Dave2112
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TFTA Archives: "Symphony of Hysterics" (Illustration by Augustine)
(This story originally appeared in MTJ Publishings "Tales From the Asylum" Magazine. It is being posted here for the first time. Please note that these Archive stories are copyrighted material and may not be reproduced in any way without the express consent of the author and MTJ Publishing. Enjoy!)
Symphony of Hysterics
By Dave2112
Justine fought to catch her breath as the white-haired man left the room. He hadn't released her, and had she had even one hand free, she might have considered strangling herself. If she had to bear one more second of the torture she'd been put through so far, she would surely go insane. Just like the man who was inflicting this horrible torture on her. He had to be insane, she thought, whom else would he do such a thing?
She'd been walking home from her Saturday Night cello lesson, when she was grabbed from behind, a mere three feet from her car. Bundled into an awaiting van, she remembered nothing from the time a damp cloth was forced over her nose and mouth to the time she awoke; naked and tied down to some sort of table. After she was aroused enough to scream herself hoarse, the white-haired man entered the room and. she still couldn't believe it.
He started to tickle her. He never threatened her, touched her sexually or hurt her... just tickled her. A lot, and not just the kind of tickling that she'd experienced with a few boyfriends. This was methodical and relentless, almost like the man was mapping her most sensitive places. Justine spent most of this time in the grip of terrible bouts of forced laughter and heard little of what the man was saying to her, or more to himself, for that matter. She did catch something about "tuning" and "taking care of your instrument", whatever that meant. Yeah, she thought, I'd bet the sick pervert's taking care of his instrument right now. Her thought was cut short as he entered the otherwise empty room again.
"Well, well... are we ready for more practice? Practice does make perfect, after all. Yes, yes... much practice is needed before an Opus is unveiled, eh? Much to do, much to do."
"Please, mister, just let me go. You didn't hurt me, so I won't say a thing, I swear. I don't even know where the hell I am! Please?" Justine was whimpering her pleas, as she saw the man, oblivious to her begging, place long feathers around the table she was so helplessly tied to.
"Now, now, my dear," he said as he placed a feather on each of her soles, "true art takes so much work... yes, much work. And we've so little time before the big night. Ready? Now... F Sharp..."
Justine's tortured wails echoed off the cavernous stone tunnels as the strange little man went about his work.
********************************************
Jillian Murphy sat in the office of the Director of Psychiatry, high on the fourth floor of Rushmore Asylum. She was having a bit of a time absorbing all the good Doctor had to say about their missing "tenant" and what he may have to do with the recent rash of missing persons. Doctor Gail South was a woman of perhaps forty, brunette with just the first hint of gray, giving her a more statuesque quality if anything. Too bad she's trapped up in this bin all the time, Jillian thought, she'd probably have a killer social life. But, back to the task at hand, she reminded herself.
"So you're saying we're looking for some crazy retard then," Jillian said, taking notes in her Police-issue pad.
"Oh, not at all," replied the Doctor over her steepled hands, "Mr. Fererre is far from retarded, or mentally handicapped, in any way. It's his relationship with reality that's the chief concern here. The man is a certified genius. I'm surprised you've never heard of him."
"Let's see..." Jillian said as she flipped back a few pages in her notes, "Monsieur Francois Ferrere, composer and conductor... nope, never heard of him, but classical isn't really my thing. More of a Jethro Tull girl myself."
"Oh, I'm sure you've heard his work, Detective Murphy, you simply were unaware of the creator. He's done the soundtracks for some of the biggest blockbusters in Hollywood. Space Wars, Shark, Crypt Robber... all of them."
"So that was our little nut-case, huh?" Jillian said, scratching another note.
"Umm, yes," the Doctor replied with some disdain, "this 'nut-case', as you so eloquently put it, has seemed to evade capture so far, and escaped from a maximum security Psychiatric facility. Don't underestimate his pure intelligence or resourcefulness."
"Ok, so if he was so Hollywood, rich and famous and all, what happened to him?"
"Producers and directors stopped requesting his work. He was always striving for something he called 'truly original'. Apparently he disliked others influencing his creativity, so when a Studio exec would suggest a change in the music, Ferrere would become... unruly for a while."
"What exactly do you mean by unruly, Doctor South?" Jillian asked.
"Well," the Doctor replied, surprisingly comfortable considering the subject matter, "one of Monsieur Ferrere's better known 'traits' among the Hollywood elite was his love for the ladies. He was a regular customer at several of L.A.'s seedier red-light establishments. S&M, bondage, the whole thing. One night, the police get a call that he's creating a disturbance at one of the places. He'd just publicly had it out with Steven Spielman about the music for the new Crypt Robber movie, and he seemed perturbed when he got there. He acquired the services of three young ladies that evening, and not a half-hour later there were blood-curdling screams coming from the room they were in. The cops break down the door and there's Ferrere, with all three of them tied down and he's... umm..."
"Yes, Doctor?" asked Jillian, "He was what?"
"Well... he was tickling them."
"Tickling them?" Jillian replied, letting a little huff escape her lips. Of all the things she'd chased guys down for, this had to be a first.
"Well, yes," the Doctor continued, "Detective Murphy, many people see tickling as foreplay and even use it in the expression of their sexuality. It's not as uncommon as you might think. But what our dear Mr. Ferrere was doing went beyond play. It took three officers to pull him off of the girls, and he was babbling incoherently about getting the right notes or something. We didn't know what that meant at the time."
"But now you do?" Jillian asked.
"We have a theory, but you can never be sure with something as complex as the human mind."
"So that's when he was brought here?"
"Oh, no Detective," the Doctor continued, "It was several months after that incident. Having retired from scoring films, Ferrere went into hiding for a while, not seeing anyone or talking to the press. He made a brief statement in one arts magazine, however, that he was locking himself away to create the Fifth Symphony of the 21st Century. He said that he wanted to bring the music world something of his own creation, not just... how did he put it?... 'Music to Blow Shit Up By?'... I think that was it."
Holding back a giggle at the statement, Jillian Murphy listened to the rest of Doctor South's history of the man.
"After a few months, he announced a concert at which he would unveil his Opus, as he called it. None other than the Los Angeles Symphony Orchestra was retained to learn the piece and perform it. He'd also enlisted the services of the inner city Youth Choir, but nobody knew why until the performance. What a night that was! I was there, it was a fiasco."
"Not exactly Mozart?" Jillian intimated.
"Hardly. In short, it was awful. The musicians said in statements later that they could barely read the music, and what looked like smudges were actually the Conductor's cue to squeal or screech or whatever you do to an instrument to make it sound horrible. And the Choir..."
"What about it?"
"Well... they were just screaming. It was supposed to be some kind of Performance Art piece from the description in the program, but it was nothing more than a conglomeration of the most ungodly noise you've ever heard. The whole audience started booing, then laughing. It was the laughter that got to him. He started screaming into the microphone about nobody understanding true art, yelling at the top of his lungs for everyone to stop laughing at him... then he took his baton and attempted to stab the first chair violinist in the face. Security restrained him and then he was brought to us."
"And how has he been since then?" the Detective asked, filling page after page of scrawling notes.
"Quite popular, actually. Some of the more malleable patients saw him as some kind of god or something. And the few that knew who he was would probably have taken a bullet for him. That's how he is. Charming, manipulative and highly intelligent. So, it's not just Monsieur Ferrere that we have to worry about, Detective. He's taken six other patients with him that we know of. Six... shall we say... rather disturbed individuals."
"Ok, Doctor. Now about his mental state. What do you think is going on in that head of his?"
***********************************************************
Justine sat on a bench, shackled by the ankle to the leg of the ancient thing. On the one hand, she was grateful for even this halt to the proceedings. On the other, she was horrified at what she was forced to behold. She was the fourth on the bench, and the girl who had been third was now being "instructed" as the crazy man had put it. Knowing she was most likely next didn't make witnessing the spectacle any easier.
In the center of the room was a thick wooden pole. Tied to this pole was a terrified girl who could have been no more than twenty-two or -three. She was a cute blond, short hair, big eyes, nice body. Poor thing was probably some lucky guy's beloved girlfriend. The way she was tied was cruel to say the least.
She was kneeling with her back to the pole. Her hands were tied over her head and leashed to it. Her knees were bent upward, her ankles wrapped with yards of rope and tied to her thighs. It looked very uncomfortable. The sadistic bastard who'd put her in this position wasn't content with only that, however. The young woman had been stripped of her clothes and had wires taped to both of her nipples and over her shaved vagina. The wires were attached at the other end to a complex looking array of batteries and some kind of sensors. The bit-gag in her mouth was tight between her lips and Justine heard muffled screeches every time the girl shifted her body. From the conversations between the other girls and the psycho, Justine had figured out that the sensors were motion-activated. Every time the poor thing tied to the pole moved even an inch, the wires delivered an electrical charge to her tender areas.
And this bastard wasn't making it easy for the girls he'd put there to remain still.
Entering the dimly lit room, the white-haired man was humming to himself. Nodding at Justine he said, "Don't worry, my dear, you will have the same opportunity to train as the rest. Be patient. Yes, yes, yes... so much to do, so much to do..."
