At one point he stopped, shining his light downward, and looked to Detective Emerson, “It’s here. This is where the bodies were hidden….”
Raising my lantern, I peered off to the side. Near the trailing blackberry vines, I now clearly saw the branches and cloth that I had previously staked.
“This is the place--,” I had directed their attention to the marker, “The stones should just be near the bottom of that blackberry growth.”
Obviously somewhat hesitant, the big man had moved to where one of the circular stones jutted from out of the mud. Pulling it free with a grunt, he allowed it to fall over. We all stood and stared at the sludge covered number on the opposite side.
He had simply looked over at us, nodded, and said, “It’s one of the Sanitarium’s grave markers alright. But if they were hiding bodies, why would they mark and number the grave?”
“Because--,” A voice from behind us now caused us to all turn with a start, “This was also used as a cemetery by the Penitentiary. So no one would have suspected a thing. The only difference was the shape of the grave markers. The Pen used those square shaped stones.”
“Who are you—and what are you doing down here?” Detective Emerson gasped.
The man appeared to have been in his mid to late sixties, dressed poorly and obviously homeless. He was bald, his beard white and tangled, and dark eyes shone from beneath heavy brows. Judging from his appearance and the general condition of his clothing, one would have assumed that he had lived in that dark and dismal place.
“How do you know this?” Detective Emerson shone his light on the old man. Quickly turning it down as the old fellow cursed, angered while blinded in the beam.
“Because I used to work at that damn prison--,” The old man growled, “And buried most of the scum that are still laying down here, under that mud….”
“So then--,” Emerson looked between us, “These graves may be old, but they are legitimate.”
“Not all of them, sonny boy--,” The old man grumbled, something eerie reflecting in his eyes, “It was part of my job to check on the place, as I always have and still do. And long after we’d stopped planting them down here, others were turning up….”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Rich asked the obvious question.
“Oh, I did--,” He looked around as though suddenly lost. His eyes huge as his gaze turned back toward us and he spoke in barely a whisper, saying, “But, the next thing that I knew—I was out of a job….”
“You could have gone to the proper authorities.” Emerson argued.
“You don’t know half as much as you think you do.” The old man scoffed, his face twisting with rage and obvious betrayal, as he pointed an accusing finger, “Money rules this world, and the devil stands behind it, not the law….”
We all stood silent, just watching as the old man stood before us like judge, jury and executioner. His presence somehow overwhelming, as scowling, he quietly looked between us, “The law is owned by the money, and the good men who serve it are blind to this until it’s far too late. I was just another one of those blind men….”
“So, what brings you down here in the middle of the night?” Detective Emerson peered suspiciously at the old fellow.
“It’s all that I have left now.” The answer came honestly enough as he looked to the Detective, “I have a little shack of sorts—I manage….”
“You do realize that this property is--,” Detective Emerson stopped in mid-sentence as I interrupted, asking, “And, if you would have to make an educated guess, how many illegal graves would you assume to be here?”
The old man just stared at me, and swallowing hard, looked around before saying, “Last time I counted—there were fifty seven. Those stones--,” He pointed downward, “Weren’t left there to mark the graves, just the spot where to dig more. They used to come down that path from the Sanitarium in the night. They’d find that heap of stones and just dig another hole.”
“Would you recognize any of the people involved in these burials?” Rich asked what the Detective was likely already considering.
“They haven’t brought anyone down here in years--,” The old fellow scratched at his beard, “My mind isn’t what it used to be.” He appeared saddened with the revelation, “Living in this place for so long can do that to a person, especially when you get my age….”
Detective Emerson just stared, his face pale and drawn. There was a distinct change within the whole demeanor of the man. He no longer stood behind the shield of the law, but was now just a sincere man who seemed to truly care. Rubbing at his brow, he turned to look back at the old man, “But, if it was possible. Would you be willing to testify in a court of law on this matter?”
“And go against the sanitarium, prison officials and everyone that stands behind them?” The old man grumbled, spitting as he glared back, “Not unless you’re planning to get us all rooms in that place. And maybe even under there….” He nodded down at the cold and muddy earth.
“Sadly—he’s right.” Rich interfered, looking to the Detective, “Sometimes our hands are tied, and all that we can do is hope for the best.”
“But we can’t just let this happen!” Emerson’s eyes blazed, the law burning within his heart as he courageously said, “This is all wrong, its murder, and the people responsible should be punished to the fullest extent of the law!”
“And we completely agree with you--,” Attempting to calm the man, I raised my hands, “But, what good will it do—if we bring this entire affair down on our own heads. Once we are gone, there will not be anyone left to make a difference. We need to find another way to approach this, and live to fight another day. Our old friend is right….”
“Would you be kind enough to assist us with one last detail?” I turned toward the old man. His eyes had glistened in the darkness as he had slowly nodded.
“Can you tell us exactly where the victims’ bodies are located?”
