Asylum Box Set
Page 1
Contents
Asylum I
Also by the Author
Chapter One
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Chapter Two
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Chapter Three
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Chapter Four
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Chapter Five
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Chapter Six
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Chapter Seven
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Chapter Eight
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Chapter Nine
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Chapter Ten
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Chapter Eleven
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Chapter Twelve
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Epilogue
Asylum II
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Also By The Author
About the Author
Review a Book
ASYLUM I
BY
SIAN B. CLAVEN
Other Books by this Author
HORROR TITLES
The Kiara Books
Ensnared
Liberation
The Butcher Books
Tatum
Kallista
Sylvana
The Asylum Series
Asylum I
Asylum II
The Watcher Series
Watcher
The Watched - Coming Soon
To Watch - Coming Soon
The Demon Cat Khristmas Specials
Killer Kitteh Khristmas
Merry Meow - Coming soon
Jingle Fur - Coming soon
Stand Alones
The Culling
#RIPJohn - Coming Soon
Belladonna - Coming Soon
Buried - Coming Soon
Hex - Coming Soon
Shh… - Coming Soon
The Priestess - Coming Soon
The Reaper- Coming Soon
The Witch in the Woods - Coming Soon
FANTASY TITLES
A Spacehiker Adventure
Unlikely Hero
Hidden in Plain Sight - Coming Soon
Homeward Bound - Coming Soon
MURDER MYSTERY TITLES
Bullseye - Coming Soon
Stones - Coming Soon
GENERAL FICTION TITLES
Balancer Books
Neutral Ground - Coming Soon
Holy Demons - Coming Soon
Chapter One
HANS
19 April 1950
I am grateful for the opportunity to continue my research unhampered by war or any sort of emotional moral code. I know the war was a terrible event and I know also, as a result of the world going to war, I was given the opportunity to truly explore what humans, and the mind, are capable of achieving. I desire to change the world. I want to change the way we, as a species, wage war.
We will be much better off if we fight not with weapons, but with the power of the mind. In order to do so, however, we are required to fully understand the mind.
I am saddened by the loss of my research notes, as well as the various subjects available to me in the camp, but I am happy that the enemy commanders recognised what I was striving towards, and offered me the opportunity to commence my research once more. The advantage to starting over is that I know what to avoid this time. I am already aware of what failed before. Every failure is etched into my brain as a reminder of what I could not do.
Some of my peers consider me insane, but they are closed-minded fools, unable to fully grasp what we are capable of.
The asylum where I am being sent to as the new doctor is far from my hometown, and I have no ties there. I abhor emotional bonds. They serve no purpose, no function and certainly contribute nothing to the advancement of humanity.
I have decided to keep this diary, so that if anything happens to my main notes, I at least have this written word to refer back to. It may be extra effort, but the sting of losing my previous research remains with me, like a mosquito bite I have scratched open, and I refuse to go through that again.
I am on my way. This train runs a lot smoother than the German trains did during the war. So many tracks were damaged to prevent supply runs, and this created such havoc. I am not sad that I have left Germany behind. It is nothing more than a shell of the country it could have been, with open festering wounds that will take years to heal and close.
I have to look forward.
The scientist in me has to look forward.
20 April 1950
My arrival this morning was less than glamorous. The asylum is a gloomy structure that loomed before us as we approached it. It’s isolated, almost completely surrounded by a dead forest, with nothing in sight for miles around. The closest town is about fifty miles away. If I wish to gather supplies, I will either need to call the nearest store and ask them to deliver, or make the trip myself. That is an inconvenience I had not foreseen.
I expected the institution to be run by some sort of religious fanatic, such as a pastor or a nun, as that seems to be the norm in these English speaking countries. I was, however, greeted by a man of science, one I can identify with, and one who has no care for what I do here as long as I clean up after myself.
Wellbottom is clearly more interested in making money from the self-check-in patients than the state patients sent by the police, other institutions or permanently checked-in by their own families. Wellbottom made sure to impress upon me his own importance and how without him nothing happens in this place. While we walked around he kept referring to himself as the head of the institution. That is all he has become; a figurehead, rather than a scientist.
He gave me what he described as the grand tour of the asylum. I am recording this in my journal in case I need to reference a specific location within the building.
The Hatfield Asylum was established in 1908 and is one of the oldest surviving institutions in the area. As we entered through the large, wooden front doors, we were greeted by what I found to be most favourable - sterile walls.
Dr Wellbottom, the fine doctor that greeted me upon my arrival, explained to me that the patients were trained and tasked with daily sterilising of the hospital. He felt this gave them a sense of purpose and helped them re-adjust to working in the real world.