He approached the terrified girl who was straining mightily to remain still against the pole.
"Now, my sweet young artiste, we resume the lesson. Control is so important... yes, yes... control, control. You simply MUST have control, or none of your efforts will reach the highest levels of your craft. Now, let us begin, shall we?"
Justine cringed as the poor blonde let out a meek whining sound through her gag. Her eyes were wide as saucers as the cruel monster took his place behind the indifferent wooden pole. The girl's naked feet were upturned and facing the madman, who'd produced two long feathers from the pocket of his worn and dirty tuxedo jacket.
"Why don't you just leave her alone, you twisted fuck?!?" Justine cried through tears of helplessness. If she could have reached the sick bastard, she would have risked her life to strangle him with her bare hands. She knew what he was going to do to the helpless young victim, and her eyes locked with hers for a moment as she mouthed the words "I'm sorry".
"Don't you worry, precious, you'll have your turn, too. You young performers, always in such a hurry, never taking the time to hone your craft like the artists of past generations. And as for you, my sweet, from the top?"
With that, he dragged the tips of the feathers along the soles of the tied girl. Her eyes clenched shut, her teeth biting into the leather of the gag, she tried to control the muscles that were screaming to move away from the torture. Faster and faster the twisted man tickled her feet with the feathers, remaining annoyingly light with his touch. Beads of sweat formed on the blonde's forehead as one long sound came through the gag.
"Good, good," said the man, "But can you hold it? Control, control!! You keep breaking up, you need sustain! Vibrato!" He dropped the feathers and started trailing his fingers over the pink soles.
Justine's mind was whirling. What did he want from them? What the hell were these commands he was throwing around. Didn't these nut-cases just rape girls and leave them in a dumpster somewhere? Her heart went out to the pitiful young girl who was forced to fight every instinct in her body.
"See? You can do it... yes, yes... very good... now a more difficult lesson..." the white-haired man took a pen out of his pocket and removed the cap. Taking the very tip, he began to write something only he could see. Musical notation. Tiny musical notation.
On the skin between the girl's toes.
"MMMRRRGGHHH!!!!!!.....MMMMMM...MMMRRRGGGHHH!!!!!MMMMMNNNPPHHH!!"
The girl's eyes were flooding with tears, mixed with the sweat running in rivulets down her face. Her gagged moans were mixed with muffled screams as the involuntary spasms forced her naked body into flinches that caused the electric charges to be carried to her sensitive parts. The domino effect had taken over, and the tickling of her feet was a torture that may or may not have been worse than the zaps on her tender flesh.
Finishing his notation, the madman stood back up and circled his sweating victim.
"Much, much better, child! You've come so far in such a short time... do you think you have a better level of control now?"
The young blonde shook her head yes in an almost imperceptible nod, as much as she dared move.
"Good," said the strange little man, now holding a plastic hairbrush in each hand and standing in front of the hopelessly bound girl, "Show me... "
Justine closed her eyes as the psycho brought the brush's tips in contact with the taut skin of the girl's tied body. He was tickling her up and down her tender flesh as the young woman struggled in vain to remain still. Justine could only cry as she knew that not only was she powerless to stop the torture of the poor thing, but that by the look of the drooling, hulking idiots that this bastard kept around, she was next to go through this twisted "training".
*****************************************************************
"Remember, Detective," Dr. South said to Jillian as she flipped through her extensive file on Monsieur Ferrere, "there are few constants in the field of Delusional Behavior, so what I'm about to tell you is only a theory, albeit a fairly reliable one. I hope that this can help you find him, he really does need help."
"Doctor," Jillian replied, laying her notepad down and looking the tall woman in the eye, "If Ferrere is the one kidnapping these music students, my first priority is going to be helping them, then we'll see what we can do for the good Conductor, ok?"
"Of, course, Detective," Dr. South continued, "as I was saying... Monsieur Ferrere was quite a handful, but not in a violent way. His most troublesome behavior was sneaking up behind the nurses and female orderlies and tickling them. He would mumble things to himself to the effect of 'Sweet Music' or 'Out of Tune'... things like that. So, I did a bit of digging into his past. He was raised in Paris, and came from a long line of classically trained musicians. Piano lessons started early of course, and that's where things got... interesting."
"What do you mean, interesting, Doctor?" Jillian asked, once again scribbling notes.
"Well, it seems there was an incident involving his music teacher, one Madame LaDaine. French authorities on grounds of child endangerment arrested her. When her students would fail any part of their lessons, it seemed that she tickled them as punishment."
"I think I see where you're going with this, Doctor," Jillian said.
"Do you now, Detective?" the Doctor replied with arched eyebrows.
"Well, if I were to hazard a layman's guess, I'd say that he's trying to get back at women for the torment and humiliation suffered at the hands of this teacher."
"Yes and No, Detective Murphy," Dr. South went on, "Maybe at first that was the case, as with his extracurricular activities. But as his mind began to deteriorate, I believe that he began to associate the reactions he gets from tickling women with the music he was unable to create."
"Meaning...?" Jillian queried.
"Meaning that when you and I hear laughter or screams or what have you... Monsieur Ferrere hears the same thing as music. He collates the timbre, pitch and volume of the sounds into a formula that makes sense to him. It is my belief that both of his major psychoses have merged to make him one very disturbed individual."
"So given this, you think he may be kidnapping women and tickling them just to hear this twisted version of music?"
"Oh, I'm afraid it may be more than that, Detective. Think about what made him finally break down. His unfinished Opus. It's my fear that's he's attempting to complete it... with these poor girls as his instruments."
"Mother of God, this has got to beat all," Jillian said as she closed her notebook and prepared to leave. "Thank you for your help Doctor, we'll do what we can. At least he's not harming the women, in any case."
"Detective, if I may," Dr. South continued, looking slightly flushed for the first time, "Don't underestimate what these girls are suffering if my guess is correct. I, ummm... have used tickling in my own sex-life, and I can tell you that, when used as torture, some people wind up wishing for death. It's constant, intense, and can lead to a state of sensory overload that can't be compared to pain. Tickling has been used as torture by many civilizations. If these girls are at the hands of Monsieur Ferrere, you need to find them quickly...or he may not be the only one that winds up back here, if you know what I mean."
"Don't worry, Doctor," Jillian replied, seeing this case in a new light, "we'll find him."
******************************************************************
Had Justine been as insane as the man who'd been responsible for her kidnapping, she might have been honored to be selected as first chair. But gripping the last threads of her sanity, she doubted she would ever have anything to do with music again if she ever got out of this. She had come to the conclusion that whomever this madman was, he viewed her and her fellow captives as nothing more than instruments to be played, their screams and howls creating a twisted cacophony of sound.
Today's "rehearsal" had begun, with one of the vacant, soulless minions of the white-haired freak alternately leaning over her body and staring at a piece of paper she'd recognized as some sort of musical notation before she was rendered immobile. She was lying face up on a low bench, her arms and legs bent at the joints and tied underneath it. Layers of cloth, similar to medical wrappings, further held her down. She was encased like a mummy, with the exception of her upper chest. Her breasts and ribcage were bare and exposed, the skin tight in the bondage she was placed in. The wrappings covered even her head, her nose and mouth the only thing escaping the mummification.
"Now, now, Lester," the mad conductor said to his servant from a small podium at the front of the room, "You need to follow the music. Don't improvise. No no, that won't do. Won't do at all. Let's try this again, shall we? From the tippy-tippy top, now!"
The twisted little man raised his baton and gave the signal to the drooling individual poised over the bound and helpless young girl. His fingers were placed over her ribcage like a pianist preparing for a concerto. As the baton waved through the air, Justine felt one rib then another stroked in varying pressures and tempos. Her body was cruelly held immobile, not an inch to move in response to the intense tickling. Her covered eyes were no help in steeling herself, and the hellish "musician" gave her nothing to become accustomed to. First one, then the next rib was played like an instrument, tickled in ways Justine didn't know existed until she fell into the grasp of this madman.
"AAAIIIGGHHH!!!!PPLLLEEEAAASSEEEEEE......HHAHAHHHEEEEENONONONOO!!"
"Not quite," said the conductor as he flipped through his pages of notation, "once more from the top."
The knotted fingers of the twisted servant kneaded into Justine's ribs again. The flesh between the ribs was extremely sensitive, and she felt the rubbing strokes of the stiff fingers in all of these places. Back and forth the probing digits tickled her as she screamed and laughed hysterically. Her body wrapped and tied in place, she was powerless to escape the torment. Her mind was slipping away as wave after wave of the electric sensation rolled through her young body.
"SSSSSTOOOOOOPP!!!!...(GASSSSP).......OHGODNOOOOHAHAHAHHEEEEEHAAA!!"
"Yessss! Bravo, Lester, Bravo!" the white-haired man praised his musician as he stepped up the tempo, "We will be ready for the world soon!... But we need to practice, practice, practice... again, and play with passion, Lester... passion!"
The man's eyes were closed as he waved the baton, lost in the sound of Justine's pathetic wails echoing off the cold, stone walls of her torture chamber.