A feint quiver had crossed his withered lips, his features almost blank, “They’re all right here—and just under the roots and mud that we’re standing on. So close in fact, that after a good rain, you could almost just reach right down and touch them….”
Rich had swallowed hard while Emerson had just looked between us as though questioning his own sanity.
Rubbing at his eyes, the old man coughed up something unspeakable, and spitting it into the hedge, said, “There is something that I should tell you about.” He looked up at me, “When I first came to work at the Penitentiary, one of the older guards warned me about Woodlands. He told me to never stick my nose where it didn’t belong. But, I never was a very good listener.” The old man became pale as a sheet, “At the time, my brother Thomas was a Detective in New Westminster. And so, I asked him to do a little digging. You know, just snoop around a little and see what he could kick up in the dirt.”
“And what did he discover?” Detective Emerson now moved closer.
“To understand this properly you need to know a little about this place. Woodlands opened in 1878 as the Provincial lunatic asylum,” The old man explained, “In 1897 they changed the name to the Provincial Hospital for the Insane. And let me tell you, they housed everything from young girls to the worst types that you can imagine. Now, my brother couldn’t provide any evidence, but he came up with a few questions. Oddly, most involved a doctor by the name of Edgar Sherwin Wallace. He started here when the place first opened.”
At the mention of that name Rich had silently peered over at me, his expression speaking volumes.
“Apparently, he was treating a special case, a criminally insane patient--,” The old man slowly shook his grizzled head, “An unknown man that had murdered three families on the same street in one night, in cold blood. Grandparents, men, women, children and even swaddling babies… I won’t even tell you what he did with them—none of you would ever sleep again.”
Detective Emerson had stiffened with the statement, his features cold as stone.
&n
bsp; “My brother said the lunatic had admitted to killing a number of other people as well. He gave names and dates, even places where he had hidden some of the bodies.”
“Did police recover any evidence to substantiate the claims?” Emerson swallowed hard.
“Oh yeah--,” The old man peered up at him, his eyes suddenly empty, vacant of even the slightest emotion, “According to my brother, including the families, there’d been thirty six bodies in total. Most of them were so far gone that there wasn’t much left but a few bones.”
“And what became of this unknown murderer?” Emerson was now on the trail of a killer.
“They really couldn’t do much with him.” The old man scowled, “He believed that he was the devil, crazier than the day is long. So, they just locked him away up there on the hill, and tossed away the key.”
“Do you know what year he died--,” I scribbled notes into my pad in the glow of Rich’s lantern, “Anything else about that doctor that you mentioned.”
“Now, that’s where the story gets strange--,” The old fellow replied, and swallowing hard, almost whispered, “My brother arranged a meeting with the doctor. And when he went in to see him, he was introduced to someone different. They claimed that Dr. Edgar Sherwin Wallace had resigned. Still, Thomas was no slouch, and he demanded to see patient 1366.”
I had felt the icy lump forming in my stomach as the old man spoke. And judging by the expression in Rich’s eyes, I was certainly not alone….
“When he visited the room, he told me that what was in there wasn’t even human. He told me that between the blood and filth, he couldn’t even make out the face.”
“You don’t believe that it was the original patient, do you?” Rich asked what I had been thinking.
“I know that it wasn’t.” The old man stared into the night, “Because late that very same night, they came from up the hill and buried something down here….”
“So, you believe that this patient 1366 is actually Dr. Edgar Sherwin Wallace.” Emerson stood silent, just staring as the reply came in the form of a slow and steady nod.
“But that doesn’t make any sense at all--,” Emerson turned to look back at us, “Why would they exchange the doctor for a patient? And if so, why wouldn’t he have said nor done anything when the police arrived?”
“I’m afraid that’s not so easily explained--,” I looked back to the old man, “Did your brother mention anything else?”
“No--,” He sighed deeply, a sudden depth of despair falling upon him, “He was killed in an automobile accident, shortly after….”
“I’m terribly sorry….” Closing my notepad and slipping it back into a coat pocket, asked, “Is there anything that we can do or help you with?”
Emerson glanced back at me, his features revealing a sudden understanding, and compassion that I had never before seen.
“There is nothing that can be done for me now--,” The old man spoke with a heavy heart, “But there’s still a chance for the others. Did you know that in 1950 they changed the name of that place to Woodlands School? And, that aside from the insane, most of the residents are now mentally challenged people, wayward kids and wards of the court. Someone has to help them, save them from the evil in that place….”
Having heard this and being utterly shocked, we had all just stared upon one another. I could see from Detective Emerson’s expression that our hunter had now become a friend. And though struggling to understand and accept what was happening around him, I felt that we could trust the man.
“What can we do?” I asked, “How do we make this right?”
“Lock the bastard away once and for all.” The old man pleaded, as turning back in the direction of the asylum, he pointed a trembling finger, “Seal his cage so that he can’t wander in the night and harm those around him. Dr. Wallace tried—but failed and it took him….”
“How do you know all of this?” Rich asked.
