Hell

by Tom Lewis

  And the timing couldn’t have been worse. Switzer became suddenly aware of just how alone he was in that dark building. He had never been one for superstitions, but that had been before immersing himself in Jenkins’ book.

  It was, without a doubt, time to leave.

  He fumbled for his briefcase in the dim light, when his ears picked up a strange sound. He held still for a moment and listened closely.

  It came again, and he could swear it sounded like gurgling — like maybe somebody gargling water.

  He had just sat back in his chair when he noticed someone standing in the doorway across the room. The person was only there for a moment, but it was long enough to see from its dark silhouette that it was a woman in a long hospital gown. Most likely one of the patients.

  She had been watching him.

  Switzer rose from his desk and walked over to the doorway. There was a noticeable chill in the hallway, and he couldn’t recall feeling it before.

  The faint gurgling sound came again.

  It had come from down the hallway on his left, and as he looked in that direction, he saw the silhouette of the woman against the window at the far end.

  She was again watching him.

  Switzer’s skin prickled with unease. He knew it was silly, and likely the effect of having read that book so late into the night, but he actually felt a sense of dread.

  It had to be the book.

  “Can I help you?” he called to the woman. But there was no response.

  She stepped away from the window and drifted off down the connecting hallway.

  Whoever this was, it was too late for patients to be out wandering the hospital. Someone had obviously neglected to lock her door.

  Switzer headed off in that direction. He reached the connecting hallway, and without the windows at either end, it was considerably darker than the hallway he was in. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and shined its flashlight down the hallway.

  The hallway was empty, but as he swept its narrow beam across the walls and floor, he spotted a trail of blood leading across the floor. He knelt down for a closer look, and it was definitely blood. And it was fresh.

  “Are you okay?” he called out, rising to his feet. He shined his light back at the floor and followed the trail of blood to where it stopped at a door. He shined his light on the room number... and felt icy fingers run along his spine. It was a room that hadn’t been used for over a decade and was shunned by the staff as haunted.

  It was room 226. Janet Sterling’s room. His patient who had been haunted like Cassie. And had slit her own throat.

  Every instinct told him to run; to leave this place and never return. But too many years of scientific dogma were working against him; he had to know.

  He tested the doorknob, and as he had expected, it was unlocked.

  It hadn’t been unlocked in a decade.

  Ignoring one final warning from his instincts, he opened the door and stepped into the room.

  He was met by a foul rotted stench and such icy coldness that he could see his breath. Yet as he shined his flashlight through the room, he saw nothing that could have caused the stench or drop in temperature. There was only a bare mattress and an empty dresser and cabinet. It appeared exactly as it had a decade ago, when it was cleansed and sterilized after Janet’s death.

  He shined his flashlight back at the floor. The trail of blood picked up inside the door and led across the tiled floor to the bathroom on the far side of the room.

  If that woman was here, that’s where she would be.

  He proceeded over to the bathroom in slow cautious steps. It was only the irrational hope he clung to for a logical explanation that propelled him to step into that bathroom. How odd, he thought, that he now saw the logical explanation as being the irrational one.

  The blood trail continued across the bathroom’s tiled floor to the bathtub and shower where the curtains were drawn shut.

  He startled back.

  A bloody handprint was on the shower curtains.

  He stood there for a moment, staring at those curtains and listening into the silence for any sounds. But even the storm’s sounds were muffled by the thick concrete walls.

  He had to know.

  He gripped the curtains and drew them aside... the shower was empty. There were no words to describe his relief as he stared into that empty shower. He exhaled the breath he had been holding. All of that worry and tension had been for nothing.

  He breathed a deep sigh of relief. He turned to leave the bathroom, and as he did, his eyes drifted past the stainless steel mirror above the sink...

  Janet Sterling’s ghost stood in the shower behind him.

  It was grisly and decayed, with dark empty eyes that bore into his. Then that hideous gash in her neck opened, and blood oozed from it and down the front of her gown.

  Switzer stumbled out the bathroom door. He slipped on the blood smear and fell to the floor. He quickly spun toward the bathroom, expecting to see Janet’s ghost come through the door, but the doorway was empty.

  He staggered to his feet and backed toward the hallway door, never taking his eyes off the bathroom door. As he reached the hallway door, that gurgling sound came again from the bathroom.

  It was the sound of someone choking on their own blood.

  Switzer raced from the room and down the hallway to his office. He grabbed his briefcase and keys and was soon gone from the building.

  Dr. Benjamin Switzer, MD, would never return to Hillview.

  ****

  “This is Doctor Benjamin Switzer, at the Hillview Hospital,” Switzer said into his microcassette recorder as his car plowed through the storm. He was on a lonely stretch of forest road between Hillview and his home in the foothills of Capetown, and despite his wipers’ efforts to slap the rain from the windshield, visibility was down to twenty yards.

  This area had been developed around the coal boom in the middle of the last century, and the terrain was scarred with deep quarries that ran alongside the road. Most of the mines had closed over the years, but much of their machinery remained as rusted reminders of the region’s past.