**************************************************************
Jillian was sipping her third cup of coffee as she waited in her unmarked car. On the other side of the street was the Marquod Institute, a private music conservatory. Two young women had gone missing from this particular establishment, before the string of disappearances from other schools. If there was one thing she might be able to use to help these women and catch Monsieur Fererre, it was the pattern. He may be highly intelligent, as Dr. South intimated, but whomever he had working with him apparently wasn't. The women were taken in a predictable pattern. If form held, this would be the next place to find itself minus one attractive female musician.
She still couldn't believe that she was on her own on this one. Never in her career had she ever thought that she'd be the stereotypical "rogue cop" from the world of film. Captain Jules was less than receptive to the Doctor's theory, and Martin LeClerc, the annoying and ass-kissing rookie detective, had a lead that the Captain seemed much more obliged to follow. She still felt flushed having to explain to the room full of seasoned policemen that she believed an escaped conductor was kidnapping and tickling young girls. So, with a warning against vigilantism, she was given leave to follow up the pattern she was convinced of, and to call for back up if she found anything. Yeah right, she thought, I'm supposed to wait for back up while a girl is hauled away to be tortured. That in itself showed how little anyone at the Precinct took her theory seriously. They never expected her to find a thing as they chased down a local drug lord in connection with the disappearances, based on a thin lead from LeClerc.
Stirred from her thoughts by a distant siren, she once again brought her eyes to bear on the doors of the side exit. A young woman was walking out of the door, a violin case and a few books in her hands. She was in her early twenties by the look of her, short red hair, small glasses that framed her cute face nicely, and a small but thin frame. She fit the profile of the previous victims perfectly. Jillian's eyes followed her until she disappeared around the corner at the end of the alley that served as a walkway. Starting her car, she traveled around the block until she was parallel to the street that the alley emptied into. There were houses used as dorms up and down the street, but little else. It was 7:30 p.m. and the early October sky was growing dark. Then she saw the van.
As the large man got out and grabbed the young girl, Jillian had to fight her instincts to unholster her gun and rescue the frightened student. Yes, she could perhaps save this one, but then she'd have no way to find the others. She could not lose this van, she knew. A lot depended on Jillian discovering the location of the girls that were taken, her reputation being the least of them. Perhaps it was that reputation that caused her to eschew calling for back-up, or perhaps it was the need for speed and efficiency, not the blazing sirens that would surely cause Ferrere to burrow further underground, perhaps even ridding himself of any evidence.
The van rolled down the empty street with Jillian's car in silent and distant pursuit. Several times she had to drift around back roads and alleyways to keep from being discovered. But she was trained for this sort of thing, and if the Doctor was right and Ferrere's assistants were fellow inmates, the driver probably didn't even think about being followed. She hoped, anyway.
Past the commercial district and through Industrial Park the cat and mouse chase continued, until the buildings grew farther and farther apart, and the ones that remained were abandoned and dilapidated. She recognized the area as Crystal Pit, the nickname given to the run-down area by the citizens of Crystal City. It was the site of the first settling of the city, and had fallen to ruin over the last two centuries. This was once the cultural center of this part of the country until technology and progress erased the opulent pleasures of a more civilized time.
It was the old Haddonfield Theater that the van stopped in front of. Of all the places to follow it to, this was the one she least wanted to have to search through. The theater proper was actually underground in a design that was the talk of the architectural world when it was built. It also had fallen into ruin, however, and she questioned its stability. A large, hunched man carried the student over his shoulder and disappeared into a hole in the wall next to the front doors, long ago sealed shut by a collapsed marble pillar.
Checking her weapon, she considered calling in to dispatch, but decided to have a look around first. Team play was never her strong point, having been the only woman in her graduating class. It would prove to be her downfall.
Entering through the same cramped opening in the wall, she lit her small flashlight as her eyes adjusted to the dark. Cobwebs blanketed the ceiling, their eight-legged occupants busy with their catches. The irony that they probably weren't the only things in here doing that wasn't lost on her. Through the twists and turns of the old hallways, she made her way to the downward sloping entrance to the theater itself. Pushing open a set of doors, Jillian took in the ancient hall. It was still grand even in its disrepair, defying time itself in its opulence. Pillars of marble supported a gold-leafed domed ceiling. Dusty velvet curtains were closed over the stage. The seats were mostly torn, a few having been pulled up. It was behind the last row of these that Jillian crouched. She thought she heard a distinctly female scream and was concentrating on pinpointing its location. It was this intense concentration that kept her from hearing the soft footsteps behind her, or the soft whoosh of the blunt object slicing the air on its way to the back of her head.
******************************************************************
Justine was chained by her ankle again, this time to the wall of the cell that held ten more of her fellow captives. Her brown hair was in complete disarray, her trim body red with the marks of ruthless probing and tickling. Her joints ached from the strict bondage she'd spent hours in, and her mind was beginning to slip. The other girls were huddling together, but Justine just wanted to be alone, crying into her folded arms. She was lost in thoughts of home as a blond woman was thrown into the cell with her by the largest of her host's minions. The woman was older than herself, by look, but very pretty. Deep eyes, high cheekbones and a fit body, as she could tell by the lack of clothing on the new arrival. Bra and panties were the only things on her, as with the other girls. It was the only dress allowed them, except during the sadistic tuning and practice rituals inflicted upon them by the psychotic individuals that held them captive. These were done in panties only, if anything. The new arrival sat next to Justine.
"Hello," she said to the shaking girl, "My name is Jillian Murphy and I'm a City Detective. I'll get you out of here, all of you, I promise..."
The small white-haired man, who appeared at the door of the cell, cut her off.
"And rob the world of the greatest music ever to grace its collective ear, my dear? I should hope not. No, not at all. In fact, you've been selected to the highest honor in our little group... yes, yes, high honor indeed."
"Monsieur Ferrere," Jillian began, trying to remain calm, "Please allow me to help you. I'm sure you haven't hurt any of these young women, but you cannot continue to torture them. Please, Monsieur, let us all go, and you can get the help you need."
"Help?" he replied, looking honestly shocked, "I require no help, Miss... Murphy was it?... yes, yes... I have been freed from the confines of the rubbish that I've been forced to produce and enlightened into the true world of music as God intended. The music of the human condition itself. Yes, yes... but time runs short, and you must be prepared! It is always so difficult working with Divas, so I must insist that you take my direction as the Conductor and keep your idiosyncrasies to yourself. We've been without a vocalist for the aria, and your arrival is later than I was assured, much too late for proper introduction to the piece."
Jillian could see that Ferrere was in fact as insane as Doctor South had feared and reasoning with him was out of the question. He saw her as some sort of opera singer in his delusional mind, and for the first time in her career, she wished she'd been wrong and that none of this was actually happening. Ferrere placed an ancient key in the lock of the cage's door and three of the large drones that had taken up with the mad conductor were coming for her. Without her weapon, she was powerless to stop them as they wrapped their beefy limbs around her and carried her away.
Justine shed a tear as she knew what was in store for the pretty detective.
*********************************************************
Try as she might, Jillian could not stop the disturbed men from placing her body on what looked like an old rack. Her ankles were locked into stocks, while her wrists were caught by leather cuffs attached to chains that wrapped around a wheel. This wheel was now being turned by one of the silent servants, stretching her body to its limit. She was not in pain, but any movement was out of the question. The skin over her ribcage was tight enough for her to feel it rub against the bones underneath, and her belly was like the tight head of a snare drum. Straps over her thighs kept her from raising her knees, which wouldn't have raised much anyway, given the tightness of her bondage.
The rack was on wheels and was pushed to the center of the stage of the old theater. A few feet in front of her was a podium, empty for the moment. Ferrere was nowhere in sight, his minions taking care of what she was starting to realize was going to be his Opus. Helplessly she lay there, straining for a way to reason with an insane mind, and coming up empty.
She may have been in the center of the stage, but she was far from alone. There must have been at least twenty-five other young women arranged in sections all around the stage. They were in a wide array of helpless positions.
At stage right there was Justine and a few other girls, wrapped tightly on their benches, their ribs the only skin exposed. Stage left was a series of several set of stocks, each containing a young woman's trapped bare feet, the victim seated and encased in a straightjacket.
In the back section of the stage were several of the girls on wooden frames in the shape of the letter A, their knees over the point of the A, hanging upside-down with their arms leashed over their heads to the legs of the frame. These were dressed in some form-fitting body glove, shiny like spandex. And, of course, the material over the armpits of the young girls was cut out, exposing the smooth skin to whatever torment the mad conductor had in mind.
In the same area of the stage were several girls tied to arched platforms, clad in the same material. Their dress was a pair of skin-tight spandex pants and half-tops of the same fabric. Their midriffs were bare, the pants riding low on their hips. They were spread-eagled, pinned down like science-class butterflies, the shape of the platforms arching their bellies upward, tightening the skin, making elongated ovals of the helpless girl's navels.
The insane composer was thorough in setting up his sections, every one having at least one additional girl silenced with a mouth-filling gag. Just like the mute on a trumpet. Selfishly, it was her own fate that concerned Jillian the most as her head was held down, robbing her of the view of her fellow victims, a large strap now placed over her forehead by the insane lemming, completing her inescapable bondage.
