Jury Duty by butterrumscoffin
CW: Body Horror, Existential Dread
SUMMARY: A juror finds terror in the most mundane of places.
The stale stench of old paper and filtered air creates an unpleasant atmosphere. The incessant buzzing of cheap fluorescent lights. We are not comfortable, but we are not suffering. My lower back radiates with pain from an entire day of lifting and driving. My eyes - heavy and burning - stay open. The minutia of the workday leaves its baggage on me, but usually, I am greeted with a bed and a relaxing cup of tea. I roll my shoulders, a vain attempt at easing stiff muscles. Despite plenty of windowed air conditioners -- I count about seven -- only one works. Sweat pools around my ass. The rock-hard exterior of the chair presses the feeling out of it. I smell the tuna sandwich I scarfed down minutes ago as my breath wafts around my face mask. The energy of my fellow jurors adds to this oppressive atmosphere. Legs shake. The allergies of the season produce coughs and sneezes. Muffled sounds from YouTube videos at max volume dance around the room.
Out of the window next to my seat, a Harvest moon shines down onto the wet city streets. I see a breeze hitting the green leaves of some sort of tree. I long to be out there, walking beneath that moonlight. I imagine the gentle winds hitting my face.
Maybe I catch a leaf off of the tree?
Or find myself taking a detour into the park?
The possibilities are endless, but best not to think of them now.
Why suffer like that?
The Jury Warden reenters the room. An individual in a floor-length gown, as black as a cloudless night sky, follows behind him. His face is gaunt, and his skin is white as death. I catch his eyes. Their unnaturally blue hue forces my heart to skip a beat. I can't decide whether it's fear, curiosity, or even titillation. He stands behind a podium near the Jury Warden's desk and speaks into a microphone. "Good evening, Jurors. My name is… I am an Assistant District Attorney at the District Attorney's office."
Everyone jolts up, confused and even a tad scared. We all know we heard a name. Another name gone, more confusing than before. This name seems too crucial to drift away so easily.
My nails scratch against the denim of my jean shorts.
To my side, Shanice Hamby, a dark-skinned scholarly type with a high-pitched voice that exudes confident femininity, raises her hand. She speaks before she is called. "Excuse me, I'm sorry, but what's your name?"
"_____?" As his inquisitive intonation marks the end of its sentence, so does its place in our minds slink away. My leg bounces underneath the table in front of me - a nervous tick I've had my whole life. I look over to the stenographer - a mousy individual who seems to fit on the periphery of everyone's attention. Is she as confused as we are? Her dead eyes indicate otherwise as her hands go about their work. "Shall we continue?"
"Any other questions?" The Jury Warden asks, in more a warning tone than a genuine one. They don't want us asking questions, and the first bouts of fear bloom in the pit of my stomach. Something is wrong here, but I can't figure out what it is. "Let the record show there are no further questions from the jurors. Please continue, Counselor."
Counselor, yes, that is what I will call him. He is the Counselor.
"Tonight, I present to you the case of the People vs. … Please remember that you are bound by the law to keep everything you learn within this room private. You should not discuss it with anyone. Not your closest family or friends. Otherwise, there will be consequences too dire to mention."
The Counselor's voice drops to a low growl at the end of his sentence, like a predator threatening its prey. My knee hits the underside of the table. I chew on the side of my bottom lip; the ache keeps me grounded. "The People call Dr. Linda Jones of Miskatonic University." I sigh in relief - finally, a name that sticks. It all makes sense now. Everyone's heard something about that school. Aliens. Monsters. Magic. Scary stories that happen to friends of friends or to someone's aunt's sister's cousin twice removed. I don't go for things like that, but with the strangeness of this lot... I'd be willing to reconsider.
The Jury Warden opens a door in the backend of the room and in glides a wretched-looking woman. Her alabaster skin hangs off her bones, making her appear older than she actually is. Her platinum blonde hair stretches out in all directions, shimmering in the light. Her bright red, matte lipstick perfectly covers thin, villainous lips. She wears a pristine, pressed white pantsuit. A cephalopod-shaped broach affixed to her left pocket glows a bright, seafoam green that looks alluring and beautiful under the harsh fluorescent lighting. Her nails, like talons, are as red as her lips and extend a full two inches from her fingers.