  “If for any reason this tape is found,” Switzer continued into his recorder, “it’s imperative that it be delivered at once to Father Jenkins at Saint Matthew’s Parish in Capetown, Maine.

  “Father, I’m of the belief now that you’re likely correct in your assessment of Cassie Stevens, and that her affliction is beyond the capabilities of medical science to cure. Please contact my office, and they can arrange to have her medical files delivered to you.”

  Here he took a brief pause to sort through his thoughts. Ever since climbing into his car back at the hospital, a sense of impending doom had pressed on him. He feared it was a premonition of his own death, and it wasn’t something he could dispel. But if he was going to die, he needed to do everything left in his power to help Cassie. And that meant clearing the path for Jenkins to employ whatever remedies the Church had in its arsenal.

  If there was a God, and Switzer had begun to think there might be, maybe it would give Him a reason to have mercy on this foolish old doctor’s soul.

  Finally, with a deep breath, he pressed the record button again. “I’m leaving this tape for you, Father, in the event that I don’t make it home tonight. I encountered something inexplicable at the hospital tonight, and I’m of the belief that I will likely die.” He took another brief pause to allow a rush of emotions to pass.

  “Please help Cassie, Father. And don’t let it be my arrogance that kills her.” He took another moment to gather his thoughts before continuing. “This next message is for you, Cassie. It’s critical that you trust Father Jenkins. I can’t stress enough that your life depends on it. Please forgive my arrogance at having doubted you and the pain I know it caused. My intent was only to help you. And now my last hope is that Father is able to free you of this spirit. Please know that I tried, Cassie.”

  He swallowed a lump in his throat and set
the recorder on the passenger seat. Hopefully he was wrong about that premonition, and he could meet with Jenkins tomorrow to discuss this in person.

  The rain beat down harder now, and the wet pavement hid a minefield of potholes in its weathered surface. The car had already plunged into several of them, and each time he struggled to maintain his grip on the steering wheel.

  His imagination had also run wild, and several times he thought he saw Janet Sterling’s ghost standing alongside the road.

  At least he hoped it had been his imagination.

  But now, with less than an hour to go before reaching home, a new sensation stirred the hairs on his neck — the awareness that he wasn’t alone.

  She was in the backseat.

  He forced his eyes to avoid the rearview mirror. He knew he would see her face in it if he looked. He just had to focus on the road and hope he made it home without anything happening.

  A sound came from the backseat, and it was the sound he had both dreaded and expected — it was the deep gurgling sound that had come from the bathroom. His blood chilled.

  He took his eyes off the road just long enough to look in the rearview mirror... and to his surprise, nothing was in the backseat. He turned back to the read...

  Janet’s ghost stood framed in the headlights.

  Switzer slammed on the brakes. It was out of reflex, and a huge mistake. The tires locked, and the car spun out of control. It fishtailed sideways into the guardrail, crashed through it, then plunged down a steep embankment to the mine quarry below. It hit the bottom and bounded over rocks till it crashed into a large gravel mound. It stalled on impact.

  The air bag exploded into Switzer’s face and knocked his head back against the seat. It dazed him for several seconds before his mind cleared enough to function.

  He wrestled with the airbag, and finally got it deflated and pushed aside. He could see again out the windshield, and saw that his headlights and taillights were still on. The car had power.

  He tried starting it, but the engine wouldn’t turn over. He checked his cell phone, but it wasn’t getting a signal.

  He now faced a dilemma — wait in the car till help arrived, whenever that might be, or walk back to the road and hope for a ride.

  With Janet lurking out there.

  As he pondered these equally unappealing choices, his eyes traveled across the windshield to the rearview mirror — and in the eerie red glow of the taillights...

  Janet’s ghost drifted across the quarry bed toward him.

  Panic seized him. He reached for his seat belt and pressed the button... but the catch was jammed. He jiggled it and tried again, but it was still jammed. He took another glance at the rearview mirror...

  The ghost was closer now.

  A sudden bright flash streaked the sky, and lightning exploded on the heavy machinery at the top of the gravel mound above him. He looked through the windshield and saw a long metal rail snap off and plunge down toward his car. He leaned to the side, just seconds before it crashed through the windshield and planted its tip in the backseat.

  It had missed him by inches, but now he was pinned against the driver’s-side door.

  He pressed the button on his seat belt again, but it still wouldn’t unfasten. He would need to crawl out from beneath it.

  A loud crash outside turned his attention again to the windshield. Several heavy pipes on top of the mound had shaken lose and had crashed down into his car.

  His eyes then caught the rearview mirror, and renewed panic set in — the ghost was halfway across the quarry bed.

  Switzer grabbed the door handle and forced the door open. He slipped the shoulder strap behind him and pulled as much slack as he could from the lap belt. He leaned out the door and worked at pulling his body out from beneath the lap belt.

  His head was entirely out the door now, and he glanced back beneath the car at the quarry bed. In the red glow of the taillights, he saw the ghost’s legs less than ten feet from the back of the car. Its feet were pointed downward, and floating several inches above the gravel.

  He turned his attention back to the seat belt. He now had his legs halfway out from beneath the lap belt and continued to wiggle his way out inch by inch.