The old man turned and looked back at Rich, “The devil is in his tower, master of all who are trapped within its walls. You can’t destroy or ever beat him, but you can seal him away—or cast him out….”
“The devil--,” Detective Emerson turned to me in question, “He’s referring to patient 1366, right?”
“One and the same--,” Rich frowned, adjusting his glasses as he muttered, “And that’s putting it politely—trust me on that….”
Detective Emerson turned to ask another question, but the old man had vanished from sight without a single sound! We had all just stared aghast as a cold gust whistled in the branches behind where he had once stood. We shone our lights all about the area, but found no physical evidence that he had even been there! Not even so much as a foot-print in the mud….
“This isn’t possible!” Emerson spun toward us, his eyes huge in the pale glow of our lanterns, “He was just standing right here!”
“I have the distinct feeling that he never left--,” Rich peered down at the mud at our feet, “He might be closer than you think.”
Detective Emerson had looked between us as though some kind of terrible joke had been played. But neither of us had responded in explanation, for there was no simple answer to what had just occurred.
“Are you expecting me to believe--,” He swallowed hard, looking back to where the old man had stood, “That we all just saw a ghost?”
“I’m not going to even attempt to explain any of this--,” Resting a reassuring hand upon his shoulder, I said, “Because even if I could—I really don’t think that you would like the answers. The question right now isn’t about what just happened—but whether you’re still willing to help us….”
There was a moment of silence as the wind whistled through the branches and over those lonely graves. Looking down and to where the stones had fallen to reveal muddied and fading numbers, Emerson looked back, “I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but even if it costs me my badge—we’re going to get to the bottom of this….”
Briefly but firmly we shook hands. As thanking him, I said, “I can’t promise to be able to explain anything—or even keep you safe from whatever we might encounter. But I can guarantee that whatever comes of this, that you can rely on us, come hell or high water.”
“So, what would you suggest that we do at this point?”
“The old man was right about one thing--,” Rich swallowed hard, looking upward and toward the asylum, “We really can’t do anything for the dead here, just yet—our fight is up there and on the hill…”
Before parting ways we had planned to meet the following afternoon. Although there was certain terror concerning the case, I breathed better knowing that Detective Emerson now worked with us. It was obvious that he was a very logical man, and though lost to a great degree, maintained an open mind. I could only pray that we would all survive this new nightmare….
After taking Rich home and returning to Caitlin and a late dinner, I had retired to my office. It had not taken very long to commit to paper the events of the day. It was as though my fingers had remembered and then recorded everything without pause.
As I sat back to review what I had written, I felt deeply troubled, even afraid. How had patient 1366 known of my heart condition? And then again, how had he known of Dr. Marlowe, the book and the demon? And then even made reference to my salvation being within those most feared of things! Was patient 1366 offering a stayed execution, or sentence of eternal damnation?
I began typing out these thoughts, pausing briefly to read them aloud. In my heart I suspected that the fiend might have offered hope in return for some kind of future interaction. It had claimed to have only done things as a means to its own ends. And, I now feared the part that I might unwittingly and already be playing….
Drawing the page from the typewriter and dropping it into the tray, I leaned back in my seat. And then, without so much as a thought, reached out and pulled the black silken cloth from off the golden beryl, the ancient globe shimmering and reflecting like a million stars. At one
point, I had even attempted to define the source of light that had caused these beautiful effects, but soon realized that it had not required a source, as it shone with a life and light all of its own.
“Is it some trick of the light, illusion or game of the mind? Or maybe someone or something is really looking back at me….”
“I certainly hope not.” Caitlin entered the office with a tray of tea. I had not even heard her coming as she had been barefoot. I smiled noticing that she wore nothing but her favorite, sheer and emerald night-gown. The material revealing her pale and toned form as it flowed against her skin in the dim light of the office.
“I thought that you had gone off to bed?”
“Oh, well I did at first--,” Placing down the tray, she took a seat in the chair beneath the window, “But I couldn’t sleep, so I thought that I would bring tea.”
Leaning over and kissing her, I watched as she poured tea, “I was going to come to bed, but was just finishing up with a few things.”
“How have you been feeling?” She sipped at her tea.
I knew that something had been bothering her, and after explaining my condition, should have known what it had been. Sighing deeply and placing down my cup, I knelt before her chair and leaning forward, gently hugged her, “Everything is going to be just fine, sweetheart. Have a little faith.”
Kissing my brow, she gently brushed the curls from my eyes. Cupping my face between her hands, she gazed deeply into my eyes, “Did you know that you have been calling out in your sleep over the past few weeks?”
Astonished with the revelation, I shrugged, “No—why haven’t you mentioned this before?”
“Because, they were obviously nightmares--,” Her answer came softly and with the greatest of compassion, “Who is Frank?”
The name chilled my heart. Shuddering with the memory, I looked down in reply, “He was someone that died in a terrible accident.”
Reaching toward the heaped pages of the manuscript in the basket, she paused in thought, “You wrote something about a Frank Jorgenson in the new book.”
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