The Level

A bewildered man, suffering from amnesia, wakes up in a pitch-black room, tied to what feels like a wooden chair. He discovers he is being held captive in a derelict insane asylum stalked by inmates determined to kill him.

Help comes in the form of a beautiful, mysterious woman dressed in a black burka who offers to show him the way out, if only he can remember who he truly is. But the truth is more terrifying than anyone could have ever imagined!

5-star praise for The Level:

“Once you’re in, don’t expect to come out till the end. The Level is addictive…”

“Gripping read!…It’s scifi, mystery, thriller, and love story all rolled into one!…”

an excerpt from

The Level

by Stavros Halvatzis

Copyright © 2014 by Stavros Halvatzis and published here with his permission

CHAPTER 1

EVEN before he opened his eyes, he knew he was in trouble. Moments earlier, he had clawed his way back to consciousness through what seemed like an endlessly spiralling tunnel, to find his heart pounding, his head groggy, and his throat burning with bile, which threatened to explode into his mouth.

But what caused him the most panic, more than the absolute darkness that pressed in on him, more than the feeling of disorientation, was the realisation that he couldn’t move, that his torso, arms and legs were strapped to what felt like an immovable chair.

“Hello?” he called out. His voice sounded dull and muted like a voice in a soundproof booth. “Hello! Is there anyone here?” he repeated, a little louder this time, but with the same result.

He forced himself to draw a slow, deep breath. It wasn’t just his inability to move that added to his growing panic. It was the total absence of any sound at all – except for his breathing and the staccato beat of his heart – that unnerved him most. It just wasn’t natural. Every place generated its own noise. Even in a building set back from the road, you’d expect to hear the constant chatter of roof, steel, and timber contracting and expanding with temperature fluctuations. At the very least, you’d expect to hear ambient noise. But here, the silence was absolute.

He swallowed hard, feeling the stab of dryness at the back of his throat. Heavens, he was thirsty. How long ago had it been since he had drunk water, eaten something? How long had he been unconscious? He strained his eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse of something, anything that might give him a clue about his situation, but the darkness remained impenetrable.

“Situation?” Is that what this was? A situation? If so, what kind of situation? And why had he been singled out for it? What was so special about him?

He suddenly realised he couldn’t remember a single thing about himself. Not even his name. Another spurt of adrenaline spiked through his body. He yanked at the straps binding his arms and legs but they remained fastened to the chair.

There were no clues to be had in sampling the air either. He sniffed hard, once, twice, three times. It smelt like, well, it smelt like nothing at all. It wasn’t cool or warm, moist or dry. The air was simply there, silent, featureless and still. At least, he presumed it was there, since he was breathing it.

“Help!” he cried out again in mounting desperation. A thought ripped through his head like a bullet. Was he here at the whim of some madman? Some psycho who had seen too many Dexter and Hannibal episodes on TV and decided he was fair game?

Or maybe someone who’d torture him on camera before harvesting his organs for sale to wealthy transplant patients? The thoughts seemed preposterous, even a little theatrical, but try as he might, he couldn’t escape the conclusion that whoever had brought him here, wherever here was, had bad intentions. Alerting him, or them, to the fact he was awake was probably a very bad idea.

He had to calm down. Force himself to think logically and methodically about this.

He sucked in four quick breaths through pursed lips, held the last one in for a moment and then let it out slowly. Start at the beginning. Think it through, one step at a time, he told himself.

What did he know about himself? He plunged deeply into the black well of his mind, looking for a clue: a face, a sound, a smell, a touch – anything that might kick-start his memory.

Nothing. It was as if someone had wiped out his entire past. Why? Why would anyone do this to him? He felt the panic creeping back and drew another slow breath.

Another thought occurred to him. Although he couldn’t remember his past or who he was, wasn’t some knowledge hard-wired? Coded into the mind? Could he not build up some sort of picture of himself based on his current predicament and his response to it? There were things that were so self-evident, so obvious, you might miss them altogether unless you went looking for them.

