Asylum Lake (16 page)
“I see that the career in gay porn you had always dreamed of didn’t quite pan out,” Brady teased his one-time friend, allowing a brief smile to play across his face as he motioned to a chair next to the couch. “Mind if I take a seat, I think the fumes are starting to get to me.”
Jeff sprang to his feet; every movement exaggerated and energized, and brushed the litter from the chair. “Of course, please, please sit down.”
Brady collapsed into the offered chair, his head spinning from the vapors of the cooking meth. Jeff grabbed a can of Oust and sprayed it into the air above Brady’s head. The addition of deodorizer into the ripened air had little effect.
Brady closed his eyes and tried to quiet the room’s spinning. After a few moments he felt the rush of wind blowing over him and opened his eyes to find an oscillating fan pointing directly at him.
“Luke, I am your father,” Jeff’s voice echoed through the spinning blades in his best Darth Vader impersonation.
Brady laughed. This was the Jeff Ryder he remembered. The practical jokes and dry humor of his best friend was still there, hidden beneath the scabs and scars. “Thanks,” he offered, shaking the rest of the haze from his clearing head, “That’s much better.”
Jeff returned to the couch, leaving the fan to blow the fumes away from his guest. “What are you and Barney Fife up to?” nodding in the direction of the open door. His lack of respect for Frank was evident in both his tone and expression.
“Frank?” Brady replied, slow to recognize the Mayberry reference. “Come on, man, Frank’s good people.”
Jeff shrugged beneath his wrinkled clothes, “If you say so, man.”
Silence settled over them; each collecting their thoughts.
“Heard about your parents,” Jeff finally announced, “Sorry, man.”
Brady nodded, “Yeah, thanks. That’s kinda why I’m here; heard my dad came to see you before he passed.”
Jeff leaned forward on the couch, “Should have known.” He reached across to a small shelf and brought forth a small wooden cutting board. Sprinkled across its surface were several parallel lines of glass like powder. Producing a rolled up bill from seemingly out of nowhere, Jeff bent forward and snorted an inch-long line, closing his eyes against the sudden rush and wiping the residue from his nostrils.
Brady looked on in disgust.
God, what happened to you?
After a moment, Jeff’s eyes fluttered open and he rubbed his hands together vigorously before replacing the cutting board on the shelf.
“I’ll tell you the same thing I told him. I don’t remember!” Jeff’s lighthearted tone changed to irritation. “Hell, what’s it even matter?”
Brady didn’t allow his own ignorance to derail his train of thought, “What exactly is it that you don’t remember, Jeff? What did my dad want to talk to you about?”
Jeff’s unblinking eyes locked onto Brady’s. The meth was already in full effect now. His friend’s dilated pupils staring back at him. “The past, man, he wanted to talk about the past.”
Brady could feel his frustration bubbling to the surface. He did his best to remain calm, but the irritation in his voice was undeniable. “Something tells me you can be a little more specific.”
Jeff laughed; a maniacal sound that echoed through the Winnebago’s crowded interior. “You want specifics, Brady. I can give you specifics. But first, tell me something,” he paused, the crazed laughter leaving his voice. “How you been sleeping lately?”
June 29, 1996
Bedlam Falls, Michigan
Brady’s awkward fall into the lake was met with a chorus of laughs. As much as the group of friends had dreaded the thought of the swim back to shore, the spray from Brady’s splash reminded each of them that the water would be far warmer than the chilly air. When he didn’t reappear above the waves their laughter turned to concern.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Jeff spotted his friend in the distance, the sweeping current from the storm dragging Brady further out into the darkness of the lake. The rush of the wind across the waves drowned out his cries for help and the rain made it nearly impossible to keep him in sight. Jeff looked nervously beyond his friend’s head bobbing along the surface of the choppy lake to a distant point on the horizon to identify a landmark and, without a word to either of the girls, dove off the float into the water.
Jeff was an above average swimmer, yet even he struggled against the odd current. It almost felt as if he were caught in a swirling vortex that carried him not only out further into the lake, but also weighed him down as he fought to the surface. The air rushed into his burning lungs as he finally broke free, emerging above the waves and back into the stormy night.
He could see Tammy and April in the distance through the sheets of rain, rocking back and forth on the small wooden float. They clung to each other in fright. Jeff felt torn, unsure of which was a better option; swimming through the blinding rain into the depths of the lake to search for his friend, or returning to the relative safety of the float to ride out the storm with the girls. In the end, the decision was simple. Staring into the distance, Jeff spotted the outline of the menacing building in the distance and started out in search of Brady.
