Ashes Beneath Her: A Northern Michigan Asylum Novel

by Erickson, J. R.

  “There was no pivotal moment. I fantasized about girls like any young guy does but in my fantasies…” He paused and looked up. His eyes were so dark, not the eyes she’d seen that first day in the park. “The girls were bound, they cried and screamed. I liked it. It aroused me.”

  Spencer’s hand moved to his leg. He squeezed his thigh, as if an uncontrollable urge had begun to roll over him. Orla realized she’d made a mistake in probing. He’d begun with honesty, but the telling of the fantasy had ignited something.

  From the other room, Orla heard the girl whimper.

  Spencer darted his eyes toward the sound. She saw the color rising into his neck, and then his face. His breathing shifted, becoming shorter and faster.

  “Please, Spencer,” Orla said. She pushed against the restraints, searching for the words that would calm him. “Spencer,” she said again, louder. She wiggled her arm back and forth, and heard the rip as the tape started to pull apart.

  He looked back at her blankly as if he didn’t know who she was.

  “You don’t have to do this. Let me help you.”

  He had stopped listening, and he had not heard the tape. He stood, eyes vacant, and picked up the knife.

  “No,” Orla shouted. “Stop!”

  He didn’t stop. From the other room, the girl cried out.

  Orla scraped her wrist faster and jerked it up, breaking the frayed tape free. She fumbled, sweat making her hands slip as she removed the tape from her other wrist and her ankles. She stood and heard the woman begging for her life.

  “Spencer!” Orla screamed.

  She picked up the chair, she’d been taped to, and threw it towards the door. It hit the doorframe and sent a spray of wood splintering to the floor.

  As Spencer emerged from the room, dazed, a wild look in his eyes; Orla wrenched open the front door of the cabin and raced into the storm.

  * * *

  Abe

  The girls did not respond as Abe rushed down the hallway calling their names.

  A huge picture, lit by an eerie pale light, caught his eye. He gazed at an aerial view of the Crows’ property. He saw the house of Mrs. Crow. At the opposite end of the property stood the doctor’s house, and in the center, nestled deep in the thick woods, he saw a small cabin, a ring of smoke curling from the tiny chimney. He blinked at it, followed it to M-22, to that special curve in the road.

  He turned toward the stairs and the woman was there, her stance wide and solid. Something gleamed in her claw-like hand. A knife… no, a syringe. His mind flashed to that long-ago prescription for arsenic and her dead husband. He shook his head in vague disbelief. This woman with her made-up face and her string of pearls gazing at him with the eyes of a killer.

  It seemed unreal that he could find himself in this moment, in this house of horrors.

  He ran toward her, and she lunged at him. He tried to dodge the needle, but she sunk it into his shoulder. Before she could depress the syringe, he grabbed her arms and wrench her back, lifting her from the ground. She shrieked, her colorless eyes blazing, and swung the needle wildly, nearly sinking it into his cheek. He threw her toward the wall. She smacked into it and landed awkwardly, crying out as her ankle twisted. Her head thudded backwards. Not hard enough to knock her unconscious. But she looked dazed as she toppled sideways onto the hall rug.

  Abe ran down the stairs and out the door.

  Rain poured through the trees. The leaves, heavy and dripping, provided little respite. For the first several minutes he sprinted blindly through the storm, slipping on wet leaves, catching his foot on a root and sprawling on his face. He stood up, tried to get his bearings.

  The cabin was located north, somewhere between the doctor’s house and Virginia’s.

  As he fumbled through the dark, he glimpsed a light. He started to run, keeping his hands out to protect his face from the branches. As he neared the cabin, the door swung open and a woman fled into the night. He glimpsed her through the rain, and her long black hair streaming out behind her was unmistakable: Orla. Seconds later, a man emerged through the doorway and followed her.

  Abe paused, gazing at the cabin. He took a step closer and then turned, rushing in the direction Orla had run.