She takes her place at the witness stand across from my seat and holds up her left hand.
"It's supposed to be your right hand," I say; my voice soft, like a child too shy to correct an adult. Dr. Jones' beady, blue eyes do not emote but gaze into my own. Blistering pain bubbles throughout my scalp. My mouth hangs open, and drool collects on my lip. My neck and back muscles clench with enough pressure to turn animal droppings into diamonds.
An imaginary force pulls at the skin of my scalp. I hear a horrendous rip, tugging my flesh from the bone and down my back as if I were some sort of macabre banana being prepped for consumption. My eyes roll to the back of my head in a vain attempt to escape her gaze.
I'm dying.
I'm dying a violent death. My brain expands in my skull, pressing against the bone til it cracks. My insides secrete rotting gasses that will no doubt force me to combust. Sound is a luxury I am no longer afforded.
"Dr. Jones, please." The Counselor's voice cuts through the pain.
My vision returns. I am drenched in sweat but otherwise unharmed. I am on the ground. To my left, the chair I fell out of. I presume I threw myself to the ground during the fit. My right arm radiates a dull ache. I lift myself to a sitting position; the pressure loss feels much better, but I fear my arm is - at the very least - terribly bruised. Shanice kneels beside me. I feel the rest of the Jury's eyes on me. Each. She places her hand on my shoulder; it anchors my psyche and allows me to let the pain of whatever that was become a memory. I turn around and see the rest of the Jury acting as if this were business as usual. All but Shanice, her brow furrows in worry as we make momentary, barely-lucid eye contact.
"Please continue, Foreperson." The Counselor's casual voice hit me like a truck.
Shanice stands up between the Counselor and me like she's protecting me. "They're too weak." Her voice deepens. It's still her voice, but now it's flavored with the kind of knowledge one would expect from Gandalf - not a recent graduate nearing her mid-twenties. I hear murmuring behind me, but it feels a thousand miles away.
The corners of Dr. Jones' lips quirk upwards in what is supposed to be a grin. The Counselor bristles. Silence befalls the room. Shanice's body tremors. I see sweat streaming down her arms, legs, and back of her neck. Wisps of sound escape Shanice's lips. They are strange and alien, unlike anything I've heard before. Perhaps my mind is punier than Shanice's. Dr. Jones and the Counselor throw their heads back and produce a vague approximation of a chuckle that feels like one is scraping a knife across metal.
"To think a Halls graduate would find their way to my Jury Room." The Counselor tuts. He slams the flat of his hand down on the podium. Shanice's body contorts. I cry out when her arms break. I sob as her spine bends backward, and with three sickening snaps, she lands on the floor, twisted like a gruesome pretzel. Her eyes look up at me. Through all of this, she does not stop chanting. "Alas, the ancient are weak against the boundless. I regret confusing you for a Halls graduate, a terrible misconception." Ancient? What did he mean? Was he talking about Shanice? She looks no more than thirty; what could he mean by ancient?
"Now, Foreperson, please continue. The longer you dally, the longer we wait for justice to be served." The threatening timbre of the Counselor's voice drains any sort of defiance from me.
Not knowing what else to do, I take my seat. My injured arm dangles on my right side. With a final look at Shanice, I start the microphone on my table. "Do you…" I take a breath. "Do you swear that the testimony you are about to provide in the case of The People vs. …" I try to wrap my mouth around the name, to bring it to the forefront, but a sensation moves across my body right when I'm about to finally get there. It's electric and sudden - a warning. I turn to face the Counselor, whose eyes roll.
"Say it." My eyes widen. I see him for what he is and not this costume of human flesh that he wears. He's taller. Much taller - so tall that his head pierces the ceiling. His body, impossibly slender and smoother than marble, glows. For a second, I think he's an angel, but I realize that he is something far darker. Angels and demons cower in fear of him. I blink before I meet whatever fate awaits me, and he is the Counselor again.
"I can't," My voice trembles, still weak. "I'm trying, but I can't."
"Say it. Or you will be held in contempt." Desperation wraps around my insides like invasive vines, clenching them into nothing but stress and nausea. I glance down at the docket, but the words appear to move across the page. My eyes chase them, but they are too fast - too elusive. Some change into symbols far too alien for my own comprehension. Some trap me into gazing at them for too long, allowing the edges of my already fraying psyche to snap. My hands grip the sides of the chair until my knuckles turn white. I need to anchor myself in reality and not whatever this is.