Each stroke carried Jeff further away from his goal; the current’s vice-like grip tightening around his burning muscles. In the distance, roughly twenty yards away, he spotted Brady’s head breaking the surface. As quickly as he had appeared Brady was once again swallowed by the dark water. Jeff dove beneath the waves, kicking his tiring legs in Brady’s direction.
The repeated flashes of lightning from the storm above created a strobe light affect below the waves, providing Jeff short lived glimpses of his friend’s limp body falling into the depths of the lake. Ignoring the burning pain in his chest, Jeff coaxed his air deprived body deeper and deeper. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, his outstretched arms found something fleshy in the darkness. He dug his fingers into the flesh, relieved to have finally found his friend.
Another flash of lightning from above, this one much more powerful than any of the bolts which had burst before; confirmed his grip on Brady. The ghost light that illuminated Brady’s slack body also penetrated further into the lake, revealing a vision that would haunt Jeff Ryder for the rest of his life.
Brady’s pale and lifeless body rested on the rocky lakebed amidst an unearthly graveyard of scattered bones and cement blocks. The bleached bones were clad in rags, with most festooned in heavy chains. Jeff’s reeling mind couldn’t register the overwhelming number of skulls littering the bottom of Asylum Lake.
Numb fingers digging deeper into the flesh of Brady’s arm, Jeff raised his eyes to the surface. Too far, he thought, recasting his gaze to the underwater graveyard where Brady’s body rested among the heap of skeletal remains.
Glancing downward, something began to move. In sheer terror, Jeff screamed; stupidly sacrificing his last dredges of breath. As his lungs filled with a mouthful of stagnant water, a glowing ethereal figure rose, gliding toward him. The rush of water into his already burning lungs overtook him. He looked one last time from the glowing form and up to the surface; the display of lightning intensifying above the waves.
Jeff felt his grip on Brady’s shoulder begin to weaken as his mind became foggy and chest burned in pain and screamed for oxygen. Redirecting his attention to the glowing form, he was shocked to see the once skeletal figure transformed; blonde hair rippled through the water behind her, revealing unblinking eyes and a soft, yet calming smile on her delicate face. The once-ragged clothes hanging from the bones had been replaced with what appeared to be a hospital gown.
The burning in Jeff’s lungs ceased as the fog of panic cleared from his mind. The ghostly figure extended her hand. Jeff took note of the white plastic bracelet clutched in her thin fingers.
An ethereal voice echoed through the water.
“Go, you do not belong here among the dead. The veil has been parted. You have been warned.”
Brady sat in stunned silence, no longer even aware of the noxious fumes. Jeff’s wild-eyed expression hadn’t softened; if anything it had intensified as he shared the story of what happened beneath the waves that night.
“So, what happened? You just pulled me up? I don’t recall any of it.”
Jeff shook his head, “Man, I don’t know what happened.” He drew his arm across his face, wiping at his nose. “That’s the last thing I remember. Hell, probably just a hallucination from the lack of oxygen to my brain.”
Brady collected his thoughts. Although math was never his strong suit, it did appear as though things were starting to add up. Everything was coming back to that godforsaken lake and the hospital looming over its northern shore.
“Your dad finally came out in the pontoon boat,” Jeff continued. “I don’t even remember swimming back to the float. The girls were freaking out. Well, Tammy was anyway. April started CPR on you right away, probably saved your life. You were blue, Brady. We thought for sure you were dead.”
The frustration playing across Brady’s face was evident. He remembered none of this; yet knew with an unexplained certainty that his friend’s unbelievable tale was indeed true.
Jeff leaned forward once again, his fingers dancing across the keyboard. Instantly, the LCD screens came to life.
“There’s a reason I asked you how you were sleeping, Brady.” His tone was slow and deliberate. “Same reason I keep up on my little science experiment,” gesturing towards the beakers and tubing on the table. “Something happened that night. We were touched by something.” Jeff paused, reaching forward and swiveling the monitor in Brady’s direction. “And I don’t think it’s done with us yet.”
Brady’s eyes drifted from Jeff’s gaunt face to the computer screen. His Google search had revealed thousands of listings. It took a moment for the subject of the search to register.
Parting the Veil.
“It’s a term as old as mankind itself,” Jeff instructed, “from Christians to Jews, Buddhists to Muslims, even Satanists talk about death being merely a veil drawn across the eyes of the living.”