As all of the girls were in place, the minions took their places at their assigned sections.
Ferrere stepped out of the wings and onto the stage. He was a sight out of a twisted comedy. His white tuxedo was stained with dirt, wrinkled and a size too large. His white hair was shooting out in random directions from his head. His eyes held no pity, compassion or even understanding of what he was actually doing.
"Is everyone present?" he asked one of the men. One of the five, Jillian noticed. Weren't there six? Just as she wondered, she heard a muffled scream as the missing servant appeared from the back of the theater. Straining her eyes to see from the position she was in, she could make out the large shape of the man, and someone in his arms, being carried.
It was Dr. South. She was bound hand and foot, a cloth gag in her mouth. She was dumped into the center seat of the front row.
"Ah, yes, the good Doctor... yes, yes... now we can begin." Ferrere said as he watched the struggling form of the doctor who'd doubted his genius so often. But in Ferrere's mind, she was not alone in the theater. They were all there. The mayor, the museum director. The dean of music from every college in the area. All of the social elite were filling the seats, waiting in anticipation for the unveiling of the most important piece of music of the recent century.
"Ladies and Gentlemen... Welcome," he said as his mind played the sound of thunderous applause for him, "For your pleasure, I present to you the fruit of years of loving labor. I hope you enjoy the premiere of 'Symphony in Scream Minor'."
Jillian, Justine and the rest of the helpless young women watched this scene with growing horror. The bound Doctor in the front row may have been the only one with the training to reason with the insane Ferrere, but the gag in her mouth kept her cruelly unable to assist the women that she looked upon with pity and a sinking heart.
Ferrere faced his "orchestra" and tapped the baton on the podium.
The silence and stillness of the theater was an eternity of terror and anticipation for the bound women. Nothing happened for a few long seconds, until Stage Left came alive with the giggles of several young women. The disturbed man in front of the stocks had a feather in each hand and, following the notation on the sheets in front of him, was stroking them up and down the soles of the girls' trapped feet in succession. With the concentration of a surgeon, one foot after the other was tickled by the feathers, neither of the girls knowing which one would be next. The mouths of the women were spouting everything from girlish giggles to howling laughter. The ones that were gagged were mewling and moaning into the packing in their mouths.
"Hee hee....HHAAHHEEEE.....NOPLEAAASSEEEEEEE.....OHGODNOOOO!!!!!STOPSTOPSTOPPLEEEAAASSEEEEEE........HAHAHHHEEEEEE!!"
"MMMNNNPPHHH!!!!.......MMMM....MMMM....MMMMNNGGHHH!!!!""
The sound echoed off the walls and was soon joined by more of the tortured laughter, as Monsieur Ferrere pointed his baton in the direction of the A-frame bondage devices and the individual manning that section went into action. Twisted fingers stroked tender flesh as the exposed armpits were tickled in rhythm to the insane motion of the baton. The hanging girls were in tickled agony as the smooth skin was tormented by little flicks of the fingers, soon giving way to harder pokes and kneads of the ticklish areas. Their bodies undulated and wriggled, trying desperately to escape the cruel torture. The tickling sensations were gripping their brains, and every instinct screamed for them to pull their arms down. Tied tightly to the frames, this was impossible. Their squirming bodies could do nothing more than endure the endless tickling.
The women on the arched frames were getting pinched and poked on their sides and bellies, as one of the drooling minions was mumbling the words "tickle tickle" and "kitchie koo" to himself over and over. One of the gagged girls had tears streaming from her clenched eyes as her belly button became the target of the sadistically soft strokes around the deep depression. Midriffs wiggled and bodies squirmed as the ticklish tummies were mercilessly tickled over and over again. The soft tickles were replaced by heavy kneading as the sides were tortured.
"HHHHHEEEELLPPPPP!!!!!!......OHSHITNOOOOOO!!!....AAAIIIGGGHHHH!!!!....AAAAIIIIIIGGGGHHH!!....AAIIIIGGGGGHHH!!....HHAAAAAHHAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!"
"MMMMNNNPPPHH!!!!!!.....MMMMRRRRGGGHHH!!!!...MM..HHMMM...HHMMMM!"
Justine and her fellow prisoners were next, as their mummified forms became the recipients of intense rib torture. Like a demonic xylophone player, the mindless individual at that section played every rib to perfection. Rubbing hard against the skin of the helpless female bodies, the tickling was sadistic in its design, meant to do nothing less than force the screams of the girls out of their mouths. The poor girl who was unable to scream was literally vibrating under the wrapping. The medical bandaging was wrapped over and over her mouth, several layers in it, and several more over it.
"MMMMMMPPPHHHH!!!!!...MMM...HMMMM...HMMM!!!!!"
"'AAAHHHAHAHEEEEE....PLEASEPLEASEPPLEASE!!!!!!....OHSHITNO!!!!!!!'
"NNNAAAHHH!!!!AAAIIIGGHHH!!!!HHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHH......(GASSSSSP)....HAHAHAHHEEHEHEHENONONONONONON...AAHHAHAHAHHAAAAAA!!!"
The hysterical laughter and screaming of over twenty tied up young women was horror in the ears of Jillian and Doctor South, but it was the greatest Symphony ever created by man to the twisted ears of one Monsieur Francois Ferrere. His arms were a flurry of motion as he conducted his merciless orchestra. The combination of sounds intermingled in the echoes bouncing around the empty theater. Jillian thought that this was surely what Hell must sound like.
She had little time to complete that thought as her part in this Symphony of hysterics was brought to fruition. Two of the drones were hovering over the rack that she was bound to, one at her feet, the other gazing longingly at her stretched body, bare except for the tiny bikini panties. At a signal from the evil baton of Ferrere, the one at her feet began to stroke a single finger up and down each sole. The feeling was like putting weight on a leg that had fallen asleep. The tickling shot up her legs and buried itself like a steel spike in her brain. She felt ragged fingernails grazing over the tender flesh of her arches. Over and over the ticklish skin, small circles, figure-eights, lines that followed the wrinkles on her feet...nothing was overlooked as her feet were tortured without mercy.
"AAAIIGGGHHH!!!...PLEEEEAAASSEEEEE....OHGAAAWWWDDDD!!!....NOMORENOMORENOMORE!!!!!....STOPSTOPSTOOOOPP!!!!...HHHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAA!!!"
Not content with standing by and watching, the other psycho took his cue and started to play his instrument. Standing at the head of the rack, he reached his long arms down her body and placed his fingertips at her sides. Pulling his arms up, he slowly raked his fingernails up the tight skin. Jillian felt every nerve protest as each sent its own tickle-signal to her brain. When the fingers reached her smooth, deep armpits, she felt the awful tickling of ten fingers in her pits. Wriggling fast, the soft mounds that had been shaved just this morning but may have been a lifetime ago, were subjected to the unbearable sensation that she could not escape from. Then the pace was changed to a single finger in each pit, tickling up and down, over and over. The felt her fear rise as the hands drifted down her body and over her ribs. The clawed hands dug into the extended ribcage and showed no mercy as they tickled her ribs violently. Jillian screamed as if she'd been stabbed.
"AAAAAIIIIIIGGGGGGHH!!!!....AAAHAHAHAHHAAAAAIIIIGGGGG...AAHHAAAHAAA!!"
As the tickling of her feet continued, the arch tickles now replaced by a drooling mouth sucking her tiny toes and a tongue probing the soft flesh between them, her sides came under attack. Fingers fluttered over her slender waist, finding the spot that caused her to wiggle violently. Her sides were poked in time with the baton swinging a few feet away from her, her belly stroked, her navel licked. Nothing was left out as the middle of the bound cop's body was tickle-tortured. Jillian was whimpering and laughing silently, interspersed with the screams she could still manage through her raw throat. She was reduced to a bundle of nerve-endings, tickled into a pile of quivering female flesh.
From her seat in the front row, Doctor South watched the horror unfolding before her. She was screaming into her gag, but there was no one to hear her. She saw the look on the twisted face of Francois Ferrere, and knew that reasoning with him would be a wasted effort anyway. He was completely in his own universe, hearing the screams of his victims as triumphant music. His Opus. Finally brought to life at the expense of these poor young women being tickle-tortured beyond human endurance. The sound was winding down as several of the weaker girls passed out. The baton was swinging slower as Ferrere conducted his players to soften the hellish music. The screams were replaced by hitching breaths, girlish giggles, sobs and cries.
Finally lowering his arms, Ferrere faced the empty theater and took a deep proud bow.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, I thank you on behalf of the Crystal City orchestra. An intermission will be given as we prepare for the Second Movement."
He lowered his eyes to meet those of Doctor South. Motioning two of his servants to collect her, he addressed his imagined audience.
"The Second Movement will feature the talented Melissa South in a stunning soprano solo...our thanks to her for blessing us with her time...."
Doctor South struggled mightily as four large arms grabbed her and lifted her to a waiting rack, wheeled out from the wings.
If she ever got out of this, Doctor South managed to muse to herself as she was stripped and tied down to the cruel device, she just might give up classical music and join Detective Murphy as a Tull fan.