Inside of the entrance doors, corridors branched into three directions. The one to my left led deep into the building, and then there was a corridor straight ahead of me and one to the right. Wellbottom explained that the one to the right led to the less dangerous patients, their day rooms, visiting areas and the like. We took a short stroll down that corridor, peeking into the various rooms and seeing the patients playing board games, watching TV, or talking to thin air. I nodded, not too interested in the tour, to be honest.
We backtracked and followed the corridor that had been directly in front of us when we walked in. Along this corridor, Wellbottom expounded, they kept the more dangerous patients. Some are permanently restrained, while others do visit the day room (this section only has the one) and remain there only if they behave.
This will be the section I have the most fun in. I cannot wait to read these patient files to see exactly what I am dealing with.
We went back along the corridor and turned left down the final one. The doctor explained this is where we live during our employment here. He took me to my room. It is a little bigger than I imagined it would be. Upon entering my ‘flat’ I noticed a small kitchenette in one corner, a door, probably leading to the bathroom, and a dismal excuse for a bed.
I didn’t complain; it
is a place to work late and somewhere to wash and rest my head. I’m not one to fawn over material possessions, except perhaps equipment. I prefer excellent equipment, especially if I make it myself.
I could feel Wellbottom staring at me, so I turned and inclined my head in humble gratitude, for whatever it was worth. He then took me back to the entrance where the corridors met and thereafter led me through a door I had not noticed before, located to the right of the front door if you are facing it.
It led to the basement. This was the medical suite, he explained, and where my laboratory will be. He went on to explain (off the record of course, except here in my journal) that it is my responsibility to ‘dispose’ of any patients I am ‘treating’ if anything befalls them.
I accept that there may be several casualties on this journey for science, but I will be sure to note their names in my publication when it is ready to change the world. This is the part I am most excited about. Working. It is my entire life.
The laboratory Wellbottom showed me is well-stocked with the standard equipment. Microscopes, Bunsen burner, tubes, flasks and other apparatus one expects. There are tools available to create my own. It is more than satisfactory.
Wellbottom asked me when I would like to start and I said immediately, over which he seemed surprised. Poor fellow is a doctor who has lost his passion, a true sin in the world at this time.
I asked for the patient files, and now have then with me.
The first patient I want to look at is a young girl, Mary Sue-Ellen De Clara. Her name caught my eye and her condition even more so. I’ll advise later.
26 June 1950
Mary Sue-Ellen De Clara is the most fascinating little creature I have ever come across. She suffers from proportionate dwarfism, a disease that prevents her body from growing to its full, potential size. She has been institutionalised because she attacked her husband, a full grown man, who she says didn’t want to make love to her anymore.
According to her file, Mary Sue-Ellen attempted something different in their bedroom; in the throes of love she tried to insert a candle stick up his rectum because she had heard men enjoy that sort of thing. Can you imagine! When he refused and verbally attacked her about her height and strange tendencies, she stabbed him in the stomach several times and, while he was unconscious on the floor, cut off his penis and testicles.
What happened next is probably the worst part, and even I, a man of science, can feel my testicles shrink up at the thought of it.
She managed to preserve the penis and testicles by injecting and dipping them in silicon. She then attached it to a belt and proceeded to rape her now dead husband’s rectum with his own penis. The police found him a few days later and, according to the official report - aside from eating, performing the necessary ablutions and sleeping - she spent her time raping his rotting corpse.
After a lengthy trial, Mary Sue-Ellen was found clinically insane and sentenced to spend the rest of her life in the asylum. Previous doctors’ records indicate, whenever she is presented with anything that in any shape or form can be misconstrued as phallic, she tries to attach it to her crotch and poke it into any holes she can make or access.
There were times when Mary Sue-Ellen has to be restrained because she can’t control her urges. If she doesn’t have something to represent her invisible phallus, she simply humps the walls as long as she can, rubbing her thighs and crotch raw against the concrete.
She is the first patient I will take under my wing, someone I can work with towards a cure; someone that has no family and no one to miss her, so that if, in the unfortunate event of death, no one will ask about her. I am obviously hoping to avoid that at all costs, but should she lose her life I promise it will be to the benefit of those that come after her.
As a scientist, I have come to realise that loss of life is not really a loss. Sometimes, a few must die in order to find a way for the many to continue. Surely, with all we know about medicine today, we understand that nothing happens magically. A scientist doesn’t simply throw random solutions into his beaker, heat it to a point and exclaim ‘EUREKA! I have the cure!’