Brady’s brow furrowed as he listened, his eyes still glued to the screen. Jeff’s scrolled through the search results and eventually clicked on a link. It appeared to be a research paper of sorts, not a religious dissertation at all. Brady scanned the first few lines before stumbling across a familiar name.
The paper was titled simply, “Parting the Veil – The Thin Line Between Life and Death”. It was the author’s name that sounded the alarms in Brady’s overworked mind: Dr. Wesley W. Clovis.
“Holy shit,” Brady exclaimed. “I think I’m gonna need you to print that off for me.”
Collins’s refusal to exit the jeep made bringing everyone up to speed cumbersome. Exacerbating the situation was Jeff’s agoraphobia. He hadn’t left the small patch of earth surrounding his trailer in more than two years, instead relying on “business associates” to bring him groceries and other essentials. If not for the seriousness of the subject matter Brady would have just thrown his hands up in surrender. Instead, he wore a path between the jeep and the Winnebago.
“Reverend, what can you tell me about any biblical reference to Parting the Veil or the Veil of Death?” Brady was leaning through the open window of the Jeep’s backseat, grilling Collins for any information that could shed light on what was going on.
“The term veil is used widely in both the old and new testaments,” Collins offered, flipping through his ancient Bible. “The most familiar passage is from the gospel of St. Matthew, describing Christ’s crucifixion. ‘And Jesus cried out again with a loud voice, and yielded up His spirit. Then, behold, the veil of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom’.”
Brady stared at the Reverend in confusion. Again, his lack of interest in religion left him ignorant to what any of what Collins’s words meant. “OK, how about you give me the Cliff Notes version?”
Collins smiled, enjoying the opportunity to share a bit of scripture. “The veil in the temple signifies sin – the separation of man from God.” He paused, waiting for Brady to acknowledge the connection. Brady’s blank stare did little to reassure Collins, but he continued nonetheless.
“God deliberately tore this curtain to make a point; that mankind's sins, which had cut us off from Him, could now be forgiven through Jesus Christ's shed blood.”
Brady nodded, understanding the passage’s meaning, but not how it fit with what was currently happening.
Collins smiled, laying a dirty hand on Brady’s arm. “Without the parting of that veil, man would have no promise of eternal life; heaven. The price was paid in the blood of Jesus.”
The price for blood is blood.
The words pounded back into Brady’s thoughts.
What the hell was Dr. Clovis doing in that hospital? And how was Ellis mixed up with it?
“He died for you, Brady,” Collins squeezed the younger man’s arm sincerely.
“Um, yeah,” Brady replied uncomfortably removing his arm from the man’s grasp. The Reverend’s words rang like the silverware chimes from Bible Camp. “I think I read that somewhere…died for us all, I believe.”
Collins smiled, “Yes, Jesus did die for us all. But it’s not of the Son of God that I refer.” Collins returned his gaze to the worn bible, searching among its torn pages. Finally, he removed a folded news clipping and passed it through the window to Brady.
Brady accepted the offer, slowly unfolding the yellowed newsprint. He immediately recognized the article from The Banner announcing his grandfather’s death. He had discovered a copy among his father’s notes and files.
“Your grandfather thought he understood, Brady. He offered his life, his blood, as payment for the sins of others.” Collins paused, closing the Bible on his lap. “That’s sound Old Testament teaching straight from Leviticus - Breach for breach, eye for eye, tooth for tooth: as he hath caused a blemish in a man, so shall it be done to him again.”
A fresh trickle of tears fell from the Reverend’s weary eyes. “Sadly, Brady, the price for blood isn’t more blood. I refer you now to the New Testament and the words of Matthew, ‘Ye have heard that it hath been said, an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth: But I say unto you, whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.” Collins’s smile returned, “The price for blood isn’t blood -- it’s forgiveness.”
Frank’s conversation with Jeff was far less touchy feely than Brady’s had been with the good Reverend. The retired lawman stood in the open doorway of the Winnebago marveling at Jeff’s handiwork with the Meth lab.
“Son, you obviously got some brains, or at least did at one time. Why the hell throw it all away messing with this bullshit?”
Jeff smirked, snorting another thin crystal line from the dirty cutting board. He wiped the back of his grubby arm across his reddened nose and stared up at the man. “You asking me as a concerned friend now, Sheriff?” He laughed, “Or maybe doing some research for some law enforcement training seminar?”
