The Secret of Kolney Hatch (21 page)

Another few hours passed; I heard footsteps again, but this time they weren’t flighty steps, so I knew someone was coming to check on me. It was Rosalind who stood over me then.

“Don’t worry darling, you’ll learn to love this place,” she said.

“Release me...immediately,” I said hoarsely.

“But darling, this is your new home. You and I will be together forever.”

Then she injected me with yet another needle. I knew my body would not be able to sustain much more of these injections, and I was certain I would die in that basement. I tried to fight the drug, but it spread through my body quickly, and I felt my eyes close heavily again.

I awoke the next time in a haze. Someone stood over me, but I was too weak to lift my head. The rancid smell filled my nostrils, and I became very ill.

When I woke next, I was in the infirmary. No smells, no weapons, no ghosts, just the sounds of wheezing and coughing from the other patients. I felt nauseous as I thought about what transpired. I sat in bed for a long time staring at those barren walls, trying to piece together what happened, but the details were too fuzzy, so eventually I gave up trying.

I could not get up. My stomach felt weak, and I could not bear to face a soul. I planned to stay in that bed for as long as I could, but then Doctor Reid burst into the room with a bright smile on his face.

“Doctor Watson, how are you feeling?”

I said nothing; all I could do was stare straight ahead. I was too confused to answer.

“Do you know what’s happened?”

He paused for a moment before continuing.

“You’ve had a rather aggressive bout with Typhoid fever. Sheldon swears the meat was fine, but clearly...he was mistaken. Luckily, we were able to treat you in time, but...you’ll need to rest for a week or so.”

 “Has anyone else been infected?”

“Yes, Heathcliff and Wilton Pickles. I’ll show you what the post-mortem examination revealed when you’re better.”

I still stared straight ahead.

“They’re dead?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so, Doctor Watson. You’re fortunate to be alive. We almost lost you.”

“My fever…how high was it?”

“One hundred and four. Alice and I had to carry you to the lavatory; you were completely out of it. We were worried there for a while.”

I sighed. Hallucinations from the fever. The whole situation made sense now, somewhat.

“Thank you, Doctor Reid,” I said, “For saving me.”

“Don’t thank me, Paul. It’s my job.”

“How long was I ill?”

Doctor Reid was quiet for a long moment.

“A week.”

“A week?!” I exclaimed. How had I been unconsciousness for a complete week? “That can’t be possible.”

“I’m afraid so, Doctor Watson,” Doctor Reid said apologetically. “Now I’d suggest getting some rest, but someone has been waiting patiently to see you.”

Doctor Reid walked out of the room then, and I wondered who was waiting so eagerly to see me. Then Rosalind rushed into the room.

“Oh Paul, they told me you were awake. You look absolutely awful and beautiful at the same time,” Rosalind said as she sat down by my side and started kissing my face. “My uncle says I can stay with you, to help you recover.”

“Rosalind, that’s not necessary…”

I could not look into her eyes. The last time I remembered seeing Rosalind was in that dark torture room.

 “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere but right here with you, Paul.”

She grabbed a cool, wet rag from the bedside table and pressed it gently across my face as she spoke.

“I want to be yours forever.”

I understood then my relationship with Rosalind had gone too far. I did not realize she desired to be with me in that way—forever. The hallucinations were still vivid in my mind. I couldn’t think about anything else, but what I believed I had experienced. The dark room, the injections, the mechanical restraints, Rosalind’s chilling voice telling me that I would have to stay here forever was all too much for me to process. The experiences felt so real, and I could not separate them from reality. Rosalind’s words now made me feel uneasy.

But I could not mention any of this to her. She would think I was mad. She wouldn’t understand. And I didn’t trust her.

 “What’s wrong?” She asked me, and for a second I wondered if she read my mind.

“Nothing,” I said reservedly. “Nothing at all.”

thirty two

A DISTURBING REVELATION

Paul Watson’s Journal

October 29, mornin
g
.
—Doctor Reid left me in charge of the asylum—he was taking care of some patients in town and would be there the entire week. I returned to work, healed physically, but not emotionally. The barren walls, the dreary hallways, and the terribly cold feeling were almost unbearable.

Every time I looked in the mirror, my appearance seemed more haggard. My hair had grown past my ears. My face was drawn and pale; I hardly recognized myself.

The hallucinations I experienced during my illness left a gnawing feeling inside that something was wrong, a feeling that only grew as the next days passed. I began to remember vague details about my hallucinations. I knew I had seen the girl in my room before that night, and I was sure the evil man I saw in the torture chamber was real. I began to worry about my mental health. Was I insane? Could I no longer distinguish reality from fantasy?

Rosalind would not leave my side now. She followed everywhere, as if watching my every move.

I found no happiness here except for one small glimpse of joy. Amy finally wrote back to me. I had to hide the letter though because I did not want Rosalind to read it. Amy was sorry she could not meet me that day at the tavern; someone in her family was gravely ill. She wrote about this place, how the people of Whitemoor were frightened of it—how people were thought to be wrongfully imprisoned in the asylum, and how no one ever leaves, which brought Rosalind’s words to mind once more. Amy wrote that I
must
 leave, immediately. But how could I leave when I was the only doctor to take care of our patients until Doctor Reid returned?

Later
.
—
The entire day was a disaster. Between the cases in the infirmary and my sessions with my regular patients, I had not a moment to myself. Alice seemed overwhelmed. Woods had replaced Heathcliff as the temporary warden. The large gun he kept in visible sight frightened the patients and made them more excitable.