"The People vs. Nyartholotep." My vision goes white for a moment. Vomit, sour and putrid, collects in my mouth, but I swallow it back down. I look over, seeking comfort from Shanice, but am simply greeted by her chanting, contorted body. I am alone. "Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you, god?"
Dr. Jones smudged lips quirk into an approximation of a smile. "If it gives you comfort, I do." The tenderness catches me off guard. It lulls me into a beautiful fantasy of being cradled in her arms. The warmth of this imaginary gesture scares the doubt away from my body.
I spot something else out of the corner of my eye. In the farthest backend of the room, something lurks, stationary but undulating in place. The angle keeps me from seeing its features. Is it another juror? Perhaps, but I resist the urge to check. I allow the mystery to live in my mind and turn my attention back to the front.
"Dr. Jones, what is your place of employment?" The Counselor asks. My body relaxes. Thank god for a typical question.
Dr. Whateley shifts in her seat. "I am a researcher and tenured professor at Miskatonic University. I specialize in the occult. I have been working with the NYPD, helping them make sense of suspected cult activity in the area." I take the notepad given to us when we came in earlier and take note of everything she says. I lie to myself and say that it's to keep track of the facts, but it's more so I don't have to look up. They can't do anything to me if they don't have my eyes - at least, I hope that's the case. Besides, it keeps the temptation to look at the back of the room again at bay.
"And how long have you been assisting the NYPD in such matters?"
"For the last six months, since the activity was first reported. Miskatonic believed it to be… an important case for my and my colleagues' research."
"During your time with the NYPD, what was your role?" The Counselor's voice drips with a particular misogynistic disdain. I hear the pained moans of Shanice, finished with her chanting, as she crawls back to her seat. I refuse to look in her direction, not out of disgust but fear for my sanity. I look down at my notes and see strange symbols strewn across the page in the place of words. My hand moves on its own accord. I try to stop it, but it only trembles against my futile force.
"I have been a consultant, providing an analytical view of the facts and evidence of this case to all those who chose to listen."
The Counselor flicks on the projector. An open folder labeled "GJ 1(a) - 11(b)" fades in. "Dr. Jones, are you familiar with the contents of this folder?"
"Yes."
"Have you had time to review the contents of this folder before your testimony here today?"
"Yes, I have. Are these formalities essential?" My breath hitches. My leg stops. Dr. Jones stares at the Counselor. Their faces are expressionless, or perhaps they communicate an emotion I cannot comprehend.
The Counselor clicks on a JPEG labeled Crime Scene 1(a). The document opens to a picture of - what I can only assume - a basement of an apartment building. The far left corner features an old boiler. Light streams in from a window near the ceiling. Various cleaning supplies and janitorial equipment line the walls. In the center rests a chair. The charred remains of something vaguely humanoid rest atop it. Its arms are tied behind its back. My brain rattles against my against the interior of my skull. The creature's limbs stretch out from its body, long and spindly like a spider's legs. Its arms and legs must be twice the length of an average human's, and its skin unnaturally tightens around a twelve-boned rib cage.
"What the fuck is that?" The words tremble from my lips. Cacophonous laughter erupts from behind me. A distorted orchestra of voices too low or too high to be anything naturally human dances across the space. My fellow Jurors, I realize I haven’t looked back them since I first entered the room.
"You will be able to ask your questions when prompted, Foreperson; please refrain from any more outbursts." The Counselor's voice booms across the space. I sob as the burst of impossible colors assaults my eyes. I put my head in my lap like a frightened child. My neck locks up. My mouth refuses to open, a preview of the consequences he mentioned earlier.
"Now, Dr. Jones, do you recognize this photograph?"
"Yes."
"In what way do you recognize this photograph?"
"I took that photograph while gathering evidence with the rest of my colleagues after the NYPD made their rounds."
"What is depicted in this photograph?"
"That beast has been labeled a COG-001. It is one of two separate COGs connected to this investigation and one of three specimens found at the crime scene." Dr. Jones speaks as if recollecting a simple inconvenience. The warning weight over my body melts away, and I will my eyes to look back up at her. She stares at me. She seems pleasant, but the longer I stare at her, the less human she looks. Her face is more gaunt. Her lips periodically ripple like rain hitting a puddle. Invisible hands feel as though they are coiling around my neck. I cannot breathe, but I cannot gasp for air.