For one, he could think. He was aware of his own thoughts. Gogito ergo sum: I think therefore I am. Wasn’t that Descartes’ most famous saying? That self-consciousness was proof of existence? If so, he was most definitely alive.

He paused. A smile spread over his face. He knew about the French Philosopher! Descartes was not a name bandied around the pool table in bars or in casual conversation. Did this mean he was a teacher? An educator of some sort? Perhaps a writer or a philosopher himself? Hard to tell. It could just be he was well-read.

Ok. What else did he know? He knew he was male. He knew this beyond a doubt. Not simply because he could twitch the tissue between his legs and feel its presence. His maleness was something so salient, so basic, it underwrote his every thought.

He ran his tongue along his teeth. They felt smooth except for one or two sharp bits; there was the faintest taste of mint in his mouth. He must’ve brushed recently. He could feel a slight sensitivity in his left molar when pressing on it with his tongue, but otherwise all the teeth seemed in place and in good condition. He couldn’t be that old, or, at least, he had a good dentist.

He could feel the texture of the chair against his arms and back. So, he was shirtless. The material over his crotch and hips felt tight against his thighs and shins. He was wearing pants. Probably jeans, judging from the texture. He could feel the concrete under his feet, so he wasn’t wearing shoes. His restraints, which felt like they were made of leather, ran across his arms, torso, and legs. Was that significant? Was this the prelude to some illicit show to be recorded for jaded businessmen and their equally jaded wives?

Of course, there was always the possibility that it was a practical joke played on him by friends. He paused once again. He couldn’t think of a single person he knew. Anyway, the idea of a prank didn’t square up with his amnesia. That spoke of something more serious. An accident perhaps? Head trauma? His head and body didn’t feel injured.

No, that couldn’t be right. Perhaps he’d been drugged. That would explain waking up tied to the chair, his grogginess. That must be it. Someone must’ve slipped something into his drink, perhaps at a bar, chucked him into some van, and brought him here for reasons known only to him. Or, to them. There was no evidence to suggest that the culprit was working alone.

“Hello everyone,” he said, speaking quietly to himself. “I’d like to introduce myself to you. My name’s Mr. Nobody, from the great state of Nowhere. I’m here because I have absolutely nothing to tell you, but I hope you’ll all enjoy your time with me as we sit in absolute darkness and talk about nothing at all.”

His accent was indistinct. It was not quite English. Certainly not American, nor Australian, but there was a trace of Dutch in it.

This threw up another thought. He knew about accents. Was he a linguist? A businessman who travelled widely? It could be that he was simply wealthy and spent a lot of time abroad. Could money be the reason for his abduction? A ransom?

Despite his predicament, he was beginning to find the detective work fascinating. How was it possible he couldn’t remember details about himself, yet knew about dentists, accents and French Philosophers?

Perhaps the part of the brain that processed self-awareness was distinct from the part that processed general knowledge. He knew the brain had different sites for this, different levels, much like a computer. He just wasn’t sure about the details.

Another disturbing thought popped into his head. Could he be mad? Schizophrenic? Was this merely another episode in a long line of delusions? If so, was he the figment of his own sick and fractured mind? He yanked at his restrains again, scratched the wooden armrest with his nails. He winced as a splinter lanced the quick under the nail of his index finger.

The pain was real. He was real.

He drew yet another deep breath, feeling his heart-rate easing. Now that the adrenaline in his bloodstream was wearing off, weariness rolled over him like a truck.

How long had it been since he’d came to? Ten minutes? An hour? Two? He had no way of knowing. He could, of course, have counted his heartbeats – too late for that now.

He pushed his head back against the chair and tried to collect his thoughts. What had all his meticulous detective work told him? Nothing major. He still didn’t know his name. He still didn’t know anything more about who he was. But he did know he was a reasonably well-educated male of uncertain age – though probably not old – had good teeth, a mixed accent, a keen mind, was missing a shirt and shoes, and was strapped to a sturdy wooden chair. This made him a prisoner not a madman.