Frank’s patience was wearing thin. Stepping towards Jeff he took the cutting board from the man’s filthy hands and tossed it across the Winnebago where it crashed into one of the computer monitors, knocking it to the floor.
“What the fuck, man?!” Jeff began to stand. Frank’s forced him back down onto the soiled couch with a finely placed push into the man’s chest.
“I don’t give a shit about you, son. Snort your brain away; blow yourself up with this homemade easy bake oven, no skin off my nose.” Frank glanced outside, “But he does,” jerking his thumb in Brady’s direction. “For some reason I’ll never understand, he gives a shit. A big juicy one.”
Jeff eyes fell away from Frank’s angry glare. “Have you ever been afraid, Sheriff; I mean truly afraid?”
Frank’s anger faded away as he considered the question, “Sure, fear is a natural instinct – right up there with hunger and the need to fuck.” He laughed nervously, unsure of where Jeff’s question was leading.
Jeff returned his smile, and nodded, “Yeah, right up there with fucking.” He paused. “You see, Sheriff
,
what keeps me up at night,” motioning at his self-styled Easy Bake Oven on the foldout table, “Aside from the devil’s dust I’ve become so adept at cooking, is that… crazy as it sounds, I’m afraid to sleep. I’m afraid of what happens when I close my eyes, what I see, and even more frightened by what sees me.” Jeff’s last words whispered across his chapped, peeling lips as his eyes glazed over looking past anything physically in the trailer.
Frank considered the addict’s comments. “Yeah, there’s been a touch of that going around,” he muttered, moving forward to the monitor on the floor. He bent down and picked it up, brushing it off before setting it back on the small table.
The uncomfortable silence that settled over the Winnebago was broken by Brady’s appearance in the doorway. “What are the chances this death trap is actually drivable,” he asked, out of breath and pale with worry. “Something tells me it’s time for a road trip.”
Jeff and Frank exchanged a brief glance and nodded; truce officially called. “No worries,” Jeff stated with his yellow-toothed grin, “I got a couple of tires in the back with just a trace of tread left on them. If the good Sheriff here doesn’t mind working a jack, I believe we can get Chef Jeff’s Mobile Meth Lab street legal in no time.”
After a fair bit of coaxing, the group made two very important decisions; the good Reverend would indeed join them on their Winnebago road trip, but only after reassurances that he wouldn’t be required to “smoke any drugs,” as he so poetically put it. The second decision, just as ridiculous, was made only after a fairly contentious argument; Frank got to drive.
The former lawman beamed as he slid into the driver’s seat and placed his greedy hands on the oversized steering wheel. “A man could get used to this,” he muttered to himself.
The repairs to the ancient Winnebago had been fairly minor; two new tires and a couple quarts of oil. The beast started on the first turn of the key; great plumes of black smoke spewing from its tailpipe. Jeff even tossed his science fair project out the door, watching it shatter into a million pieces on the dusty ground. Brady shared a proud moment of silence with his friend before retreating with him into the RV.
The good Reverend rode shotgun, keeping as much distance from the addict, his drug paraphernalia, and Manson; the monster of a dog that had also joined them on the journey, as possible. Brady and Jeff huddled together in the small living area of the RV; their whispered planning drowned out by the sound of the Winnebago’s exhaust scraping against the road.
“I need you to dig up every bit of information you can find on this Dr. Wesley Clovis,” Brady instructed as he surveyed the high-tech gadgetry at Jeff’s disposal. “Do I even want to know what you do with all of…this?”
Jeff grinned, his fingers dancing across the wireless keyboard. “Let’s just say I am an associate of a certain prince in Nigeria who needs your help to gain access to his inheritance.”
Brady groaned, rolling his eyes. “I should have known. Regardless, it’s about time we start using your powers for good instead of evil; Wesley Clovis, get on it.”
Brady moved from the research wing of his self-described Air Force One and into the cockpit. He arrived just in time to hear the tail end of yet another Frank story.
“So there I am on Beaver Island, completely shit-faced,” Brady had listened to enough of the man’s stories over the last few days to know that this was Frank’s standard introduction to a tale that would assuredly include some form of debauchery. Reverend Collins stared through the windshield, searching for any distraction he could find beyond the words pouring from Frank’s mouth.
“Sorry to barge in,” Brady interrupted, smiling at Collins’s look of relief. “I’ve got Jeff trying to find the last known whereabouts of Dr. Clovis, thank God for the internet.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Up until this point we haven’t done anything illegal or immoral and although I would like to keep it that way, I think we may soon find ourselves bending the rules here just a bit.”