"What is a COG?"
"It is short for Cognition. A creature not of our world. Basically…"
My mind clings to the sound of the conversation. Its meaning fades along with my consciousness. I laugh, not really, but I think about - because there's no way anybody in this room will vote on any of this.
Were we ever supposed to? Whoever these people are - whatever they are - they are not people. Not people that I've ever encountered. I feel their power. I feel it pulling at the fraying edges of my mind, threatening to snap it in two. Perhaps I will let them. The last thing I want to do is end up like Shanice. Dear Shanice, who may not even be human herself. I look over at her twisted body and shudder. No, definitely not human, but a person, at least.
"And do you believe that the perpetrators of this grotesque display are connected to our suspect?" The Counselor asks, feigning normalcy so well. My rhythmic wheeze underscores the question. I no longer gasp for air; my body acclimates to the lack of it. My eyes move from the Counselor to Dr. Jones. Her red lips swirl at the tips into fleshy spirals. Her skin and bones pulsate and fluctuate along with the rest of her shape. Space around her body warps and sinks into nothingness around her. A void radiates from her. Her mouth spirals swirl around, around, and around - blending her body together. Not in a disgusting way. Oh no. I wish it were disgusting. I want to say that I hate it. But the sheer grotesque eloquence of it nearly brought tears to my eyes.
Can I still blink?
Are my eyes dry?
Am I crying?
I do not know anymore.
"... and what of these other specimens that were found? Can you tell us about them?"
My sudden control over my body feels heavy. It takes me a few seconds to realize I can move. I turn to face Shanice. Her body is a mere suggestion of what it was before. It levitates above her seat, her broken bones and flesh crackle and squelch. Her chanting grows louder, and I wonder if she is doing this to herself. Her head stared ahead, unmoving, as her body swirled in a strange lattice pattern. I try to turn back further, to know that I am not the only one suffering through this.
Oh no, Juror. One does not dictate the truth by looking back, eyes forward.
"Do… not… listen…." I hear Shanice's words strain against her tattered form. With no visible mouth, the sound radiated off of her - like some sort of nightmarish flesh speaker. "They… seek… your… mind!" I'm about to respond, but the room around me expands rapidly in all directions. I hear the buzz of the fluorescent lights above as they strain themselves and explode. Plastic and glass rain from the sky - as reality stretches endlessly around me. The cries of the other jurors are heard, along with their distorted screams and violent tearing of what I can only assume is their skin as they are caught up in this strange distortion.
I turn to the front(?) of the room. My eyes widen and fall back. Pain stabs through my buttocks as I clash with the hard linoleum flooring. Fungus. A strange, impossibly vibrant fungal growth rapidly spreads against the far wall. I try to place the color, but its tone changes just slightly. Not dark, but not terribly bright. Looking at it stretches at the frayed threads of my mind. Only Shanice's guiding words keep me grounded in this place. That, along with the pain of my ass, reminds me that I'm real. This is real.
The shape of the Counselor's face appears in its impossible tangles, but it fades. It surrounds the form of Dr. Jones, not any defined shape, just a floating singularity of void and flesh weaving in and out of one another. Her eyes pay no attention to the fungal growths attempting to overtake her. Instead of speaking words, the space fills with a cacophony of gibberish. With immense strain, I make out two voices - but their sounds collide.
Follow my voice.
The sound is faint, a quiet whisper barely audible over the insane ramblings of these… beings before me. Ah, but the warmth. Its extraordinary, beautiful warmth gives me my first moment of clarity in what feels like ages.
Find me.
I run in a different direction. I don't know which. Better to run blindly in any direction than to wander into the strange mycosis behind me. The farther away I get. The clearer the voice becomes.
Shanice?
Shanice? Is that you?