It was good progress, under the circumstances. He felt quietly satisfied with himself. Almost proud. He could finally allow himself a few moments of not thinking.

He took another deep breath, closed his eyes, and listened to the steady beat of his heart.
CHAPTER 2

“DOCTOR Samuel. Wake up.” The voice broke through the fog of semi-consciousness, sounding like one of those infuriatingly bright, automated voices you hear on the phone whilst trying to check on your bank account.

A light went on somewhere in the void, accompanied by the sharp sound of two hands striking each other. He tried to move, but was held back by his restraints.

“Easy now, love. You don’t want to do yourself an injury, now do you? Open your eyes very, very, slowly, but look away from the light,” the voice said.

Two figures, dressed in surgical scrubs floated vaguely before him. They wore masks, tie caps, and medical headlights strapped to their foreheads. One was obviously female – short and squat with huge breasts. The other was tall, thin and erect. A man. They looked like extras from the set of some third-rate horror movie.

“How do you feel, dear?” the squat woman asked in a Cockney accent. Despite its cheerfulness, her voice betrayed a hint of toughness.

He hesitated, trying to focus on the figures. His head felt fuzzy. He reasoned he must have fallen asleep, which was why he did not see or hear them approaching; but here, at last, were real people, people who could answer his questions.

“Who are you? What am I doing here?” he asked, perhaps more aggressively than he should have, tugging at his restraints.

“Now, now, love. Please don’t struggle. All will be revealed in good time. I’m Nurse Mildred. This is Doctor Klaus.”

The tall thin man tilted his head courteously at him, but said nothing. He could have sworn that he heard him click his heels.

“Why am I here? Am I a prisoner?” he asked.

Mildred shook her head and drew a deep breath. When she spoke, her tone was that of someone taken aback by the question

“Prisoner? My dear, dear, Doctor Samuel,” she said, “You are most definitely not a prisoner. The restraints are for your own protection. You’ve tried to harm yourself before, you know.”

Mildred turned to Doctor Klaus and whispered something in his ear. Doctor Klaus let out a soft chortle and shook his head sadly.

“I’m sorry Doctor Samuel. Doctor Klaus means you no disrespect. In fact, he’s your biggest fan. It’s just that we both think it rather funny that a man of your reputation would find himself in such a bind, so to speak,” she giggled.

“Just tell me why I’m here. And why you keep calling me Doctor Samuel?

“My, oh, my. You really don’t remember any of it, do you my dear? You’re quite sure of that? You wouldn’t be selling poor old Nurse Mildred a truck-load of porkie pies, now would you?”

He shook his head. “Samuel who?” he asked wearily.

“Who? You big silly! It’s just Samuel. We all go by our first names here,” she replied grinning.

Samuel lent back against the chair. The glow from the headlights strapped to their foreheads did nothing to illuminate the farthest reaches of the room, which remained pitch-black, but it did allow him occasional glimpses of his pants, bony feet, wooden chair, and the two ghoulish figures. The thought crossed his mind that he was in some nightmare he couldn’t wake from.

Nurse Mildred glanced at Doctor Klaus who immediately tilted his head as if in answer to an unspoken request. She turned to Samuel, her headlight brushing his face before settling on a spot below his chin.

“Don’t worry, dear. You’ll land on your feet. You always do. You’re very special, Samuel,” she sighed wistfully. “Samuel. Such a nice name. May I simply call you Samuel? Doctor Samuel is so formal!” Her voice sounded excessively sweet and cloying.

“Just tell me why I’m strapped to this chair,” he mouthed wearily.

“I don’t quite understand your question, Samuel. You’re here for the very same reason we all are.”

“Which is what?” he asked, growing more and more exasperated.

“Such silly, meaningless questions!” Nurse Mildred said, growing a little agitated. “Why do buzzers buzz? Why do doors swing? We’re here, because it’s where we belong. We do what we do because we’re meant to. It’s our lot in life. You may have forgotten it, but it’s yours too!”