                      “We’re doomed. We’re all doomed,” Eaton Fergus bawled as he sat in my office during one of our sessions. He nervously twirled one of his wispy brown hairs.

                      “Why do you feel this way, Mr. Fergus?”

                      “Woods as the warden? We’ll all rot here. Woods as the warden and Hodgson with guns.”

                      “Mr. Fergus, please…”

                      “You don’t understand do you, Doctor Watson?”

Eaton stood up from the sofa and paced. “They hurt William Wilson, and he wasn’t the first. Woods and Hodgson beat him. Everyone knows of it. And where is William now?”

                      “He’s…he’s safe. I can assure you. He’s back home with his family,” I said, but the words felt fraudulent as they left my lips.

“No one ever leaves Kolney Hatch, Doctor Watson. We’re all stuck here to die. Even you.”

                      “Mr. Fergus, please.”

                      “We’re all gonna die here, Doctor Watson. We’re all gonna die.”

                      His hands were on his head in hysteria. I opened the door and motioned to Lamont to find Nurse Hinkle.

                      “Alright, listen, Mr. Fergus, calm down.”

“Don’t tell me be calm. I can’t be calm.”

I was sure Eaton was going to have a fit. He began to hyperventilate, his pupils dilated.

“Have a seat, Mr. Fergus,” I said calmly.

“Don’t get near me,” he shouted. “Don’t you get near me!”

Lamont and Nurse Hinkle arrived and tried—unsuccessfully—to calmly escort Mr. Fergus back to the men’s ward. We administered a sedative to calm him.

        When the long, overwhelming day was over, and I finally reached my room, I saw someone had slipped a letter under my door, a note attached.

Paul,

I found this torn letter outside on the grounds by the river. Thought it strange to be out there and never delivered. Luckily, it does not seem to be ruined.

                                                                                                                                    -Harold.

The letter was from Claire.

“My dearest Paul,”                                       “August 18, 8 o’clock.”

I have no easy way to tell you what I am about to. Only Richard knows. I’ve lost the baby. The doctor said the cause was likely stress. I told Richard I would write to you to tell you what happened. Paul, Richard does not know about us, I promise. But I fear this baby may have been yours. I cannot know for sure, and I did not want to worry you, but I am so sad to know that it may have been our baby. I am truly sorry. Please do not write back to me. Richard will read my letter.

“Yours always,”

  “Claire

Her words hit my heart as hard as a thousand bricks. I dropped the letter and sat on my bed in a stupor. I would have done the right thing if the baby had been mine. I would have gladly been there for Claire and the baby. But then what if the baby was not mine? What if it was Richard’s after all? Or what if Claire did not want me to claim the baby? What if she would have had Richard raise my child?

        The thoughts overwhelmed me. The child was dead and it might have been mine. I felt sad and lonely. I could not write to Claire. I could not write to Richard, I could not talk to Rosalind, and so I found myself writing to the only person I could trust—Amy Rose.

thirty three
BEWARE OF ROSALIND

Letter from Paul Watson to Amy Rose

“Dear Amy,”                                                     “October 29, 1926”

So much has happened, and I am overwhelmed with sadness. I wrote letters to my friends, but I do not believe they received them. A letter arrived for me today, a very sad letter from a friend. It was dated from over two months ago. The groundskeeper, Harold, found it by the bank of the river on the back grounds. I believe someone did not want me to receive that letter, Amy. And now I wonder about the other letters I may not have received.

I have not heard from anyone else, so I can only surmise my letters to London are compromised. Thankfully, my letters to you have not been. So I must ask for your assistance. Please write a letter to Oscar Baker and inform him of the strange happenings at Kolney Hatch. Tell him I must leave this place and that I need his help. Address the letter to Maudsley Hospital in Southwark, London which will ensure the letter reaches Oscar.

I will speak with Doctor Reid as soon as he returns and ask him to release me from my position and allow me to return to London immediately. Thank you, Amy. You are the only person I can truly trust.

“Your faithful friend,”

              “Paul”

Paul Watson’s Journal

October 30, 8 in the mornin
g
.—At three in the morning, I still could not sleep. Claire’s letter was on my mind. Rosalind had come by earlier (she was staying in one of the rooms near mine), but I told her I needed to be alone. I didn’t care that she seemed disappointed.

                      Distraught, I crept quietly out of my room and through the hallways. I knew turning to the whiskey for comfort was wrong, but it seemed the only thing that would help. Woods was not at his post, so I assumed he was patrolling the front grounds.

When I reached the kitchen, I raided the cabinets, drinking whatever I could find, whatever would numb the pain. I no longer cared if I were to drown in that whiskey.

I just sat on that dirty kitchen floor, staring at nothing, only moving when I brought the bottle to my lips. I don’t know how long I sat, an hour maybe? I thought about my mother then, how I was not healed from her death or my father’s death and how I felt incredibly alone in this world. I wiped my mouth with my sleeve and noticed I had finished over half of the bottle. Suddenly, I heard a bang from the sun porch, so I stumbled out of the kitchen and into the dining room, eventually reaching the empty sunroom.

The checkered black and white tiles of the sun porch made me dizzy. I noticed a few of the chairs that lined the walls were out of place. I wondered why Hodgson wasn’t guarding the back door as I took another gulp from the bottle. Suddenly, I heard a scream outside, and when I finally stumbled out of the doorway to the back grounds, I caught a glimpse of a figure with a shawl around its head running in the darkness.
That ghastly girl
, I thought.