the back of my hand. They shush without hesitation.

Inside, a familiar man struggles, fighting the shoulder harness. He stomps his feet on the floor, opens his mouth, and yells. A dull ache throbs behind my eyes. My neck becomes stiff. I fight the urge to rub it. Thankfully, the soundproof glass blocks the yells.

Decision made. I will not use the paralytic. I will allow him to experience every single second of terror… and pain.

I can’t stop the grin that flashes across my face as he catches my eyes. I raise my eyebrows at him twice, taunting him. He curses at me, threatens me, and slams his trembling fists down on the bench, rattling the lock placed next to him. It is useless. It’s too late for him. 

My lips purse. Time to end his theatrics. Only one person is directing this play, and it’s me. My hands reach for the dial, but for this performance, I don’t stop halfway. I turn it all the way up. Then I open the mic, causing the sound from inside my machine to drift out of the speakers.

My contraption fills once again with inky black smoke. The smell is different, though. A combination of dead, rotting flesh and heavy, chemically created floral perfume. An attempt to disguise the evil that lies below. My mouth twitches.

Our guest has arrived. It hovers above the man’s body, waiting for a greeting.

The smoke lowers down to his head and trails along his forehead, caressing. It shakes his head from side to side, and he screams. A terrifying guttural screech shatters the silence of the room. Heat pools in my chest. It is a perfect greeting. The best one yet. I give a single clap. For a second, the man in the booth becomes silent and stares over at me. I give him a thumbs up only he can see.

The ink takes shape, creating a human-like form, a silhouette, no bones, muscles, or skin. A black hole. Where there should be eyes are just two pitch-black voids. The creature smiles. As the lips curl back, they reveal a mouthful of pearly white teeth.

A hidden camera that pans over the audience is now displayed on my control panel. I can witness each of their reactions as well. They’re all wide-eyed, mouths open, and motionless.

The man’s scream dies. His body freezes. The figure runs something akin to arms along the man’s body. I zoom in with the camera, focusing on his face. His eyes dilate, his nostrils flare, the skin above his eyes tight from how wide open they are. Then, as if he can shut the nightmare out, he closes his eyes. Giving a tsk-tsk sound, the creature uses its “hands” to pry open the man’s eyes.

Suddenly, the monster splits in half. Each new half becomes a new whole. The second one floats over to the body on the bench, then crawls inside. The floral scent permeates every corner of the room. Several audience members cough. My fingers twitch, and my blood hums in anticipation of what comes next.

His skin ripples as the creature moves from his feet to his head. The head stretches out as if it’s not skin but elastic.

The man yells, “No, no, no.” He still can’t shut his eyes.

Laughter rings out as the thing slides out of his body and rejoins the first half. The man’s lips and cheeks sag inward. The left side of his skull caves in. Soft. A rotten orange.

The creature dives back into the vent, returning home. With a push of the button, the doors open, and the shoulder harness lifts.

The guard, the lock fumbler, the one with the grating apology, slides down to the floor in a puddle, whimpering. The lights turn back on. A buzzer goes off, signaling the end of the show. After the audience files out, I walk over to him, rolling him over with my foot. Harder than necessary.

He tries to talk but fails, unable to form words without teeth and missing part of his brain.