Frank exchanged a quick glance with the Reverend – sharing a smile with the grizzled old man. “Ah hell, son,” Frank laughed. “You got both the law and God on your side here, what kind of trouble could we possibly get into?”
The gathering clouds overhead added a much needed dramatic effect to the situation; as if the work at hand wasn’t gloomy enough. By the time the Winnebago rolled up to the gates of the Lake View Asylum a light drizzle had started to fall.
During their hour long drive, Jeff had collected what little information he could find on the mysterious Dr. Wesley Clovis. The addict’s investment in satellite internet was finally being put to good use. The limited details left far too much unanswered.
“Basically, we have two references to Dr. Wesley Clovis,” Jeff announced, fanning out his collection of printed papers on the small table. “The first,” pointing at the article he had shared with Brady previously, “is some kind of research he had submitted for publication. As you can see from the title -- Parting the Veil: The Thin Line Between Life and Death – the good doctor had a certain fascination with the afterlife.”
The article was passed around the table, Frank barely glancing at it before handing it off to Reverend Collins. As usual, the retired Sheriff was a man of action, not words – especially the printed variety. Collins accepted the paper and excused himself from the table to give it a more thorough read through.
Jeff continued, shuffling through the papers. “Dr. Clovis is mentioned only one other time; courtesy of The Bedlam County Banner. It’s dated just a week after the asylum closed.”
Jeff cleared his throat before reading aloud, “The Lake View Asylum for the Insane unexpectedly closed its doors this week following rumors of a possible assault. The Bedlam County Sheriff’s Department has confirmed that it was called out to the hospital two days ago in response to a reported disturbance.
When pressed, Sheriff’s Rylan Walters would not elaborate on what prompted the call and did not provide details on what, if anything, investigators had discovered. Closure of the facility comes just eighteen months after Dr. Wesley Clovis assumed responsibilities as Hospital Superintendent. Clovis, from Indiana, replaced longtime Superintendent Clarence J. Withers, who had been the driving force behind construction of the lunatic asylum. Withers disappeared in 1956 under unusual circumstances.
The Lake View Asylum was the state’s second largest psychiatric hospital and has housed more than 4,100 patients and staff since opening in 1917.”
A collective hush fell over the table as each of the assembled guests digested the vague details. It was Frank who eventually spoke up.
“That’s it? That’s all you got? Hell, son, I thought this internet thing was supposed to change the world
,
give you everything you want right at ‘yer fingertips.” Frank stood, shaking his head, “Just another passing fad; kinda like those fuckin’ pet rocks.”
Jeff laughed. “Easy there, grandpa. I said that was all I could find on Dr. Wesley Clovis. I was able to find a few other interesting details that may help us connect a few dots.”
Jeff handed the remaining papers to Brady. The former reporter quickly scanned through the pages. If what he was reading had any connection with what he had found himself mixed up with, it made very little sense, yet opened up a whole new set of worries.
Jeff had used what few leads the article in The Banner had contained; a vague reference to Clovis being from Indiana and was able to uncover some interesting details.
Gray’s Crossing, Indiana was home to The Clovis Brother’s Mortuary – a family owned business which had opened its doors sometime in the late 1800’s. Wayne Clovis was listed as one of the proprietors on the deed.
“Let me see if I follow this,” Brady stated, talking himself through his jumbled thoughts. “Dr. Wesley Clovis wasn’t a real doctor at all? He was an undertaker?”
Jeff nodded, “That’s what I gathered, too.” He turned back to his computer and scrolled once again through the pages.
“I’m not sure how an undertaker gets a job running a nut house,” Frank interjected himself into the conversation, “But it sure explains all of those graves.”
Brady hadn’t considered that, but found an uncomfortable truth in Frank’s statement. He mentally reviewed the field full of white crosses against the supposed 4,100 residents of the asylum. As for how an undertaker was able to play himself off as a doctor, not only to the folks in Bedlam Falls but also to the hospital staff in Indiana where Lionel Collins was signed out into his care; Brady hadn’t a clue.
Jeff continued to scroll through the pages on the computer screen as Brady’s thoughts drifted from one possibility to the next. Frank waited patiently for direction, offering Manson the occasional scratch behind his clipped ears. None of them were prepared for Reverend Collins’s reintroduction back into the conversation.