  50

  Orla

  Thunder cracked the night and lightning split the sky above her. For a dazzling instant, Orla saw Spencer behind her, barreling through the trees, and then it was black once more.

  She hurled forward, blind in the rain, her feet crying out as she stepped on fallen branches and tried not slip. Her muscles shrieked as if she’d set them on fire. She clutched trees and heaved for breath but knew she could not stop. Her life, and the life of the woman in the cabin, depended on her escape.

  A dark mass rose before her, and she nearly ran into it headfirst. She skidded to a stop and pushed her face closer, finding a rusted metal door to an old kiln. She dragged the door open and climbed inside, pulling it closed. Inside the kiln, she heard nothing. The instant the sound died, she regretted her choice. She was trapped.

  The fine ash beneath her stuck to her wet hands and legs. She crawled deeper into the kiln, to the far back. The ash billowed when she moved and she struggled to breathe. It caught in her nose and throat. She needed to cough, but couldn’t. Didn’t dare.

  Within the ash, hard things poked and shifted beneath her. She reached down and followed the outline of a long, thin object, like a stick, but no… As she grasped it, she realized it was a long bone, rounded and knobby at either end. If she took off her gloves, she could discover who the bones belonged to. She didn’t, but she lifted the bone in her hand, ready to wield it as a weapon if Spencer opened the door.

  “Please,” she murmured to the silence. “Please don’t let me die in here.”

  The door creaked open. It brought no light, but a rush of cool, wet air swept into the kiln swirling the ash up around Orla. She clenched her hand on the bone, biting back a scream.

  “Orla?” a man whispered.

  She did not recognize the voice.

  She wanted to call out, scream for help, but maybe it was Spencer – somehow, he’d disguised his voice and hoped to trick her.

  She stayed quiet and pressed her back against the cement wall.

  Lightning lit the forest, and Orla glimpsed the stranger for an instant, his eyes peering into the kiln.

  Worse, she observed the man who stood behind him: Spencer, a hammer in his raised hand.

  “Watch out!” she screamed, but the bolt of lightning had vanished, and she stared into the black. Sounds drifted into the kiln, grunts and thuds.

  Was Spencer killing the man? Would he soon crawl into the kiln to finish her, too?

  She didn’t wait to find out. She fumbled over ash and bones, leapt onto the slick forest floor, rain washing the grit from her face and arms. She spotted a dark mass rolling on the ground. She wanted to help, needed to help, but could not make out one man from another.

  She fled back to the cabin, bolting the door behind her. In the now-open bedroom, Spencer had left his knife on the floor by the bed. The girl in the bed, arms and legs tied, stared at her panic-stricken, one eye bruised and bloodshot. Her blonde hair fell across her face.

  Orla grabbed the knife and hacked at the ropes. When the girl’s arm was free, she ripped the gag from her mouth. Red welts marked the creases of her mouth. She cried and blundered off the bed.

  * * *

  Abe

  Abe ducked sideways as Spencer brought the hammer toward his skull. He landed hard on his shoulder, and already the man was striking again, arm raised, the clawed end pointing down. Abe rolled across the wet leaves, and kicked his legs out. His foot connected with Spencer’s shin. He grunted, but didn’t drop the hammer.

  Abe scrambled with his hands, found a thick branch and whipped it toward Spencer’s form but the rain and dark obscured him.

  He stood, squinted into the downpour, and perceived the hammer too late as it crashed into the side of his head.


  * * *

  Orla

  “Run,” Orla bellowed, pushing the girl ahead of her into the blustery night.

  The trees howled in the storm and dropped their leaves and branches as the girls tore through thick underbrush.

  “I can’t see,” the girl cried to Orla.

  “Just don’t stop,” Orla shouted, shoving her forward when she slowed.

  Orla ached. A cramp in her right abdomen crept higher, and she hunched sideways to relieve the clenched tissue.