(This story originally appeared in MTJ Publishings "Tales From the Asylum" Magazine. It is being posted here for the first time. Please note that these Archive stories are copyrighted material and may not be reproduced in any way without the express consent of the author and MTJ Publishing. Enjoy!)
Symphony of Hysterics
By Dave2112
Justine fought to catch her breath as the white-haired man left the room. He hadn't released her, and had she had even one hand free, she might have considered strangling herself. If she had to bear one more second of the torture she'd been put through so far, she would surely go insane. Just like the man who was inflicting this horrible torture on her. He had to be insane, she thought, whom else would he do such a thing?
She'd been walking home from her Saturday Night cello lesson, when she was grabbed from behind, a mere three feet from her car. Bundled into an awaiting van, she remembered nothing from the time a damp cloth was forced over her nose and mouth to the time she awoke; naked and tied down to some sort of table. After she was aroused enough to scream herself hoarse, the white-haired man entered the room and. she still couldn't believe it.
He started to tickle her. He never threatened her, touched her sexually or hurt her... just tickled her. A lot, and not just the kind of tickling that she'd experienced with a few boyfriends. This was methodical and relentless, almost like the man was mapping her most sensitive places. Justine spent most of this time in the grip of terrible bouts of forced laughter and heard little of what the man was saying to her, or more to himself, for that matter. She did catch something about "tuning" and "taking care of your instrument", whatever that meant. Yeah, she thought, I'd bet the sick pervert's taking care of his instrument right now. Her thought was cut short as he entered the otherwise empty room again.
"Well, well... are we ready for more practice? Practice does make perfect, after all. Yes, yes... much practice is needed before an Opus is unveiled, eh? Much to do, much to do."
"Please, mister, just let me go. You didn't hurt me, so I won't say a thing, I swear. I don't even know where the hell I am! Please?" Justine was whimpering her pleas, as she saw the man, oblivious to her begging, place long feathers around the table she was so helplessly tied to.
"Now, now, my dear," he said as he placed a feather on each of her soles, "true art takes so much work... yes, much work. And we've so little time before the big night. Ready? Now... F Sharp..."
Justine's tortured wails echoed off the cavernous stone tunnels as the strange little man went about his work.
********************************************
Jillian Murphy sat in the office of the Director of Psychiatry, high on the fourth floor of Rushmore Asylum. She was having a bit of a time absorbing all the good Doctor had to say about their missing "tenant" and what he may have to do with the recent rash of missing persons. Doctor Gail South was a woman of perhaps forty, brunette with just the first hint of gray, giving her a more statuesque quality if anything. Too bad she's trapped up in this bin all the time, Jillian thought, she'd probably have a killer social life. But, back to the task at hand, she reminded herself.
"So you're saying we're looking for some crazy retard then," Jillian said, taking notes in her Police-issue pad.
"Oh, not at all," replied the Doctor over her steepled hands, "Mr. Fererre is far from retarded, or mentally handicapped, in any way. It's his relationship with reality that's the chief concern here. The man is a certified genius. I'm surprised you've never heard of him."
"Let's see..." Jillian said as she flipped back a few pages in her notes, "Monsieur Francois Ferrere, composer and conductor... nope, never heard of him, but classical isn't really my thing. More of a Jethro Tull girl myself."
"Oh, I'm sure you've heard his work, Detective Murphy, you simply were unaware of the creator. He's done the soundtracks for some of the biggest blockbusters in Hollywood. Space Wars, Shark, Crypt Robber... all of them."
"So that was our little nut-case, huh?" Jillian said, scratching another note.
"Umm, yes," the Doctor replied with some disdain, "this 'nut-case', as you so eloquently put it, has seemed to evade capture so far, and escaped from a maximum security Psychiatric facility. Don't underestimate his pure intelligence or resourcefulness."
"Ok, so if he was so Hollywood, rich and famous and all, what happened to him?"
"Producers and directors stopped requesting his work. He was always striving for something he called 'truly original'. Apparently he disliked others influencing his creativity, so when a Studio exec would suggest a change in the music, Ferrere would become... unruly for a while."
"What exactly do you mean by unruly, Doctor South?" Jillian asked.
"Well," the Doctor replied, surprisingly comfortable considering the subject matter, "one of Monsieur Ferrere's better known 'traits' among the Hollywood elite was his love for the ladies. He was a regular customer at several of L.A.'s seedier red-light establishments. S&M, bondage, the whole thing. One night, the police get a call that he's creating a disturbance at one of the places. He'd just publicly had it out with Steven Spielman about the music for the new Crypt Robber movie, and he seemed perturbed when he got there. He acquired the services of three young ladies that evening, and not a half-hour later there were blood-curdling screams coming from the room they were in. The cops break down the door and there's Ferrere, with all three of them tied down and he's... umm..."
"Yes, Doctor?" asked Jillian, "He was what?"
"Well... he was tickling them."
"Tickling them?" Jillian replied, letting a little huff escape her lips. Of all the things she'd chased guys down for, this had to be a first.
"Well, yes," the Doctor continued, "Detective Murphy, many people see tickling as foreplay and even use it in the expression of their sexuality. It's not as uncommon as you might think. But what our dear Mr. Ferrere was doing went beyond play. It took three officers to pull him off of the girls, and he was babbling incoherently about getting the right notes or something. We didn't know what that meant at the time."
"But now you do?" Jillian asked.
"We have a theory, but you can never be sure with something as complex as the human mind."
"So that's when he was brought here?"
"Oh, no Detective," the Doctor continued, "It was several months after that incident. Having retired from scoring films, Ferrere went into hiding for a while, not seeing anyone or talking to the press. He made a brief statement in one arts magazine, however, that he was locking himself away to create the Fifth Symphony of the 21st Century. He said that he wanted to bring the music world something of his own creation, not just... how did he put it?... 'Music to Blow Shit Up By?'... I think that was it."
Holding back a giggle at the statement, Jillian Murphy listened to the rest of Doctor South's history of the man.
"After a few months, he announced a concert at which he would unveil his Opus, as he called it. None other than the Los Angeles Symphony Orchestra was retained to learn the piece and perform it. He'd also enlisted the services of the inner city Youth Choir, but nobody knew why until the performance. What a night that was! I was there, it was a fiasco."
"Not exactly Mozart?" Jillian intimated.
"Hardly. In short, it was awful. The musicians said in statements later that they could barely read the music, and what looked like smudges were actually the Conductor's cue to squeal or screech or whatever you do to an instrument to make it sound horrible. And the Choir..."
"What about it?"
"Well... they were just screaming. It was supposed to be some kind of Performance Art piece from the description in the program, but it was nothing more than a conglomeration of the most ungodly noise you've ever heard. The whole audience started booing, then laughing. It was the laughter that got to him. He started screaming into the microphone about nobody understanding true art, yelling at the top of his lungs for everyone to stop laughing at him... then he took his baton and attempted to stab the first chair violinist in the face. Security restrained him and then he was brought to us."
"And how has he been since then?" the Detective asked, filling page after page of scrawling notes.
"Quite popular, actually. Some of the more malleable patients saw him as some kind of god or something. And the few that knew who he was would probably have taken a bullet for him. That's how he is. Charming, manipulative and highly intelligent. So, it's not just Monsieur Ferrere that we have to worry about, Detective. He's taken six other patients with him that we know of. Six... shall we say... rather disturbed individuals."
"Ok, Doctor. Now about his mental state. What do you think is going on in that head of his?"
***********************************************************
Justine sat on a bench, shackled by the ankle to the leg of the ancient thing. On the one hand, she was grateful for even this halt to the proceedings. On the other, she was horrified at what she was forced to behold. She was the fourth on the bench, and the girl who had been third was now being "instructed" as the crazy man had put it. Knowing she was most likely next didn't make witnessing the spectacle any easier.
In the center of the room was a thick wooden pole. Tied to this pole was a terrified girl who could have been no more than twenty-two or -three. She was a cute blond, short hair, big eyes, nice body. Poor thing was probably some lucky guy's beloved girlfriend. The way she was tied was cruel to say the least.
She was kneeling with her back to the pole. Her hands were tied over her head and leashed to it. Her knees were bent upward, her ankles wrapped with yards of rope and tied to her thighs. It looked very uncomfortable. The sadistic bastard who'd put her in this position wasn't content with only that, however. The young woman had been stripped of her clothes and had wires taped to both of her nipples and over her shaved vagina. The wires were attached at the other end to a complex looking array of batteries and some kind of sensors. The bit-gag in her mouth was tight between her lips and Justine heard muffled screeches every time the girl shifted her body. From the conversations between the other girls and the psycho, Justine had figured out that the sensors were motion-activated. Every time the poor thing tied to the pole moved even an inch, the wires delivered an electrical charge to her tender areas.
And this bastard wasn't making it easy for the girls he'd put there to remain still.
Entering the dimly lit room, the white-haired man was humming to himself. Nodding at Justine he said, "Don't worry, my dear, you will have the same opportunity to train as the rest. Be patient. Yes, yes, yes... so much to do, so much to do..."