The man’s shaking voice startled the assembled group. Even Manson let out a concerned whine. “If any of what this Dr. Clovis proposes is truly possible,” he stated, waving the unpublished report in front of him, “I fear that we may have bigger issues to deal with than simply a demented spirit.”
The padlock was rusted and snapped easily under the weight of the swinging hammer. Frank grinned as it fell to the rain soaked ground.
“My first breaking and entering,” he beamed, “Can’t wait to write about it in my diary.”
Brady groaned, shoving Frank aside and pushing the massive gate open, its iron hinges screaming beneath years of rust and weather. “You really do need to get a life
,
you know that, right?”
Frank laughed, his eyes moving from Brady to the Winnebago; the RV’s headlights slicing through the now pouring rain. “Yeah, not the first time I’ve heard that.” He paused, the seldom used wheels turning inside his worried head. “Quite a crew you’ve put together here, son. You sure any of us know what the hell we’re doing?”
Brady hesitated, raising his face to the clouds overhead and letting the rain wash over him. After a few moments, his gaze returned to Frank. “Not a clue,” he admitted, “but I know without a doubt that not doing anything isn’t the answer either.”
Frank nodded, “Yep, I concur with that sentiment.”
If even half of what Collins had shared about Clovis’s wild theories concerning the afterlife were possible, the self-described undertaker turned doctor had already spent years practicing his dark arts, with countless victims at his disposal. The mess with Ellis Arkema and the bracelet, although connected in some way to Clovis, was merely the tip of a much bigger iceberg; an iceberg that chilled Brady to his core.
Motioning the Winnebago through the now open gate, Brady wondered what laid in waiting for them in the darkness beyond. Following Frank up the stairs into the RV, he paused once; directing his eyes to the building perched on the horizon.
“
Ellis waits you must find her.”
Recalling his Grandfather’s cryptic message on the Scrabble Board, Brady entered the Winnebago the beginnings of an outrageous plan taking shape.
The somber drive through the winding road leading to the massive stone structure was uneventful. The sight of the small wooden crosses brought an odd sense of reality and responsibility to the undertaking.
“So, many holes,”
Henry Mayer had said.
Frank parked the Winnebago near the crumbling front steps of the asylum. Fortunately, Jeff has an assortment of flashlights; for what purpose Frank didn’t bother to ask, afraid that their planned use would be to MacGyver together something illicit…and illegal.
“Okay, Jeff, I need you to stay here,” Brady had assumed control of the small group and was eager to dole out assignments. “Depending on what we find inside, I may need your assistance,” pointing in the general direction of the computers, “Or, as a last resort, it’s your job to call 911 in case something goes to hell.”
Jeff nodded, relieved that he and Manson would remain inside the RV. He had already started Googling exorcisms and the supernatural, unaware that Frank already had that ground covered with his extensive horror movie knowledge.
“Frank, I need you and the Reverend to come with me,” Brady continued, handing out the flashlights. “We’re looking for anything we can find on Ellis Arkema and Clovis, too; files, photos, and social security numbers. Hell, at this point I’d be happy with just about anything that pointed us in the right direction.”
Brady dug his phone out from the pocket of his shorts; half-charged, he noted. “Jeff, you have my number and I have yours. Stay in touch.”
Brady scanned the faces before him.
A preacher, a sheriff, and a reporter all walk into an asylum.
He laughed, thinking it all sounded much more like a joke than a plan.
They stepped from the Winnebago, armed with flashlights, a .38, and an oversized Bible; not exactly ready to kick ass, but definitely prepared to take some names.
They mounted the steps together, careful to avoid the areas of loose mortar. The place was eerily quiet – even with the wind and rain. The sound of the front door exploding beneath Frank’s booted foot boomed through the stillness.
“Subtle, Frank; real subtle,” Brady chastised the retired lawman. “Next time why not just send them flowers to announce our arrival.”
Frank laughed, “Announce our arrival to who, son? Place is empty, right?” He paused, removing his pistol from the waistband of his jeans. “Besides, I think the very talented Ray Parker Junior said it best, and I quote, ‘I ain’t afraid of no ghosts.”
Brady cringed, dropping his head to his chest as he smiled. “Fine, Frank, fine. If playing this like Ghostbusters is what it takes to get you through then go ahead and run with that.”
Brady turned his attention to the somber Reverend. “How about you?” he asked, acknowledging his quiet companion. “You ready for this?”
Collins nodded. “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.”