  The blonde girl slipped, her feet sliding back to connect with Orla’s ankles, and both women fell. Orla landed hard on the girl’s back and heard her grunt. Rolling to the side, Orla reached for her knee, which had twisted in the fall, and winced. The blonde girl climbed onto her hands and knees. Her shoulders rose and fell as she sobbed and struggled for breath, her clothes and hair mud-splattered.

  Orla reached out, found the woman’s slippery hand, and drew her close. They held each other for several seconds, the rain pelting their heads. Lightning streaked and lit the forest, and Orla saw him - Spencer, hammer in hand, only feet from where the girls lay.

  Orla stiffened, and for a few seconds time seemed to exist in a parallel world. She slipped into her long-ago self, a little girl lost in the sand dunes as a thunderstorm rocked the sky. As Orla cowered behind a gnarled, bone-white tree, she gazed in horror at a man holding a hammer and stumbling through the sand towards her.

  A boom of thunder split the earth.

  There was no time to warn the girl. Orla stood, jerked the other woman to her feet, and dragged her into the woods.

  She tried to run, but her knee buckled, and she went down, hand slipping from the blonde woman’s grasp. The woman lunged backwards, sprawling in the sodden leaves and narrowly dodging the hammer Spencer had swung at her head.

  Orla crawled toward her, but Spencer’s hand clamped on her leg, gripping through her sweatpants to keep from slipping. She forced the waistband down and slipped out of the pants. She felt the hammer thud into the ground beside her.

  The blonde woman was on her feet. She heaved Orla up beside her.

  Orla screamed as Spencer’s hand sank into her hair. She tried to twist away, and he brought her skull hard against the other woman’s, whose hair he also held tight in his fist. Their heads collided, and black spots filled Orla’s vision.

  Both women collapsed. Orla felt her head break free of Spencer’s grasp.

  She looked up to see a hand close over Spencer’s mouth. Another set of arms surrounded him, and another. Orla blinked, dazed, as long, slender arms, pale and waxy, ending in torn, bloody fingernails, besieged the man.

  Orla glimpsed the woman she’d encountered at the start of this nightmare: Susan, long blonde hair unaffected by the rain, but streaked in dark red. The girl had both hands over Spencer’s face, pressing into his eyes. He was shrieking and tearing at their arms. He fell onto his back.

  The blonde woman who’d escaped with Orla watched as well. They sat on the sodden earth as the rain subsided, watching young women with bloodied faces and long blonde hair drag Spencer backwards into the forest.

  * * *

  Hazel

  Hazel regretted driving up the Peninsula the moment she turned onto M-22. The rain, a sprinkle in town, had become a practical monsoon as she crept along the curvy roads. She stopped twice when the windshield became a mass of pouring and pounding water.

  When she pulled her car back onto the road, the rain had slowed. A steady drizzle kept her windshield wipers working. She passed Sapphire Lane and slowed at the curve, eyes drifting to the edge of the forest where sightings of Susie had occurred.

  As if conjured by her thoughts, a young woman with long blonde hair burst from the woods. Hazel slammed on her brakes, believing for a second that she was witnessing Susie’s ghost, but then another woman staggered from the trees. Her dark hair was plastered against her face, her eyes huge in her pale face.

  “Orla,” Hazel choked, jumping from the car.

  Orla and the blonde woman clung together, their faces bruised and scratched.

  When she looked at Hazel, she didn’t seem to recognize her. Her mouth hung slack, but after several seconds, her eyes cleared.

  “Hazel?” she whispered.

  Hazel rushed to her friend.

  “You’re alive, you’re alive,” she murmured, holding Orla as if she might vanish at any moment.

  Orla nodded into her neck and then pulled away, shooting a frightened glance into the woods.

  “We have to call the police.”

  51

  Abe

  Abe woke in an unfamiliar room. He blinked at the dimmed lights overhead. A bandage partially covered the right side of his head and he reached a hand up, gingerly touching the wound. An IV ran from his left arm to a tall metal pole holding a saline bag.

  “I fucking survived,” he murmured, remembering those final moments in the forest as the hammer swung down.

