by Angie Fox
Lightning flashed outside, lighting up the ruined hall.
“Everybody needs a break sometimes.” Being “on” all the time would burn a person out quicker than anything.
She turned and glided through the chair in the middle of the hallway. I stepped around it as we continued on. It bothered me deeply that there were no healthy women left. It seemed Dr. Anderson had been working hard to treat them all.
And then there was Juliet…
She’d shown amazing resilience for a woman who had been abandoned in a mental asylum. She had a kind way about her. She cared. And her nighttime wanderings were about to be very beneficial to me and everyone else trapped in this place.
She led me past the body elevator and toward a small alcove that separated the north and south hallways. The remains of a wooden nurses’ desk hunkered next to a drinking fountain that had collapsed from the wall in a rusted heap. Next to it, faded black lettering on a wooden door read Staff.
Juliet motioned for me to open the door. “Go on,” she said when I hesitated.
“What’s in there?” I asked.
I had to be prepared for whatever lurked on the other side. Dr. Anderson told me he’d confined the patients to their rooms, but I’d met two already that had gotten around it. Perhaps three if you counted Crazy Charlie wandering past while we hid in the morgue.
And then there was Nurse Claymore. If I ran into her in the staff area, that would be the end of our investigation. Claymore would send Juliet back to her room, and I’d have some explaining to do.
“It’s all right,” Juliet said, chewing her lip, not convincing anybody.
“Here goes nothing.” I opened the door and saw no ghosts, thank God—just a glowing, steep staircase leading down into the darkness.
Come to think of it, that wasn’t much better.
“It’s the staff stairwell,” Juliet explained. “A quick way for them to move between floors. Patients aren’t allowed.”
I couldn’t stop the tickle of a smile. “Since when has that ever stopped you?”
She let out a small laugh. “It hasn’t. It wouldn’t. Except I…I’d rather not intrude on a friend.”
“Is she the one haunting this space?” I asked, taking in the gray glow over old brick walls and wooden steps polished smooth and dipping in the middle from decades of foot traffic.
“Yes. Her name is Loretta.” Juliet’s breath hitched. “It’s—a terrible thing.” She threaded her hands together in front of her. “She was my best friend.”
I didn’t like how she used the word was. A chill blew up from the depths. “Is she down there now?”
Juliet gave a small shiver. “I think so. What’s left of her, anyway.”
I shot her a questioning look.
She averted her eyes. “She doesn’t want to see me anymore.”
“How can you know that?” I asked. It had to be lonely for Loretta, down in a stairwell all by herself.
“She told me so. She chased me out.” The ghost touched her fingers to her chest. “Loretta was a good person. Only she had what they call paranoia. She believed everyone was out to get her, even me sometimes. I wasn’t,” she added quickly.
“I believe you,” I told the ghost.
“Loretta said too much of what was on her mind. I didn’t always believe her. And I told her that the last time, right before she died. She’s never forgiven me.”
“I’m so sorry.” I eyed the gray, glowing descent into heaven knew where. A locked door? A pit with an angry ghost at the bottom of it?
“They gave her ice-cold baths,” Juliet said, folding her arms over her chest. “Therapy for the overactive mind.” She winced. “They’d leave her in there for hours, overnight sometimes.”
I closed my eyes. “Dr. Anderson?” I’d really wanted to like him.
“And Nurse Claymore,” she added, “although she was just following orders. She worships him.”
That was as dangerous as his misguided treatments. “And poor Loretta?” I asked, sick at the idea she’d have to stay here, for all these years after her death, still trapped in this cycle.
“They were coming to take her for another bath,” Juliet murmured, her voice breaking through the silence of the dark. “She hanged herself in the stairwell instead. I think she wanted the staff to find her that way, to show them what they made her do.”
“Do you…visit her?” Maybe she could still make things right. That was one of the good things about being a ghost—there was always another chance.
Juliet touched a hand to her forehead. “I’ve tried.” She shook her head slightly. “She was so upset. So violated. Seeing me makes her angrier somehow. I want to help, but I don’t know how.”
“I understand there was no escape when you were alive, but now that Loretta is gone, we may be able to help her leave the stairwell and this asylum.”
“I think that would be best, for her at least,” she said, lighting up. “I would love to help set her free.”
“Then we’ll figure out a way,” I said, making a promise I had no idea how to keep. But heavens to God, these people had suffered enough. They deserved peace, whatever kind of afterlife they chose, not this eternal prison of the mind.
“I don’t think she’ll hurt you,” Juliet said weakly. “Those other two seemed to be all right.”
Yes, well, Tom and Joan weren’t tuned in to the other side. “Are you positive that couple you saw with me went down these stairs tonight?” Ghosts could be foggy on timelines and details, and I really didn’t want to go on a wild-goose chase down a haunted stairwell.
“It was them,” Juliet confirmed. “The man called the woman Joan. He was barking a lot of orders at her.” She cringed. “I couldn’t forget them. He reminded me of my former husband.”
For once, I was glad Tom was a jerk.
“Thank you,” I said. If these stairs led down to the basement, I’d be one step closer to figuring out how someone killed Barbara. It made sense that Tom and Joan would use a back way even if it wasn’t the one I’d thought.