“Amen,” Brady responded, laying a comforting hand on the Reverend’s frail shoulder. Their eyes met briefly through the darkness, “Forgiveness, not blood, is the answer, right?”
Collins smiled.
Brady turned, leading them through the shattered doorway and into the darkened hospital. Once safely inside, he raised the phone to his face. “Alright Jeff, we’re in. You got the blueprints pulled up?”
Brady could hear the familiar rattle of his friend’s fingers dancing across the keyboard. “Sure do. The place is a rat’s nest, Brady, not just the hospital. It’s all connected with tunnels. Looks like some crazy shit.”
“Thanks for the commentary, pal, but what I really need right now are some general directions. Anything on those maps that look like a central office or records room?”
More rattling before Jeff responded. “Yeah, to the left and down the hall is the registration area; looks like office space behind that. It’s really hard to tell from these renderings; they’re ancient.”
“Just do the best you can,” Brady responded with disappointment. He turned to his companions, “Let’s start this way,” sweeping his flashlight to the left, “Jeff says there’s some kind of office down the hall.”
They stepped carefully across the exposed flooring. Plaster from the walls and ceilings littered the hallway. Their progress was met by the sounds of tiny scurrying feet and high-pitched squeals.
“Fucking rats!” Frank stated the obvious. “I didn’t sign on for rats, Brady.”
“Suck it up, old man,” Brady teased. “You’ve hunted and killed far more dangerous beasts than rats.” He paused, shining his flashlight across Frank’s pale face, “Wanna bag one and take it back to The Hayloft for another trophy?”
Frank raised his middle finger in front of his squinted eyes in response.
“Gentleman,” Collins called from down the hallway. “I think you need to see this?” The Reverend stood in an open doorway, the beam from his flashlight filling the room beyond.
Brady led Frank down the hall to the doorway, carefully stepping over debris. Collins stepped aside to allow for an unobstructed view. The Reverend had definitely found the main office. A dust covered brass plaque hung on the wall near the door:
So far, so good, Brady thought, relieved that Jeff’s directions were for the time being reliable. The subtle relaxation of his nerves didn’t last long, however. Rounding the corner and peering into the office he was completely unprepared for the sight that greeted him.
The office was a ramshackle reminder of what it had once been. Wooden desks and chairs lay scattered on the floor among other rubble. It looked as if a tornado had whipped through the space, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake. The blood-spattered walls were what drew Brady’s attention, however.
Discolored from age and dried nearly to dust, the bloody show indicated signs of an immense struggle. Looking closer at the floor, Brady could see the stained floorboards marking where the crimson liquid had once pooled.
“Frank, you care to shed any light on what the hell happened here?”
Frank paused, shining his light around the room, revealing even more stains and gore.
“Wish I could, son,” he added dryly. “Wish I could.”
Brady turned his gaze from the room to Frank, “Well, let’s start with what you know and go from there.”
Nodding, Frank entered the room, kicking at the rubble. “Way before my time, son, why I was just getting the first batch of short and curlies down below when this all went down.”
Brady waited patiently, knowing the retired lawman was building up courage with each word.
“Yer grandpa was still green behind the ears, I believe.” Frank’s flashlight continued to probe the darkness. Collins waited in the hallway, unwilling to enter the office.
“My daddy told me there was some kind of riot, patients killing one another, even some staff. Maybe it was the storm, the big one they had back in fifty-eight…maybe not. Something definitely went haywire up here.”
Brady pressed for more details, searching for connections to pull his frayed thoughts together. “Right, people say a lot of things…daddy’s included,” Brady stated, thinking of his father’s own wild stories about the scars that had marked his chest and face, “But what did the law say happened here?”
Frank laughed softly, shaking his head. “The law? The law said nuthin,” he admitted weakly. “Different times, Brady. Sheriff Walters wasn’t like your grandpa.”
Frank paused again, stealing a nervous glance into the hallway at the Reverend. When he spoke his voice was barely a whisper. “Hell, son, when Lionel butchered that family I had binders full of reports, boxes of files, and every asshole with a camera or microphone stickin’ their fingers in the cookie jar. People cared. They were angry.”
Frank turned and considered the wreckage of the room again. “But here, these people, what happened, nobody cared. Seventeen dead, mostly patients, some staff, and the town didn’t bat an eye. Maybe the storm had grabbed their attention…maybe not. Either way, they boarded this place up, shipped the rest of ‘em off, and washed their hands of the place.”