He approached the terrified girl who was straining mightily to remain still against the pole.
"Now, my sweet young artiste, we resume the lesson. Control is so important... yes, yes... control, control. You simply MUST have control, or none of your efforts will reach the highest levels of your craft. Now, let us begin, shall we?"
Justine cringed as the poor blonde let out a meek whining sound through her gag. Her eyes were wide as saucers as the cruel monster took his place behind the indifferent wooden pole. The girl's naked feet were upturned and facing the madman, who'd produced two long feathers from the pocket of his worn and dirty tuxedo jacket.
"Why don't you just leave her alone, you twisted fuck?!?" Justine cried through tears of helplessness. If she could have reached the sick bastard, she would have risked her life to strangle him with her bare hands. She knew what he was going to do to the helpless young victim, and her eyes locked with hers for a moment as she mouthed the words "I'm sorry".
"Don't you worry, precious, you'll have your turn, too. You young performers, always in such a hurry, never taking the time to hone your craft like the artists of past generations. And as for you, my sweet, from the top?"
With that, he dragged the tips of the feathers along the soles of the tied girl. Her eyes clenched shut, her teeth biting into the leather of the gag, she tried to control the muscles that were screaming to move away from the torture. Faster and faster the twisted man tickled her feet with the feathers, remaining annoyingly light with his touch. Beads of sweat formed on the blonde's forehead as one long sound came through the gag.
"Good, good," said the man, "But can you hold it? Control, control!! You keep breaking up, you need sustain! Vibrato!" He dropped the feathers and started trailing his fingers over the pink soles.
Justine's mind was whirling. What did he want from them? What the hell were these commands he was throwing around. Didn't these nut-cases just rape girls and leave them in a dumpster somewhere? Her heart went out to the pitiful young girl who was forced to fight every instinct in her body.
"See? You can do it... yes, yes... very good... now a more difficult lesson..." the white-haired man took a pen out of his pocket and removed the cap. Taking the very tip, he began to write something only he could see. Musical notation. Tiny musical notation.
On the skin between the girl's toes.
"MMMRRRGGHHH!!!!!!.....MMMMMM...MMMRRRGGGHHH!!!!!MMMMMNNNPPHHH!!"
The girl's eyes were flooding with tears, mixed with the sweat running in rivulets down her face. Her gagged moans were mixed with muffled screams as the involuntary spasms forced her naked body into flinches that caused the electric charges to be carried to her sensitive parts. The domino effect had taken over, and the tickling of her feet was a torture that may or may not have been worse than the zaps on her tender flesh.
Finishing his notation, the madman stood back up and circled his sweating victim.
"Much, much better, child! You've come so far in such a short time... do you think you have a better level of control now?"
The young blonde shook her head yes in an almost imperceptible nod, as much as she dared move.
"Good," said the strange little man, now holding a plastic hairbrush in each hand and standing in front of the hopelessly bound girl, "Show me... "
Justine closed her eyes as the psycho brought the brush's tips in contact with the taut skin of the girl's tied body. He was tickling her up and down her tender flesh as the young woman struggled in vain to remain still. Justine could only cry as she knew that not only was she powerless to stop the torture of the poor thing, but that by the look of the drooling, hulking idiots that this bastard kept around, she was next to go through this twisted "training".
*****************************************************************
"Remember, Detective," Dr. South said to Jillian as she flipped through her extensive file on Monsieur Ferrere, "there are few constants in the field of Delusional Behavior, so what I'm about to tell you is only a theory, albeit a fairly reliable one. I hope that this can help you find him, he really does need help."
"Doctor," Jillian replied, laying her notepad down and looking the tall woman in the eye, "If Ferrere is the one kidnapping these music students, my first priority is going to be helping them, then we'll see what we can do for the good Conductor, ok?"
"Of, course, Detective," Dr. South continued, "as I was saying... Monsieur Ferrere was quite a handful, but not in a violent way. His most troublesome behavior was sneaking up behind the nurses and female orderlies and tickling them. He would mumble things to himself to the effect of 'Sweet Music' or 'Out of Tune'... things like that. So, I did a bit of digging into his past. He was raised in Paris, and came from a long line of classically trained musicians. Piano lessons started early of course, and that's where things got... interesting."
"What do you mean, interesting, Doctor?" Jillian asked, once again scribbling notes.
"Well, it seems there was an incident involving his music teacher, one Madame LaDaine. French authorities on grounds of child endangerment arrested her. When her students would fail any part of their lessons, it seemed that she tickled them as punishment."
"I think I see where you're going with this, Doctor," Jillian said.
"Do you now, Detective?" the Doctor replied with arched eyebrows.
"Well, if I were to hazard a layman's guess, I'd say that he's trying to get back at women for the torment and humiliation suffered at the hands of this teacher."
"Yes and No, Detective Murphy," Dr. South went on, "Maybe at first that was the case, as with his extracurricular activities. But as his mind began to deteriorate, I believe that he began to associate the reactions he gets from tickling women with the music he was unable to create."
"Meaning...?" Jillian queried.
"Meaning that when you and I hear laughter or screams or what have you... Monsieur Ferrere hears the same thing as music. He collates the timbre, pitch and volume of the sounds into a formula that makes sense to him. It is my belief that both of his major psychoses have merged to make him one very disturbed individual."
"So given this, you think he may be kidnapping women and tickling them just to hear this twisted version of music?"
"Oh, I'm afraid it may be more than that, Detective. Think about what made him finally break down. His unfinished Opus. It's my fear that's he's attempting to complete it... with these poor girls as his instruments."
"Mother of God, this has got to beat all," Jillian said as she closed her notebook and prepared to leave. "Thank you for your help Doctor, we'll do what we can. At least he's not harming the women, in any case."
"Detective, if I may," Dr. South continued, looking slightly flushed for the first time, "Don't underestimate what these girls are suffering if my guess is correct. I, ummm... have used tickling in my own sex-life, and I can tell you that, when used as torture, some people wind up wishing for death. It's constant, intense, and can lead to a state of sensory overload that can't be compared to pain. Tickling has been used as torture by many civilizations. If these girls are at the hands of Monsieur Ferrere, you need to find them quickly...or he may not be the only one that winds up back here, if you know what I mean."
"Don't worry, Doctor," Jillian replied, seeing this case in a new light, "we'll find him."
******************************************************************
Had Justine been as insane as the man who'd been responsible for her kidnapping, she might have been honored to be selected as first chair. But gripping the last threads of her sanity, she doubted she would ever have anything to do with music again if she ever got out of this. She had come to the conclusion that whomever this madman was, he viewed her and her fellow captives as nothing more than instruments to be played, their screams and howls creating a twisted cacophony of sound.
Today's "rehearsal" had begun, with one of the vacant, soulless minions of the white-haired freak alternately leaning over her body and staring at a piece of paper she'd recognized as some sort of musical notation before she was rendered immobile. She was lying face up on a low bench, her arms and legs bent at the joints and tied underneath it. Layers of cloth, similar to medical wrappings, further held her down. She was encased like a mummy, with the exception of her upper chest. Her breasts and ribcage were bare and exposed, the skin tight in the bondage she was placed in. The wrappings covered even her head, her nose and mouth the only thing escaping the mummification.
"Now, now, Lester," the mad conductor said to his servant from a small podium at the front of the room, "You need to follow the music. Don't improvise. No no, that won't do. Won't do at all. Let's try this again, shall we? From the tippy-tippy top, now!"
The twisted little man raised his baton and gave the signal to the drooling individual poised over the bound and helpless young girl. His fingers were placed over her ribcage like a pianist preparing for a concerto. As the baton waved through the air, Justine felt one rib then another stroked in varying pressures and tempos. Her body was cruelly held immobile, not an inch to move in response to the intense tickling. Her covered eyes were no help in steeling herself, and the hellish "musician" gave her nothing to become accustomed to. First one, then the next rib was played like an instrument, tickled in ways Justine didn't know existed until she fell into the grasp of this madman.
"AAAIIIGGHHH!!!!PPLLLEEEAAASSEEEEEE......HHAHAHHHEEEEENONONONOO!!"
"Not quite," said the conductor as he flipped through his pages of notation, "once more from the top."
The knotted fingers of the twisted servant kneaded into Justine's ribs again. The flesh between the ribs was extremely sensitive, and she felt the rubbing strokes of the stiff fingers in all of these places. Back and forth the probing digits tickled her as she screamed and laughed hysterically. Her body wrapped and tied in place, she was powerless to escape the torment. Her mind was slipping away as wave after wave of the electric sensation rolled through her young body.
"SSSSSTOOOOOOPP!!!!...(GASSSSP).......OHGODNOOOOHAHAHAHHEEEEEHAAA!!"
"Yessss! Bravo, Lester, Bravo!" the white-haired man praised his musician as he stepped up the tempo, "We will be ready for the world soon!... But we need to practice, practice, practice... again, and play with passion, Lester... passion!"
The man's eyes were closed as he waved the baton, lost in the sound of Justine's pathetic wails echoing off the cold, stone walls of her torture chamber.