  “Yes, you did.” The woman’s voice startled him, and he sat up, wincing at the stab of pain behind his right eye.

  The bandage blocked her from view. He turned his head to find Orla in a chair beside his bed.

  She’d braided her long black hair and hung it over her shoulder. She sat with her legs pulled into her chest, her chin resting on her knees. On the table beside her, he saw the wrinkled photograph of Orla cradling the kittens in her lap. He had been carrying it in his back pocket when he’d run into the woods.

  He offered her a smile.

  “You did too,” he murmured.

  “Thanks to you,” she told him.

  He shook his head, grimaced at the pain and lay still.

  “No. I saw you escape. I probably gave away your hiding place by following you to the kiln.”

  She untucked her legs and scooted her chair closer, putting her hand in his.

  “I’m Orla,” she said. “Hazel told me all about you.”

  He closed his eyes.

  “Nice to meet you, Orla. I’m Abe.”

  * * *

  Liz

  Liz watched Orla’s mother. Fiona’s face was frozen, her eyes boring into the car. When Orla stepped out, Patrick grinned, but Fiona’s face crumpled. Her small mouth drooped and her eyes gushed tears.

  “Orla,” she mouthed and took a step.

  Orla ran to her parents, her arms out wide. Fiona fell into her daughter’s arms. An animal wail left her body, and Patrick reached down and braced a hand around his wife’s waist to keep her from falling.

  Liz’s breath had left her body. She couldn’t move or speak. Her gaze was fixed, unable to shift from the scene unfolding, knowing, knowing why Fiona had collapsed, why she’d wailed at the sight of her beautiful - living - daughter.

  “Liz,” Abe murmured her name. He’d stepped from the car, and stood beside her. She hadn’t even noticed him.

  She turned and saw the sadness in his face. He too would be celebrating Orla’s return, but there were so many who would never return.

  “Are you okay?” she asked him, reaching up toward the bandage on his head, but not touching it.

  “Better than okay,” he said, gesturing at the scene before them as Orla folded into her parents’ embrace.

  Liz held her tears in check, strangled her own sobs and leaned against Abe, crying quietly into his shoulder.

  * * *

  Abe

  Deputy Waller shuffled Abe into the viewing room. Several other officers and detectives huddled together, watching the interrogation of Virginia Crow. Detective Hansen of the Petoskey police department took the lead.

  “I want to see my son!” Virginia Crow demanded.

  “He’s at the hospital being treated for a head wound and shock. Afterward, he’ll be transferred to a cell right here,” Detective Hansen told her. “And I understand you’d like to speak with your attorney. He’ll be here shortly. Though I must warn you, we’ve discovered bones in the kiln on your property. A lot of bones. I’ve met some slick lawy
ers in my day, but you won’t be wiggling out of this one, and neither will your son. Tell me, Mrs. Crow. Is Spencer your first or second-born child?”

  She ashed her cigarette, her face pallid beneath the florescent lights.

  “My second son. Dr. Crow’s son.”

  “I see. But you also named your first son Spencer?”

  Her lips curled back from her teeth and she glanced away, blinking rapidly as if for a moment she’d seen him, that original child, watching her from the corner.

  “Was he in the kiln, Mrs. Crow?”

  She laughed a high, shrill sound.

  “I didn’t burn him alive, if that’s what you mean. He was dead already. He died a week after I had my second son.”

  “How did he die?”

  She took another drag on her cigarette, and pushed a finger in her mouth, chewing the nail to a point.

  “The real-life Adam’s Family,” another detective in the viewing room murmured.

  “Natural causes, I’m sure,” Victoria sighed, as if she’d grown bored with the whole affair.

  Hansen opened a folder and spread the doctor’s notes fan-like across the table.

  “Administration of barbiturates, injections of insulin, submersion in freezing water, solitary confinement for hours. The child died before two years of age. You know what I would call that, Mrs. Crow? Murder.”