“What are you talking about?” Samuel cried defiantly.

“You’re not sounding quite yourself, Samuel. I’m going to take a closer look. See what’s gotten into you,” Mildred said, a big frown knitting her thick eyebrows together. The pungent odour of old sweat wafted from her as she waddled closer towards him. She reached into her scrubs and produced a leather satchel from it. She placed it on a small metal tray to the side of the chair and removed a shiny scalpel from it.

“No!” Samuel cried out in horror at the sight of the glinting instrument.

“Keep your hat on, I’m not going to hurt you,” Mildred crooned reassuringly. She pinched the material of his jeans above the shins and sliced off two strips of cloth so that both his knees were exposed. She dug into her pocket and produced a small rubber mallet.

“Stop!” Samuel cried.

“Oh, don’t be such a cry-baby, or I’ll have to give you a bib and dummy.”

“What are you going to do with that thing?” he cried again.

“Just checking for structural integrity, my dear,” Mildred said, placing a meaty hand on each of his kneecaps and applying a little pressure.

“Structural integrity? I’m a human being not a bloody bridge!”

Mildred let out a mighty laugh and even Klaus, who had stood silently all the while, chortled and clapped his hands in appreciation.

“You’re quite the comedian, Samuel, I’ll grant you that much, but if you don’t keep still, I might have to give you a spanking,” she said, stroking his thighs lightly whilst hungrily eyeing his crotch.

Up close, Samuel could see rivulets of black mascara running down along the tiny pathways created by the dents and bumps of her skin to form ever-shifting stains on her surgical mask, like patterns in a Rorschach test. Her smell, uncomfortable before, made him want to retch now. He fancied if he had anything other than bile in his stomach, he would be throwing up all over her.

“My, what lovely knees you have,” she hummed, lightly tapping each of them with the mallet. Although his legs were constrained by leather straps, they jerked responsively. She repeated the process several times, before she was satisfied. “Perfect!” she said at last, slapped his thighs heartily, pinched his nipple, winked at him and dropped the mallet back into her pocket.

“Are we done?” Samuel cried.

“Almost,” Mildred said. She produced a small ice-cream stick from her pocket, grabbed hold of his chin, and forced his mouth open. She pointed her headlight into his face and shoved the stick into his mouth. “Say, Aahhhh!” she instructed. Samuel fought hard to suppress the gag reflex.

“You have beautiful tonsils and a gorgeous epiglottis! Best I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen quite a few,” she said. She flicked the stick away into the darkness and produced a cylindrical instrument with a long tapered funnel on one end from her other pocket. She started fiddling with it.

“What the hell are you going to do with that thing now?” Samuel gasped.

Mildred frowned. “I like you Samuel,” she said. “I really do. But I don’t appreciate your language, or your tone of voice. I’m just doing my job. We’re all just doing our jobs here!”

She trudged behind the chair, grabbed hold of his head in an arm-lock, and heaved her voluminous breasts against it, forcing it to one side. With her free hand, she rammed the instrument inside his ear, wriggled it around, and then pressed her eye against it.

Samuel grunted with pain. His eyes watered and his throat seized. His hands and toes clenched tightly. His arms and feet pulled at his restraints. The poking and prodding seemed to go on forever.

“Please stop!” he pleaded.

Mildred plucked the instrument from his ear, but her arm stayed around his neck. Her skin felt rough and granular, like coarse sandpaper. Her face was so close to his, he could hear her breathing, smell her breath despite the presence of her surgical mask – a foul mix of Drambuie and old cigarettes.

“All done, my dear,” she said. “The good news is nothing’s broken!”

“Broken?” Samuel asked wearily.

“Broken. Knackered. Buggered.” She sounded irritated. “How many different ways do you need to hear it? Things break, you know. People break!” She paused for effect, and then went on, “You had us all worried for a while, you naughty, naughty boy. But as I say, the situation is as it should be and ready for the next bit of fun.”