**************************************************************
Jillian was sipping her third cup of coffee as she waited in her unmarked car. On the other side of the street was the Marquod Institute, a private music conservatory. Two young women had gone missing from this particular establishment, before the string of disappearances from other schools. If there was one thing she might be able to use to help these women and catch Monsieur Fererre, it was the pattern. He may be highly intelligent, as Dr. South intimated, but whomever he had working with him apparently wasn't. The women were taken in a predictable pattern. If form held, this would be the next place to find itself minus one attractive female musician.
She still couldn't believe that she was on her own on this one. Never in her career had she ever thought that she'd be the stereotypical "rogue cop" from the world of film. Captain Jules was less than receptive to the Doctor's theory, and Martin LeClerc, the annoying and ass-kissing rookie detective, had a lead that the Captain seemed much more obliged to follow. She still felt flushed having to explain to the room full of seasoned policemen that she believed an escaped conductor was kidnapping and tickling young girls. So, with a warning against vigilantism, she was given leave to follow up the pattern she was convinced of, and to call for back up if she found anything. Yeah right, she thought, I'm supposed to wait for back up while a girl is hauled away to be tortured. That in itself showed how little anyone at the Precinct took her theory seriously. They never expected her to find a thing as they chased down a local drug lord in connection with the disappearances, based on a thin lead from LeClerc.
Stirred from her thoughts by a distant siren, she once again brought her eyes to bear on the doors of the side exit. A young woman was walking out of the door, a violin case and a few books in her hands. She was in her early twenties by the look of her, short red hair, small glasses that framed her cute face nicely, and a small but thin frame. She fit the profile of the previous victims perfectly. Jillian's eyes followed her until she disappeared around the corner at the end of the alley that served as a walkway. Starting her car, she traveled around the block until she was parallel to the street that the alley emptied into. There were houses used as dorms up and down the street, but little else. It was 7:30 p.m. and the early October sky was growing dark. Then she saw the van.
As the large man got out and grabbed the young girl, Jillian had to fight her instincts to unholster her gun and rescue the frightened student. Yes, she could perhaps save this one, but then she'd have no way to find the others. She could not lose this van, she knew. A lot depended on Jillian discovering the location of the girls that were taken, her reputation being the least of them. Perhaps it was that reputation that caused her to eschew calling for back-up, or perhaps it was the need for speed and efficiency, not the blazing sirens that would surely cause Ferrere to burrow further underground, perhaps even ridding himself of any evidence.
The van rolled down the empty street with Jillian's car in silent and distant pursuit. Several times she had to drift around back roads and alleyways to keep from being discovered. But she was trained for this sort of thing, and if the Doctor was right and Ferrere's assistants were fellow inmates, the driver probably didn't even think about being followed. She hoped, anyway.
Past the commercial district and through Industrial Park the cat and mouse chase continued, until the buildings grew farther and farther apart, and the ones that remained were abandoned and dilapidated. She recognized the area as Crystal Pit, the nickname given to the run-down area by the citizens of Crystal City. It was the site of the first settling of the city, and had fallen to ruin over the last two centuries. This was once the cultural center of this part of the country until technology and progress erased the opulent pleasures of a more civilized time.
It was the old Haddonfield Theater that the van stopped in front of. Of all the places to follow it to, this was the one she least wanted to have to search through. The theater proper was actually underground in a design that was the talk of the architectural world when it was built. It also had fallen into ruin, however, and she questioned its stability. A large, hunched man carried the student over his shoulder and disappeared into a hole in the wall next to the front doors, long ago sealed shut by a collapsed marble pillar.
Checking her weapon, she considered calling in to dispatch, but decided to have a look around first. Team play was never her strong point, having been the only woman in her graduating class. It would prove to be her downfall.
Entering through the same cramped opening in the wall, she lit her small flashlight as her eyes adjusted to the dark. Cobwebs blanketed the ceiling, their eight-legged occupants busy with their catches. The irony that they probably weren't the only things in here doing that wasn't lost on her. Through the twists and turns of the old hallways, she made her way to the downward sloping entrance to the theater itself. Pushing open a set of doors, Jillian took in the ancient hall. It was still grand even in its disrepair, defying time itself in its opulence. Pillars of marble supported a gold-leafed domed ceiling. Dusty velvet curtains were closed over the stage. The seats were mostly torn, a few having been pulled up. It was behind the last row of these that Jillian crouched. She thought she heard a distinctly female scream and was concentrating on pinpointing its location. It was this intense concentration that kept her from hearing the soft footsteps behind her, or the soft whoosh of the blunt object slicing the air on its way to the back of her head.
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Justine was chained by her ankle again, this time to the wall of the cell that held ten more of her fellow captives. Her brown hair was in complete disarray, her trim body red with the marks of ruthless probing and tickling. Her joints ached from the strict bondage she'd spent hours in, and her mind was beginning to slip. The other girls were huddling together, but Justine just wanted to be alone, crying into her folded arms. She was lost in thoughts of home as a blond woman was thrown into the cell with her by the largest of her host's minions. The woman was older than herself, by look, but very pretty. Deep eyes, high cheekbones and a fit body, as she could tell by the lack of clothing on the new arrival. Bra and panties were the only things on her, as with the other girls. It was the only dress allowed them, except during the sadistic tuning and practice rituals inflicted upon them by the psychotic individuals that held them captive. These were done in panties only, if anything. The new arrival sat next to Justine.
"Hello," she said to the shaking girl, "My name is Jillian Murphy and I'm a City Detective. I'll get you out of here, all of you, I promise..."
The small white-haired man, who appeared at the door of the cell, cut her off.
"And rob the world of the greatest music ever to grace its collective ear, my dear? I should hope not. No, not at all. In fact, you've been selected to the highest honor in our little group... yes, yes, high honor indeed."
"Monsieur Ferrere," Jillian began, trying to remain calm, "Please allow me to help you. I'm sure you haven't hurt any of these young women, but you cannot continue to torture them. Please, Monsieur, let us all go, and you can get the help you need."
"Help?" he replied, looking honestly shocked, "I require no help, Miss... Murphy was it?... yes, yes... I have been freed from the confines of the rubbish that I've been forced to produce and enlightened into the true world of music as God intended. The music of the human condition itself. Yes, yes... but time runs short, and you must be prepared! It is always so difficult working with Divas, so I must insist that you take my direction as the Conductor and keep your idiosyncrasies to yourself. We've been without a vocalist for the aria, and your arrival is later than I was assured, much too late for proper introduction to the piece."
Jillian could see that Ferrere was in fact as insane as Doctor South had feared and reasoning with him was out of the question. He saw her as some sort of opera singer in his delusional mind, and for the first time in her career, she wished she'd been wrong and that none of this was actually happening. Ferrere placed an ancient key in the lock of the cage's door and three of the large drones that had taken up with the mad conductor were coming for her. Without her weapon, she was powerless to stop them as they wrapped their beefy limbs around her and carried her away.
Justine shed a tear as she knew what was in store for the pretty detective.
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Try as she might, Jillian could not stop the disturbed men from placing her body on what looked like an old rack. Her ankles were locked into stocks, while her wrists were caught by leather cuffs attached to chains that wrapped around a wheel. This wheel was now being turned by one of the silent servants, stretching her body to its limit. She was not in pain, but any movement was out of the question. The skin over her ribcage was tight enough for her to feel it rub against the bones underneath, and her belly was like the tight head of a snare drum. Straps over her thighs kept her from raising her knees, which wouldn't have raised much anyway, given the tightness of her bondage.
The rack was on wheels and was pushed to the center of the stage of the old theater. A few feet in front of her was a podium, empty for the moment. Ferrere was nowhere in sight, his minions taking care of what she was starting to realize was going to be his Opus. Helplessly she lay there, straining for a way to reason with an insane mind, and coming up empty.
She may have been in the center of the stage, but she was far from alone. There must have been at least twenty-five other young women arranged in sections all around the stage. They were in a wide array of helpless positions.
At stage right there was Justine and a few other girls, wrapped tightly on their benches, their ribs the only skin exposed. Stage left was a series of several set of stocks, each containing a young woman's trapped bare feet, the victim seated and encased in a straightjacket.
In the back section of the stage were several of the girls on wooden frames in the shape of the letter A, their knees over the point of the A, hanging upside-down with their arms leashed over their heads to the legs of the frame. These were dressed in some form-fitting body glove, shiny like spandex. And, of course, the material over the armpits of the young girls was cut out, exposing the smooth skin to whatever torment the mad conductor had in mind.
In the same area of the stage were several girls tied to arched platforms, clad in the same material. Their dress was a pair of skin-tight spandex pants and half-tops of the same fabric. Their midriffs were bare, the pants riding low on their hips. They were spread-eagled, pinned down like science-class butterflies, the shape of the platforms arching their bellies upward, tightening the skin, making elongated ovals of the helpless girl's navels.
The insane composer was thorough in setting up his sections, every one having at least one additional girl silenced with a mouth-filling gag. Just like the mute on a trumpet. Selfishly, it was her own fate that concerned Jillian the most as her head was held down, robbing her of the view of her fellow victims, a large strap now placed over her forehead by the insane lemming, completing her inescapable bondage.