Silence. I have nothing else. As I run, a premonition forces its way into the back of my mind. I am held prostrate above the Jury Room, my skin covered in hyphae-like tendrils that slowly work to break down my body. No… not just my body… my very spirit. Death refuses to take me because I do not belong to him anymore. My living body of decay stinks of rot - like the mold that grows on rotten tomatoes. My voice will speak again. My eyes will never see again. But my ears listen. If I stay here, in this place - in this strange Jury Room - I will become nothing more than a rotting husk of a thing. My only purpose? To listen to the incomprehensible babble that the spores I spew whisper to me. I know they are there - these things that call themselves Counselor and Dr. Jones. That's what the spores whisper to me, stories of their conversation - no, of the game they play.
The thought of this makes my knees buckle. My body clashes with the floor. Two ribs crack as I land face-first and slide on the floor. I force myself back onto my feet. The intense ache of more bruised, broken, or sprained bones weigh my body down. An overwhelming smell of death overtakes my senses.
They've caught up to me.
Keep going.
I see her. Shanice's body appears mostly reconstituted. Her arms stretch a little too far from her body. The bones of her face dangle beneath her skin. She cannot speak to me, not like she could before. This place. Those things must've drained her of whatever power she held. Behind her is warmth. It smells of vanilla and pennies - it shouldn't be as comforting as it is. It makes me forget about the pain of a battered body and mind. I stop. I bask, finally bridging the barrier before Shanice and me.
I’m almost there. I reach out my hand to her. She reaches for me. I’m almost free. I’m almost free. Exhilaration overtakes me. My heart races in my chest. My breath heaves in and out. I feel almost lightheaded, but I don’t dark stop.
Our hands almost touch.
Suddenly warmth. Wet warmth. Speckles of it spray across my face. A fungal growth - a strange perversion of life slices through Shanice’s body. Only, she does not fall to pieces. Instead, the growth wraps around her body and overtakes her. It erupts with a thick, odorous plume of spores that smell of rotten, sulfuric eggs and blood.
“Shanice?” My voice is nearly audible over the crunch of Shanice’s bones as the growth pulls her apart and pulls her into the bright, warm light. The more it eats, the larger it gets. Its warmth burns me now. The smell of vanilla and pennies saturates the rest of my senses. My blood boils. My brain feels as though it's exploding in a microwave. I close my eyes, but the light burns through the skin of my lids. Perhaps I cry out? Do I even remember how to use my mouth? Will I ever remember anything else but this light?
.
.
.
The incessant buzzing of cheap fluorescent lights. We are not comfortable, but we are not suffering. My lower back radiates with pain from an entire day of sitting, sitting, sitting. My eyes - heavy and burning - stay open. Though they are so dry, I doubt they'll be operational by the end of the day. I long for my comfortable bed and a relaxing cup of tea. Despite plenty of windowed air conditioners -- I count about seven -- only one works. Even worse, it's so much farther away from me. I laugh internally because I find myself actually envying the Foreperson and the Secretary in the front of the room. My body feels like a swamp. Every inch of me is damp. The chair bends to my body like it was made for me. For some reason, I can't seem to figure it out… I smell this mildew-like smell pervading the space. The energy of my fellow jurors adds to this point, I barely remember what the damned thing is even about.
I take a deep breath and lean my head back. My thoughts drift to what I could make for tonight's late dinner. I rummage through a small checklist of things I need to accomplish before returning to work on Thursday. Near the front of the room, I hear the sounds of the Jury Warden giving everyone the same warning he always gives. I hear the severe voice of Counselor Voigt. He drones on and on about the millionth witness in this seemingly endless case. Honestly, at this point, I barely remember what the damned thing is even about.
My eyes twist over to the window. The ever-present twilight stretches across the typical, otherworldly horizon. In the distance, I see Mountain, with strange jet-black and slender figures soaring through the air. If I listen hard enough, I can hear a procession of instruments that I've never seen marching down in the rocky landscape below. I hear Counselor Voigt clear his throat, and my attention goes back to the front of the room.
I catch the eye of the Secretary. I don't remember her name, but her eyes seem as dead as mine. I feel a chill move down my spine I simply yawn, and it fades. When I look back, her body seems to have changed. The shape of her face juts out more. Were her eyes a different color? I don't have much to think about it before she turns away.
"Thank you, Dr. Jones; you're excused." Counselor Voigt's words cut through my thoughts. "The People call…." His voice drones away as I scratch a strange patch of skin that seems to get bigger and bigger. I close my eyes to try and lose myself until the day finally ends.