“Situation?” There was that word again. “What situation?” Samuel groaned.

Mildred sucked in a lungful of air, and let it out in a deep sigh. She shook her head disapprovingly at him like one does at a child who keeps asking annoying questions. “What did I tell you earlier?” she asked sternly.

Samuel shook his head blankly.

“Think!” she yelled, driving a chill down his spine.

“All in good time?” he ventured.

“Indeed! All in good time!” she said, clapping her hands. “Any more silly questions?”

He shook his head vigorously from side to side.

Her eyes suddenly softened. She stripped the mask from her face to reveal a large mouth smudged with cherry-red lipstick. She shoved her mask into her scrubs and gave him a lingering, flirtatious smile.

Samuel shut his eyes, but it was too late. She leant over, brushed the hair from his forehead, and gave him a wet, lingering kiss on the mouth.

“That’s just for good luck. I dare say you’ll need it,” she said.

“Just tell me why I’m here?” he sputtered.

She placed her meaty forefinger over her lips, shook her head from side to side, and then stomped away briskly.

She marched up to Klaus, who had watched the whole scene in silence, and whispered something in his ear.

He tilted his head politely, clicked his heels, pursed his lips and began humming La Comparsita, adjusting his headlight beam as he did so, so that it pointed away from Mildred’s face. He invited her to do the same, before extending his hand out to her. She accepted it with a grin and a curtsy. He kissed her hand gallantly, threw his other arm around her generous waist, pulled her to him and led her in a well-executed waltz to the sound of his humming.

Samuel stared at the oddly matched couple with a sense of the surreal as they gyrated, twirled and thrust forward in ever widening circles around the chair. For their own part, they paid no further attention to him. It was as if he was no longer there. What had been the purpose of their visit? For a brief second he considered calling out to them for food and water, but the thought of Mildred trying to force her tongue into his mouth held him back. There were worse things in life than thirst and hunger.

Eventually the light and humming faded and the absolute darkness and silence returned. He lent back against the chair and shut his eyes once more. At least he knew a little more than before. Samuel. That was his name, wasn’t it? Doctor Samuel – if Mildred was to be believed. One’s name was important, even if it was only just a first name. It was something to hold onto when nothing else made any sense.

He lay perfectly still for a few moments. He tried to clear his head, but the sounds and images of the past while stayed with him.

Then, without quite knowing why, he grinned. The grin gradually became a chuckle. The chuckle turned into full-blown laughter. Soon, he was laughing so hard that his sides hurt and tears ran down his cheeks.
CHAPTER 3

“OPEN your eyes,” a voice whispered. Even before he did so, Samuel felt at peace, as if waking from a languid and calming dream. There was a gentle scent of frangipani in the air, and the combination of the fragrance and the tenderness in the voice put him immediately at ease.

A tall slender woman stood before him holding an oil lamp in one hand. The light from it was gentle and inoffensive, but bright enough for him to make out the details of the figure. She wore a black burka, which masked her face below the eyes and at the hairline, but even so, he could see she was strikingly beautiful. She had the kind of sad olive-green eyes that one could get lost in, set off by proud black eyebrows and high cheekbones. But beyond her physical features, there was a vulnerability about her that made her seem even more beautiful.

“How are you?” she asked.

“How am I? Are you serious?”

“What I mean is, are you all right?”

“All right? No, I’m not all right. I’m in pain,” he said.

“In pain? Where does it hurt? Can you describe what you’re feeling?” she asked. She seemed a little surprised by his response, a surprise that quickly settled into an expression of puzzlement.

“Who are you?” he asked, ignoring her questions. Somewhere deep inside him, something stirred, not quite recognition, but an ineffable sense of familiarity.

“I’m a friend,” she said. Her voice was even gentler than before, deeply soothing.

“I could use a friend,” he said.