The air chilled as soon as I passed the threshold and placed my foot on the first step. I shivered and took two more down.
Juliet stood glowing in the doorway. “If you see Loretta, please tell her I’m sorry.” Her eyes went glassy. “I wasn’t there when they took her. I didn’t stop them. I—”
“It’s okay,” I said, stopping her. “We’ll make this right.” Somehow. I turned away from her and continued to make my way down the stairs.
Frankie was going to kill me for promising to fix things. Ellis was still in the basement, worried sick. And, well, I’d have to tackle the haunted staircase before I saw either one of them again.
“God go with you,” Juliet said, making the sign of the cross as she faded away.
I’d need all the help I could get.
The door creaked closed behind me. I braced my hands on the brick walls on either side, which glowed gray in the ghostly light.
“Loretta?” I called. The steep stairs took me down, twisted to the right, then drove down once more.
“I’m on your side, Loretta.” Every move I made stirred up dust that tickled my nose.
Ghostly lightbulbs shone from wire cages as I wound deeper into the heart of the asylum—until I reached a small landing with a door.
The stairs continued down, but I stopped on the landing and peeked out the door. It appeared to be the second floor. Voices echoed from down the hall to my right. It sounded like an excited ghost hunter, and I had to admit, it cheered me a little.
I clicked on my flashlight, shined it up ahead, and in the glow of my beam, I saw the shadow of the main staircase ahead and to the right.
Which meant my staircase was an express route to all floors.
And so far, Loretta—not to mention the Burowskis—was nowhere to be found.
I ducked back inside, my mind racing. This could very well be the route Tom and Joan had used to reach the basement to murder Barbara. I should
have timed myself coming down. In fact, I would. Later. I’d hurry down as fast as possible and see how long it might have taken them.
In the meantime, I was proud I’d kept my wits about me and my hands off the metal banister—lest I disturb any fingerprints the police might need later.
I started down once more. I had this handled.
My confidence built as I reached the door marked Lobby. This all made sense—the route, the ease in getting downstairs.
A polished metal mirror hung next to this door, a quick way to make one’s self presentable for the public. I ran a finger over the hammered metal. It wouldn’t be glass. That could break and injure patients. Some could even use it as a weapon. It glowed as bright as the walls of the stairwell, and I smiled into my wavy reflection, pleased at the discovery of the hallway, excited to be doing something useful instead of waiting in the basement. I didn’t know how Ellis handled stakeouts. I was almost glad to be up here, that Levi had sought my company and lifted me in the body elevator. I—
My image faded and was replaced by a face that was not my own. I watched as my skin went gray and my cheekbones sank. My bright eyes faded to black, their sockets hollowing down to the skull.
I shrieked, turned, and saw it was real. My hands had gone skeletal; my arms felt weak. My neck felt tight, squeezed. I touched my fingers to the skin there and almost expected to feel a rope noose.
“Loretta?” I whispered.
The pressure around my throat intensified.
I choked, gasping for air as I made a break for the lobby. But the door refused to open. A watery gray mist flowed down the stairwell directly at me. It filled the entire space, and my blood froze when I heard an icy cackle.
I ran. A thin laugh echoed behind me as I dashed down the stairs, clutching my throat, fighting to breathe.
“Get out,” a cold voice sounded in my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.
I tried. I ran, choking, struggling.
Down to the basement that smelled like old brick and wet and rot. I flung open the door and ran into a dark, closed-in hallway. It felt like being buried alive.
I ran through puddles, through soft earth that felt ready to open and swallow me. I ran with a hand against the wall, turned, ran again, turned. Cripes. This place was like a maze, but I had to get out of that stairwell with that mist and the awful image of my face. With all that rot and death and I hadn’t even seen Loretta…unless that was her, and if it was, she was the queen of all head games.
Stop.
I couldn’t help anybody if I let myself get carried away by a hallucination.
I forced myself to slow. But I couldn’t make myself quit moving, not until I shined my light behind me onto an empty hallway. Safe. I transferred the light to my hands—pink and healthy—and my arms. I touched my face and willed it not to be all sunken and dead and, Lord almighty, that felt real. I planted my back against the damp brick wall and took a steadying breath.
I’d probably run right through any footprints Tom and Joan might have left.
Dang it all.
I punched a fist against the wall behind me. I knew better than that!
Barbara deserved better than that.
Even if she was a pain in the keister.
I rested my head against the wall, looking up at the shadows cast on the ceiling. I was smarter than this. I’d been through enough investigations and solved plenty of cases under trying circumstances.
I doubted any official forensics experts ever had to survive haunted hallways while preserving evidence.
And now I was…
Alone.
I aimed my light down both directions of the deserted basement hallway. It couldn’t have been far to the morgue, not if Tom and Joan had chosen this route to kill Barbara. Of course, they hadn’t panicked and started running this way and that. But I had, and now I was lost.
I looked for footprints on the earthen floor and found none.
All right.
I didn’t want to call for Ellis. He was hiding on a stakeout. And I was a woman alone in a place with a killer, so shouting for anybody was a bad idea.