No, we experiment, we research and we record. Sometimes we are successful quickly and sometimes lives are lost for the greater good. I have to distance myself from emotional connection to the patients. It is my duty and destiny to cure the insane and I cannot do this by emotionally investing in them. If any die, and my heart is wrenched from my chest, then I will be unable to continue.
While I was busy observing Mary Sue-Ellen, I didn’t have time to complete my notes for this journal, but I do have my shorthand notes to refer to if needed. Regardless, I feel I should now record what I observed. As I said, I started this journal with the intention of having a backup of my records in case anything should happen.
I began observing Mary Sue-Ellen on April 25th 1950.
She is, at this time, thirty-seven years of age. The hair on her head is shaved short so that she cannot use it to hang herself, as is standard practice in most sophisticated asylums.
Through the small window at the top of her door, I watched as she rocked her hips back and forth, rubbing her crotch against the edge of her bed. Her eyes stared straight ahead of her, towards a point next to the door I was standing at, and her pants were stained red, no doubt from festering wounds she had reopened. She was bound in a straitjacket, but clearly the orderlies cared very little for her or they would have restrained her properly to the bed. The issue was not her arms; the issue was her desire to satisfy a chronic sexual malady and she was not achieving this.
After a few days of observation, I wanted to engage with her. There was nothing further to be gained from simply observing. She did the same, all day, every day and every night until she was injected with her sedative to force her to sleep. I noticed, however, even in sleep, her hips didn’t stop moving, twitching softly as though even in dreams she had an innate desire to satisfy herself.
On the first day of May I asked the orderlies to bring her to my laboratory. I had them restrain her in a wooden chair and sat opposite her. I questioned her about why she thought she was addicted to sex; why she thought had to do this to herself. I didn’t expect an answer, and I didn’t get one. She simply squirmed in her seat, not making a sound. I tried addressing her by her full name, her first name, her surname and then a few nicknames I had picked up. She didn’t respond to any of them. Thereafter I simply observed her for some time more.
I allowed them to collect her for dinner and retired shortly after to make my notes and to plan the first steps of my treatment. I will admit, only here though, that I was truly excited for the first time since leaving Germany.
I had the orderlies return her to me the following day, and the day after that. After five days of attempting to simply communicate with her, it became apparent that she needed help rising from the dark depths of her mind, to form the words necessary to communicate with me.
On the eighth day I decided to start a more aggressive treatment approach. Once the orderlies had her restrained, I injected her with a concoction of Scopolamine mixed with morphine and chloroform. This would put her in a drowsy state that might persuade her speak to me.
The effect of the combination of my carefully chosen drugs did little to still her. If anything, the drugs made her more restless. She fought against her restraints, crying out like a wild animal when she couldn’t bang her hips around the way she seemed to want to.
I was shocked, to say the least, but had at last achieved getting her to utter some semblance of a sound. The only ingredient in the combination able to cause such an affect was the Scopolamine. Morphine and chloroform would have the opposite effect.
Eventually I gave her more morphine, enough to still her and allow her to doze off before I called the orderlies to take her back to her room. I requested they did not put her straight jacket on, to instead restrain her to her bed as she should have been. They didn’t look too pleased with me, but I care little for what they think. Thos
e who cannot cure, take care of patients - that is what orderlies are for. They have not the brain capacity to do more than that. .
I decided to forgo the Scopolamine the following day. I didn’t want to waste more time due to her adverse reaction to it. We used it to interrogate prisoners of war. It was known to loosen the tongue, but in some cases, like with Mary Sue-Ellen, it did little more than cause great agitation and restlessness.
A recent medical journal publication claimed Chlorpromazine could be used to treat certain types of psychoses. I however believe it is simply not strong enough to have any effect.
No, I decided that the best course of action was to combine Morphine and Chloroform with light electroshock therapy to see what would transpire for Mary Sue-Ellen. I scheduled the treatment for the following day and ensured I had at least two orderlies to assist me should she get out of hand.
Once we had completed it, I found she was a lot calmer and decided to administer the Scopolamine at that point. I wanted to see if it would have less of an effect in making her restless and more of an effect in getting her to talk.
What transpired shook me to the core.
Once the orderlies had left so that I could attempt to interrogate her, the woman cursed me. Indeed, this was the moment I had waited for. She spoke, and not just mumbled-jumbled sentences. It was as though she had gained her senses back and could finally say what she wanted to say.
When I asked her about her constant rocking back and forth, she explained that ever since she raped her husband with his own genitalia, she had this feeling of incompleteness. She needed to ejaculate and she didn’t know how to achieve that. So she rocked, hoping that one day the ejaculation would just happen.
Of course I explained to her that medically this was not possible and was then presented with the simple question of why.