She smiled at him, a smile full of compassion. “I know Mildred and Klaus were here. Did they damage you in any way?” she asked.

“Damage me?”

“I mean, hurt you,” she said.

“You know them?” he asked.

“I know of them.”

“I was poked and prodded. I’m all right. What did they want?”

“They were just doing what they’re told.”

“Funny. That’s what Mildred said.”

“I’m sorry this is happening to you.” She sounded sad, almost wounded. She took out a small white water bottle with a nozzle on one end and pressed it to his lips. “Drink,” she said.

He did so, eagerly suckling at the nozzle

“Not too much at once.” She gently withdrew the bottle from his lips and placed it back inside her robe.

He looked at her intently once again. The vague sense of recognition persisted. There was something about her tone of voice, about the look in her eyes that felt deeply intimate. “Do I know you?” he asked, secretly hoping that the answer would be “yes”.

Her eyes darted to the floor. She hesitated for the briefest of moments then shook her head, but did not look up at him. “I don’t think so,” she replied.

“Yet, you seem to know me,” he said. “How’s that possible?”

“It’s complicated,” she countered. “There isn’t much time. And even if there were, you wouldn’t understand. Not yet.

He sucked in a lungful of air to allay his mounting frustration. Was there no one who could give him a straight answer? “Is my name Samuel? Can you at least tell me that?” he asked.

She nodded. “It is.

“Who am I?”

“You’re a very gifted man, Samuel. I can tell you that.”

“Gifted? How?” he asked incredulously.

“As I said, it’s complicated.”

“Then simplify it for me,” he said.

There was another brief hesitation in which she seemed to reconsider. “I can tell you some things,” she said at last. “Other things – the most important things – you need to discover for yourself.” She studied him closely as if reassuring herself that she was doing the right thing.

Samuel seemed satisfied with her answer.

She placed the oil lamp on the small metal tray to the side of the chair, and went on, “Ask me what you want to know, and if I can answer you, I will.”

“Why can’t I remember anything?”

She blinked. Samuel could swear he saw a tear form in the corner of each eye.

“I wouldn’t know where to start on that one,” she said. “But let me tell you that you’re not safe here. You need to leave this place and never come back. It’s the only way you’ll stay alive.”

She stood half a meter away from him, enveloped in the sweet smell of frangipani. Her eyes shone with a love and tenderness that defied his understanding.

“Will you at least tell me your name?” he asked.

“Ashanti,” she replied, without hesitation.

“Ashanti,” he repeated slowly, as if savouring fine wine. “That’s the most beautiful name I’ve ever heard!” he declared.

“Flattery,” she smiled under her burka.

“Truth.”

Ashanti placed her hand on his forearm. Her hands were slender with long, elegant fingers. Her nails were perfectly manicured.

He felt a shudder go through him at her touch. His blood pumped with excitement. He knew this touch. He knew it from deep inside the core of his being. Why had she told him he didn’t know her? What was she hiding from him and for what reason? He looked up at her expectantly, trying to piece together the mystery behind those gorgeous green eyes, but she avoided his gaze. Instead, she began to unbuckle the straps along his left arm.

“You’re setting me free?” he cried.

“I’m untying your restraints, Samuel. That’s not freedom.”

“It’s a start.”

Ashanti stopped what she was doing, causing him to look up at her in surprise.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I can’t come with you. And you can’t try to follow me. You do understand that?” she said, searching his eyes for confirmation.

“Why not?” he asked. He was frankly getting tired of each flicker of hope being smothered the moment it flared.

“I’m sorry Samuel,” she hesitated for a moment. “I can’t answer that. But I can tell you the power will come on in ten minutes. You can’t be in this chair when that happens.”

“Just tell me what the hell’s going on!”

“All you need to know right now, all I can tell you, is that the power will stay on for an hour then go off until tomorrow. You must find your way out of this facility before the lights go out again. There are many doors to many rooms. Many dead ends.”