Brady was furious. This couldn’t be true. “There was no investigation? No arrests?”
Frank shook his head. “Not a one. Walters did his dog and pony show, had 'yer grandpa snap a few photos but no real investigation.”
Brady looked from Frank to Collins, hoping the Reverend would have something to add. The man’s silence spoke volumes.
Brady’s thoughts were interrupted by the vibration of his phone. Jeff’s nervous voice filled the empty office.
“You guys may want to hurry things up in there. We got weather out here…bad weather. As of two hours ago they were reporting twisters across Wisconsin and it’s all heading across Lake Michigan.”
“Yeah, we’re hurrying,” Brady responded, before a spark of a smile lit his tired face. “Jeff, you know those boxes of files Frank and I brought along?”
The sound of Jeff moving through the cluttered trailer greeted Brady’s question. “Yeah, yeah, they’re right here.” More papers shuffling on the line, “Damn some of this shit is ancient.”
“We’re looking for anything on the asylum. It would be dated back in the fifties. I know I saw something when I was rifling through that stuff.” Brady looked to Frank as he continued. “It’s a file…a thin one. Can you find it?”
Jeff searched through the box, humming a tune that Brady quickly recognized. “Yellow Ledbetter?” Brady noted, laughing.
“What? Oh, yeah, damned if I know the words, though.”
“Yeah,” Brady replied to no one in particular, trying to think of the Pearl Jam lyrics, “Leave it to Eddie Vedder to make mumbling sound so righteous.”
It took a few moments, but Jeff finally found what he had been searching for. “Got it,” he said, “not sure what good it’s gonna do you. I got ten maybe twelve photos here and some scribbled notes.”
Brady recalled the file and its contents. “Forget the photos, Jeff, I’m looking for names. I seem to remember a couple different lists.” Brady gaze shifted briefly to the two men before him. “The first is labeled victims, the other, I believe, unaccounted for.”
Jeff scanned the handwritten notes. “Yeah, two columns, the first has,” Jeff counted them aloud, “seventeen names, the other column only three.”
“We just need the three,” Brady instructed.
“Sure, we got Douglas Wyatt, noted as staff, Dr. Wesley Clovis, also noted as staff, and Ellis Arkema; no staff note on him.”
Brady’s thin smile widened. “Good work, Jeff. Now I just need two more things. First, I’m looking for the private offices that the doctors would have worked from or whoever would have been in charge.” He looked to Frank for help.
“Superintendent’s office,” Frank offered. “That’s what the boss man would have been called.”
“Okay,” Jeff replied, “and the second thing?”
“Time,” Brady laughed. “Keep us up to date on the storms.”
“Will do,” Jeff agreed. “Umm…by the way, not that I want to be like his best friend and start texting him all the time or anything, but does Frank have a phone, too, maybe one of those cute little Jitterbug things with the really big numbers?”
Frank’s face reddened at the comment.
“I just think it makes sense in case something happens for me to have his number.”
Brady smiled as he provided Frank’s cell number and ended the call with Jeff.
“Real smartass of a friend you got there, son,” Frank complained, “Real smartass.”
Brady nodded, sliding the phone into the pocket of his cargo shorts, and patting Frank gently on the back, “I tend to attract those, Frank.”
The older man nodded the gist of Brady’s response slow to settle over him. Soon he was laughing, a deep baritone of a howl that that seemed almost fitting as it echoed through the empty asylum.
From the shadows of the doorway, Collins smiled, watching the two men share a moment of levity. His voice broke the moment. His words without thought yet left all in deep contemplation.
“Definitely no place for a baby,” gazing around the shadowy recesses of the old building, “Lionel drew his first breaths here…somewhere amongst this wickedness.”
Brady exchanged a puzzled glance with Frank. “Come again, Reverend?”
Collins dropped his eyes, stepping into the office for the first time, balancing the weight of the oversized Bible as he navigated the rubble. “Seems that list of yours isn’t quite as complete as it should be,” he stated dryly. The Reverend paused, standing across a large pile of debris from the two men; he slowly raised his weary eyes from the floor to their faces.
“The place was quite a mess; literally and figuratively.” He chuckled nervously, his graze growing distant as the memory drew closer. “Junior pastors don’t get to choose their flocks. In those days I was little more than a teenager with a Bible but I was strong in the Lord.”
Again, Brady glanced at Frank. The brief shrug of his friend’s massive shoulders convinced Brady that he, too, was unsure what the strange old man was talking about.