As all of the girls were in place, the minions took their places at their assigned sections.
Ferrere stepped out of the wings and onto the stage. He was a sight out of a twisted comedy. His white tuxedo was stained with dirt, wrinkled and a size too large. His white hair was shooting out in random directions from his head. His eyes held no pity, compassion or even understanding of what he was actually doing.
"Is everyone present?" he asked one of the men. One of the five, Jillian noticed. Weren't there six? Just as she wondered, she heard a muffled scream as the missing servant appeared from the back of the theater. Straining her eyes to see from the position she was in, she could make out the large shape of the man, and someone in his arms, being carried.
It was Dr. South. She was bound hand and foot, a cloth gag in her mouth. She was dumped into the center seat of the front row.
"Ah, yes, the good Doctor... yes, yes... now we can begin." Ferrere said as he watched the struggling form of the doctor who'd doubted his genius so often. But in Ferrere's mind, she was not alone in the theater. They were all there. The mayor, the museum director. The dean of music from every college in the area. All of the social elite were filling the seats, waiting in anticipation for the unveiling of the most important piece of music of the recent century.
"Ladies and Gentlemen... Welcome," he said as his mind played the sound of thunderous applause for him, "For your pleasure, I present to you the fruit of years of loving labor. I hope you enjoy the premiere of 'Symphony in Scream Minor'."
Jillian, Justine and the rest of the helpless young women watched this scene with growing horror. The bound Doctor in the front row may have been the only one with the training to reason with the insane Ferrere, but the gag in her mouth kept her cruelly unable to assist the women that she looked upon with pity and a sinking heart.
Ferrere faced his "orchestra" and tapped the baton on the podium.
The silence and stillness of the theater was an eternity of terror and anticipation for the bound women. Nothing happened for a few long seconds, until Stage Left came alive with the giggles of several young women. The disturbed man in front of the stocks had a feather in each hand and, following the notation on the sheets in front of him, was stroking them up and down the soles of the girls' trapped feet in succession. With the concentration of a surgeon, one foot after the other was tickled by the feathers, neither of the girls knowing which one would be next. The mouths of the women were spouting everything from girlish giggles to howling laughter. The ones that were gagged were mewling and moaning into the packing in their mouths.
"Hee hee....HHAAHHEEEE.....NOPLEAAASSEEEEEEE.....OHGODNOOOO!!!!!STOPSTOPSTOPPLEEEAAASSEEEEEE........HAHAHHHEEEEEE!!"
"MMMNNNPPHHH!!!!.......MMMM....MMMM....MMMMNNGGHHH!!!!""
The sound echoed off the walls and was soon joined by more of the tortured laughter, as Monsieur Ferrere pointed his baton in the direction of the A-frame bondage devices and the individual manning that section went into action. Twisted fingers stroked tender flesh as the exposed armpits were tickled in rhythm to the insane motion of the baton. The hanging girls were in tickled agony as the smooth skin was tormented by little flicks of the fingers, soon giving way to harder pokes and kneads of the ticklish areas. Their bodies undulated and wriggled, trying desperately to escape the cruel torture. The tickling sensations were gripping their brains, and every instinct screamed for them to pull their arms down. Tied tightly to the frames, this was impossible. Their squirming bodies could do nothing more than endure the endless tickling.
The women on the arched frames were getting pinched and poked on their sides and bellies, as one of the drooling minions was mumbling the words "tickle tickle" and "kitchie koo" to himself over and over. One of the gagged girls had tears streaming from her clenched eyes as her belly button became the target of the sadistically soft strokes around the deep depression. Midriffs wiggled and bodies squirmed as the ticklish tummies were mercilessly tickled over and over again. The soft tickles were replaced by heavy kneading as the sides were tortured.
"HHHHHEEEELLPPPPP!!!!!!......OHSHITNOOOOOO!!!....AAAIIIGGGHHHH!!!!....AAAAIIIIIIGGGGHHH!!....AAIIIIGGGGGHHH!!....HHAAAAAHHAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!"
"MMMMNNNPPPHH!!!!!!.....MMMMRRRRGGGHHH!!!!...MM..HHMMM...HHMMMM!"
Justine and her fellow prisoners were next, as their mummified forms became the recipients of intense rib torture. Like a demonic xylophone player, the mindless individual at that section played every rib to perfection. Rubbing hard against the skin of the helpless female bodies, the tickling was sadistic in its design, meant to do nothing less than force the screams of the girls out of their mouths. The poor girl who was unable to scream was literally vibrating under the wrapping. The medical bandaging was wrapped over and over her mouth, several layers in it, and several more over it.
"MMMMMMPPPHHHH!!!!!...MMM...HMMMM...HMMM!!!!!"
"'AAAHHHAHAHEEEEE....PLEASEPLEASEPPLEASE!!!!!!....OHSHITNO!!!!!!!'
"NNNAAAHHH!!!!AAAIIIGGHHH!!!!HHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHH......(GASSSSSP)....HAHAHAHHEEHEHEHENONONONONONON...AAHHAHAHAHHAAAAAA!!!"
The hysterical laughter and screaming of over twenty tied up young women was horror in the ears of Jillian and Doctor South, but it was the greatest Symphony ever created by man to the twisted ears of one Monsieur Francois Ferrere. His arms were a flurry of motion as he conducted his merciless orchestra. The combination of sounds intermingled in the echoes bouncing around the empty theater. Jillian thought that this was surely what Hell must sound like.
She had little time to complete that thought as her part in this Symphony of hysterics was brought to fruition. Two of the drones were hovering over the rack that she was bound to, one at her feet, the other gazing longingly at her stretched body, bare except for the tiny bikini panties. At a signal from the evil baton of Ferrere, the one at her feet began to stroke a single finger up and down each sole. The feeling was like putting weight on a leg that had fallen asleep. The tickling shot up her legs and buried itself like a steel spike in her brain. She felt ragged fingernails grazing over the tender flesh of her arches. Over and over the ticklish skin, small circles, figure-eights, lines that followed the wrinkles on her feet...nothing was overlooked as her feet were tortured without mercy.
"AAAIIGGGHHH!!!...PLEEEEAAASSEEEEE....OHGAAAWWWDDDD!!!....NOMORENOMORENOMORE!!!!!....STOPSTOPSTOOOOPP!!!!...HHHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAA!!!"
Not content with standing by and watching, the other psycho took his cue and started to play his instrument. Standing at the head of the rack, he reached his long arms down her body and placed his fingertips at her sides. Pulling his arms up, he slowly raked his fingernails up the tight skin. Jillian felt every nerve protest as each sent its own tickle-signal to her brain. When the fingers reached her smooth, deep armpits, she felt the awful tickling of ten fingers in her pits. Wriggling fast, the soft mounds that had been shaved just this morning but may have been a lifetime ago, were subjected to the unbearable sensation that she could not escape from. Then the pace was changed to a single finger in each pit, tickling up and down, over and over. The felt her fear rise as the hands drifted down her body and over her ribs. The clawed hands dug into the extended ribcage and showed no mercy as they tickled her ribs violently. Jillian screamed as if she'd been stabbed.
"AAAAAIIIIIIGGGGGGHH!!!!....AAAHAHAHAHHAAAAAIIIIGGGGG...AAHHAAAHAAA!!"
As the tickling of her feet continued, the arch tickles now replaced by a drooling mouth sucking her tiny toes and a tongue probing the soft flesh between them, her sides came under attack. Fingers fluttered over her slender waist, finding the spot that caused her to wiggle violently. Her sides were poked in time with the baton swinging a few feet away from her, her belly stroked, her navel licked. Nothing was left out as the middle of the bound cop's body was tickle-tortured. Jillian was whimpering and laughing silently, interspersed with the screams she could still manage through her raw throat. She was reduced to a bundle of nerve-endings, tickled into a pile of quivering female flesh.
From her seat in the front row, Doctor South watched the horror unfolding before her. She was screaming into her gag, but there was no one to hear her. She saw the look on the twisted face of Francois Ferrere, and knew that reasoning with him would be a wasted effort anyway. He was completely in his own universe, hearing the screams of his victims as triumphant music. His Opus. Finally brought to life at the expense of these poor young women being tickle-tortured beyond human endurance. The sound was winding down as several of the weaker girls passed out. The baton was swinging slower as Ferrere conducted his players to soften the hellish music. The screams were replaced by hitching breaths, girlish giggles, sobs and cries.
Finally lowering his arms, Ferrere faced the empty theater and took a deep proud bow.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, I thank you on behalf of the Crystal City orchestra. An intermission will be given as we prepare for the Second Movement."
He lowered his eyes to meet those of Doctor South. Motioning two of his servants to collect her, he addressed his imagined audience.
"The Second Movement will feature the talented Melissa South in a stunning soprano solo...our thanks to her for blessing us with her time...."
Doctor South struggled mightily as four large arms grabbed her and lifted her to a waiting rack, wheeled out from the wings.
If she ever got out of this, Doctor South managed to muse to herself as she was stripped and tied down to the cruel device, she just might give up classical music and join Detective Murphy as a Tull fan.
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