She reached under her burka and removed a key attached to a string from around her neck. She placed it over his neck. “This key will open any door you might find locked,” she went on. “Look after it. There are many wicked people here, angry people who will be looking for you. If they find you they will kill you. You have the skill to escape from this place. What happens after that depends on you.”

“Why? Why would anyone want to kill me? What’s so special about me?” He sounded more anxious than ever.

“The truth is that you are very special Samuel,” she said. “You just don’t realise it yet.”

“Then explain it to me,” he pleaded.

Ashanti hesitated once again, as if weighing up the reasons for her reluctance against the consequences to herself for telling him.

“You have something they want,” she said at last.

“What?” he pressed.

“Knowledge.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will.” Ashanti leant over and kissed him on the cheek.

Again, the caress felt familiar, as if he had savoured it a thousand times before – the kiss of a lover, and like a lover’s kiss, it lingered for a moment longer than might otherwise have been appropriate.

“I’m sorry. I have to go,” she said and pulled back abruptly, checking herself. “Please don’t try and follow me. Find your way out of here and never come back.” She undid the last buckle along his arm and stepped back into the shadows, taking the lamp with her.

“Will I ever see you again?” he called after her, but the light from her lamp was already fading away into the darkness.

He pulled his arm free from the straps and hurriedly undid the remaining restraints.

“Ashanti!” he called out, but the silence and the lingering scent of frangipani were his only reply.

He got up shakily from the chair, grimacing at the stiffness in his joints, and forced himself to take two blind steps forward.

Suddenly, a rumble rose up from the darkness. He felt it more than heard it – the pulse of the generator waking up. He squinted as a battery of florescent lights on the ceiling flickered noisily on then off before finally kicking in to reveal an empty chamber. He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again, then, slowly, deliberately, turned to face the chair.

Constructed from crude slabs of wood and large screws, it was squat and square, devoid of any aesthetic pretence. Yet, its presence was palpable, exuding a terrible pride that one associated only with living things. Wires and conduits ran from it into a metal box on the concrete floor. Although no larger than an ordinary armchair, it seemed to fill the entire room, as if it had broken free from the normal laws of physics, like an echo reverberating across a vast void has broken free from its source. There were marks etched along the edges of the armrests where his hands had been. They looked suspiciously like scratches resulting from the clawing of human nails.

Old Sparky. The name popped into his head, although he could not connect it to any particular memory. Even so, he immediately sensed that this monstrous thing, which had been his home for goodness knows how many days, was no ordinary chair.

It was an execution device.

The chair hummed and crackled as the current flowed through it, and for the briefest of moments, it seemed malevolently alive. A screech issued from it, followed by a loud pop, like a fuse being blown. A small cloud of smoke wafted up from behind, followed by the stench of burning rubber. He took a step back, and as he did so, the chair let out a hiss, sputtered, and fell silent.

He quickly regained his composure, reminding himself he only had one hour to find his way out.

He studied the square chamber. It was smaller than he had imagined—no larger than fifteen by fifteen metres in area. Padded cloth lined the walls. That explained the poor acoustics. The ground, though, was solid concrete; it felt a little rough beneath his bare feet. Cracks ran along its entire surface like a network of veins and arteries. There was a total absence of windows, but four doors punched through the middle of each wall. They were all identical – solid although the panels were weathered and the white paint was peeling. He glanced at the door facing the chair. It invited no less attention than any other. He crept towards it.

The round handle was bent and battered as if someone had gone to work on it with something heavy, but the button in the middle of it, the locking mechanism, seemed intact.

He placed his hand on the handle and hesitated. An image of a longhaired woman with raised fists spun before him like a loose fragment of memory before disappearing as swiftly as it had come. Even so, it disturbed him deeply.

What was this image? Was it a genuine memory, or something else? Did he know this woman? Why did she seem so angry with him?

He could answer none of these questions.

He clenched his teeth and tried the door handle. It felt stiff, as if it had not turned in a long time. He placed both hands over it and tried again.

This time it gave way and the door opened.