With any luck, I’d find Ellis before the killer found me. But first, I needed to get moving.
I chose to go right.
The staff stairs had plunged through the very center of the building, and the boiler room where Barbara died had been somewhere north of the lobby. Heaven knew where I’d run, but if I’d gone catawampus, it would be best to pick a direction and try to stick to the north side, wherever that might be.
I passed a room marked Storage.
This basement couldn’t be more than a football field large, although with the winding passages, I could wander for quite a while before I found my way to the morgue. Then I came to a place where four hallways intersected.
Lovely.
“Frankie?” I whispered, wishing he had some kind of ghost spidey sense that told him when I was in trouble.
Then again, knowing Frankie, he’d use it to avoid me.
“Frank,” I tried again, choosing to press straight ahead. I’d go in clear lines. That way, I could map it out in my head. My sense of direction wasn’t the best, but it wasn’t terrible, either. I had to keep a clear head about this.
I pressed down a hall that seemed to lead nowhere. No doors opened off it. I didn’t even see any modern-day lights on the ceiling. This was the wrong way, a dead end, a—
I sensed movement behind me, heard a sound like lips smacking.
I turned. “Frankie?” I asked, even though I knew it wasn’t.
Behind me stood the ghost of a skinny young man overdue for a haircut. His face was all angles, his eyes wild and excited, like he’d just discovered the prize at the bottom of the cereal box. And he held a large silver carving knife.
15
Yikes. For once, Barbara had told the truth. She did have a knife-wielding escapee in her basement. And now I was trapped with him.
“You’d better watch it with that knife,” I said, backing away slowly.
Running wouldn’t help. The ghost could easily disappear and reappear at will, and I’d rather not provoke him. The man’s knife looked sharp. It was serrated, made to cut through flesh and bone.
The thin, quivering ghost smacked his lips, a wet sucking sound, and it struck me hard; he was the predator and I was prey.
I glanced behind me at the dark tangle of hallways. There would be no help for me there. I tried for a smile and managed a grimace.
“I really would love it if you lowered that knife,” I said as if we were making small talk outside the library in Sugarland.
He cackled with glee as if he enjoyed my obvious distress, which was now, okay, starting to border on panic. He closed in on me fast.
“I don’t like sharp objects,” I protested, my voice going higher as I drew back and he pressed closer, well into my personal space.
He broke into a hearty grin, inches away from me, his breath cold and sickeningly sweet against my cheek.
“I’m looking for my friend,” I managed. My elbow scraped the wall as I took another stiff step backward. I couldn’t let him corner me, either. I fought to keep my breath even, my mind clear.
I could scream for Ellis, but he couldn’t fight off a ghost. And by the time he got here…
As much as I hated to admit it, only one person could help me now. “Frankie!” I screamed.
No response.
“My friend will be here any second,” I said, making conversation as I felt the cold tip of the knife at my ribs. I sidestepped it.
Because, sure, Frankie always showed up when I needed him. “Frankie!” I called again, startling the ghost with the knife.
I never should have gone down the haunted staircase. I never should have left Juliet. At least she could have run interference for me. This ghost didn’t want to speak. He wanted to stab. “You’re scaring me,” I said to him. Might as well admit it. “I don’t like your knife.”
He drew back and l
ooked at the immense cleaver in his grip as if he’d forgotten it was there.
“That knife—” I let out a stuttered breath “—is a menace.”
Then he tried to hand it to me.
I was so shocked, at first I didn’t take it.
We stared at each other for a moment. Him, offering his prize thrust sideways with mostly the blade first. Me, too petrified to even speak.
Which was really saying something.
“Wait,” I said, recovering a little. “If you’re offering”—I held out a shaking hand—“I’d love to hold your knife.”
My touch would make it disappear.
Sure, it would take a few minutes for that to happen, but if I was in control of the knife, then it also meant Crazy Charlie couldn’t stab me with it.
He let me take it. I gripped the handle, and the cold shock of it seared up my arm. It would eventually go back to him, but if I could hold on to it long enough for it to fade out of existence temporarily, I might find an opportunity to escape. It was a start.
“Thanks,” I said, trying to act casual like I was watching someone’s pet for them. I thought he might want to take the knife back right away, but he didn’t seem to care at all that I had it. He backed away and smiled shyly like he’d just given me a gift.
This was no origami bird.
“You are Charlie, right?” I asked.
He smiled shyly.
The doctor thought he’d run away. I wondered what else the doctor had told me that wasn’t true.
“You know, I’ve heard stories about you,” I said to Charlie, tucking his weapon behind me, trying to ignore the wet, invasive chill going up my arm, seeping into my shoulder. “Interesting ones.” I couldn’t quite call them good. “Lots of people know you’re here.”
Ghosts usually liked to be remembered.
This guy just watched me.
It occurred to me that he could use a haircut. His uneven locks had obviously been trimmed in-house and not very well.
“Dr. Anderson thinks you ran away. Did you hide down here instead?” Poor Charlie might have seen it as a last resort, a way to escape those old-timey medical treatments. If that was the case, I didn’t blame him.