  An avalanche of gravel from the mound caught his attention. A heavy pipe at the top of the mound teetered, while bits of gravel beneath it shook lose. With a heavy crunch of gravel, the pipe teetered forward and tumbled down the mound.

  Switzer heard the sound and peered beneath the door to see what it was...

  Within seconds, the heavy pipe crashed into the door like a battering ram and smashed it shut on Switzer’s neck. It tore through flesh and vertebrae till only bloody tendons remained; then they tore, and Switzer’s severed head fell from his body onto the dirt.

  On the passenger seat, the small LED light on the microcassette recorder glowed red as it continued recording.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The Tape

  It was the morning after Jenkins’ death, and the rain continued as a drizzle. Three police cars were parked outside St. Matthew’s Church, and yellow crime scene tape hung across the church entrance.

  The school’s custodian had discovered Jenkins’ body and the destruction to the church when he unlocked it for Mass early that morning. He had awakened Sean, who had called the police.

  Sean had stood outside in the drizzle earlier to let parishioners know that there would be no more Masses in the church for the rest of the week; and quite possibly longer. They would try to arrange for use of the parish hall for the Sunday Masses, but for now he had no further information to give them.

  He certainly wasn’t prepared to tell them the circumstance of Jenkins’ death.

  It was approaching noon. The police had been there since dawn, and were no closer to finding answers than when they arrived. Each discovery brought only more questions.

  “Take a look at this, Father,” said one of the officers to Sean. He knelt beside the spot where a pew had been torn from its mount on the floor. “You see this bolt?”

  Sean knelt down and looked at the broken bolt he was pointing to. It was about the width of a man’s finger.

  “All of the bolts holding down those pews were broken in half,” explained the officer. He nodded to the dozens of pews scattered around like firewood. “Not cut, broken. It would have taken a bulldozer to do all of this.”

  Sean could only nod. Obviously a bulldozer hadn’t entered the church last night.

  But something else had.

  Sean walked to the back of the church where they had removed Jenkins’ body two hours earlier. They had needed to cut the long shard at its base where it penetrated the wall, but a foot of it still remained inside the brick.

  “Any idea how it happened?” Sean asked an officer, who stared in bewilderment at the butt end of the shard.

  The officer shook his head. “Not a clue, Father.” He pointed to the cut end of the shard where it protruded from the brick. “That wood goes about a foot back into the brick. And there’s no indication anyone drilled a hole to shove it in.”

  “So, the wood just penetrated it?” Sean asked.

  “Like a knife through butter. Plus, there’s the whole question of how Father was five feet off the ground like that.”

  Across the church, the parish’s elderly secretary entered through a side door. Her name was Patricia, and she had been a fixture at the church for as long as anyone could remember. Even longer than Jenkins, who she fondly remembered welcoming to the parish when he was a much younger priest.

  She shook her head in dismay at the destruction to her beautiful church, then walked over to Sean.

  “Someone from the police department dropped this off,” she said, handing Sean a small envelope. Handwritten on its front was: “Father Jenkins, St. Matthew’s Parish, Capetown.”

  “It was addressed to Father, but...” Her voice cut off. She looked around again at the devastation.

  “You don’t need to stick aroun
d, Pat,” Sean said, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You should take the day off. Go see your grandkids.”

  She nodded her appreciation. “I’ve known him for over thirty years...” she reminisced for a moment before turning to the officer. “Do you know who could have done this?”

  “We don’t even know how they did this, ma’am,” replied the officer. “I’m sorry for both of your loss.”

  Sean and Pat both nodded their thanks. Sean opened the small envelope Patricia gave him, and removed Switzer’s microcassette recorder from inside it.

  “Whatcha got there, Father?” the officer asked.

  “A recorder,” Sean said, flipping it over in his hand. The officer stepped over to take a look.

  “Yeah. That’s the one they found at the accident last night.

  Sean looked at him. “What accident?”

  “It was a psychiatrist at that old mental health hospital. He drove off the road into one of those mining quarries, and got decapitated when his door slammed shut on his neck.”

  Sean’s eyes were wide open. He looked at the officer then back at the recorder.

  “Was his name Switzer?” Sean asked. But it was only to confirm what he already knew.

  “Something like that. You knew him?”

  Sean nodded.

  ****

  “This is Doctor Benjamin Switzer, at the Hillview Hospital...” came the voice on the tape as Sean played it for the third time in a row.

  He sat at Jenkins’ old desk in the parish office and stared numbly at the recorder. Switzer sounded terrified. He had seen something at the hospital, and again in the car, and whatever it was, it had caused his entire belief system to turn on its head. Where just days ago he had derided Father Jenkins for his beliefs, he had come to embrace them the night of his death. And he had recorded his testimony to ensure it survived what he saw as his impending death.

  “And now my last hope is that Father is able to free you of this spirit. Please know that I tried, Cassie.”

  And that was where the message stopped. But Switzer had apparently left the tape recorder on as it continued to record the driving sounds and rain. Rather than rewind it again, Sean let it play out. It was obvious from the sounds when the accident had occurred, and then his car’s collision with the gravel mound at the bottom of the quarry.