Thunder Falls

by Michael Lilly

  It takes me a moment, but I realize what this room is: seclusion. Isolation. Time out, to put it nicely. When a student behaved far enough out of line—violence or threatened violence—this is where they literally cage the rage. A creeping sensation of foreboding tickles at my brain, but not of the ominous haunting nature. Rather, this feels as though I’m overstepping boundaries, peering into some of the most vulnerable memories that many of the young students had ever experienced, flipping through the pages of their diaries without permission.

  I look away, and the sensation of being watched rushes in to replace the out-of-bounds feeling. I look around, but the various corners of the hall remain empty and, save for the odd gust, silent.

  My consciousness is not spared the awareness of the similarities between what I’m doing and an excursion through an asylum or an abandoned mental institution.

  But! pipes up a defiant voice in my head, they are not the same! This is true, but I can’t discount that the factors which make asylums creepy—mental illness, questionable ethics on the part of certain staff, and of course, death and the encapsulating feeling of almost-emptiness—may stretch into this place as well, if to lesser degrees.

  The voice of ration speaks up again: So what? So the fuck what? A compelling argument, to be sure, and one I will keep in mind if occasion arises that I debate a believer about whether or not abandoned facilities like this are creepy.

  But, to the voice’s credit, well…so what? Sure, there are parallels between a treatment facility and a mental institution and the old insane asylums, but they only retained their power of fear as long as you subscribe to the belief that any of the past horrors have the ability to persist into the present. Without that belief, the daunting, haunted maze, ablaze with vengeful spirits and the unrealized fury of the damned, becomes a series of derelict walls and doors, stagnating and collecting dust until the next thrill-seeker comes along for a bit of ghost-hunting adventure. It goes from mystery to history, and from that perspective, I believe, we can appreciate it for its stories and healing, rather than for a place to send people on dares.

  The darkness, always my ally, nevertheless poses a bit of an obstacle at the moment; I can’t see into the darker pools of shadow as completely as I’d like to, but under my present feeling of being watched, I don’t dare switch on my flashlight, lest some malicious stalker be alerted to my location. It’s all I can do, I suppose, to rely on my ears and the hollow, echoing acoustics in this building. And, while my most rational thinking suggests that I’m alone, my instincts tell me otherwise.

  I have a reputation for good instincts, but that’s mostly because they have often led to a fake perpetrator I had already picked out for the case at hand. In this instance my withdrawn, half-exhausted, half-paranoid brain is doing its best to keep itself occupied without the stimulation of human connection. I’m not sure I trust my instincts any more than I’d trust a kiss from a hungry alligator.

  Not to mention that, my mind being in its current state, I’m probably more prone to delusion and hallucination than I care to admit, and any creaks, shadows, or other occurrences adding to a sense of vulnerability are just as likely to be a product of my mind as they are to be products of a fellow intruder. Even keeping this in mind, however, my wariness heightens; better to be hyper-aware and wrong than to be unaware when a threat exists. I wonder for a moment at what point vigilant awareness becomes paranoia. I suppose it boils down to whether or not you’re right.

  The steps are only a dozen, ending at a landing. The painting opposite the stairs, in this darkness, is just a series of organic-looking shapes, blobs of inky blacks and grays swirling together but contrasting simultaneously, like ingredients pooled into a mixing bowl ready to be stirred. In either direction, the landing opens up to a hallway that looks like it wraps around toward the front, separating here and reuniting, it seems, on the opposite side of this wall with the painting. I circle around via the right hall and find myself at the base of another staircase. Rather than looking like the average staircase, however, it looks every bit as decadent and refined as the rest of this building has.

  The staircase begins at my left as I enter and it hugs the outer wall as it goes up to the next floor. There, it remains level as it wraps around the other walls until it gets back to this one. Cast-iron railings extend from floor to ceiling like a column in a cave, stalactite meeting stalagmite in an overdue union. Welded to the inside of the bars is a handrail, coated in thick black paint.

  On the main floor, I see the front entrance opposite me, its padlock and chain rattling weakly as though angry with me for bypassing them. A squashy armchair sits near the entrance, accompanied by a dusty side table with nothing on it but the inch-thick uniform of this time-worn place. Two couches each line the side walls, matching the armchair and each other in both style and their decay: not excessive, but certainly noticeable. A desk, heavy and handsome, sits just in front of me, centered perfectly in the room.

  I walk to the middle of the room and look up to see that, although I can see straight up to the blackness of the roof several stories above, no floors are exposed; each level is caged in by the cast-iron bars. Presumably, this was a precaution to prevent suicidal clients from hurling themselves from the upper levels, similar in function to the bars enclosing all of the windows above the first floor.

  As much as I would prefer to take my time exploring every last inch, I also acknowledge that if I don’t pick up my pace, and soon, I will be in here well beyond sunrise, and thus risk exposing myself to people on my return trip, raising eyebrows and drawing stares, for sure; who knows how much of this rampant dust has nestled in my hair or on my clothes?

  To that end, I exchange my typical prudent thoroughness for a rushed sense of purpose; I’m no longer perusing. I’m seeking. I’m not sure what my treasure is, but I have an idea of where I can find a map.

  I kneel down and pull my backpack close, rifling through various snacks and tools and gear, and withdraw the file I took from the first office. I only want one piece of information, but the sentences and phrases jumping out at me from the page draw my attention and dilute my focus.

  This stuff is mostly admissions information, office- and file-related documents, and (aha!) living arrangements and logistics. I’ll look through what I took from Medical Records when I have more time. All I need at the moment is some kind of indication as to where Willa stayed.

  I flip through a number of old charts, lists, diagrams, and policy manuals; a comprehensive list of each client, her patient number, laundry number, and therapist, an obscurely labeled, hand-written chart documenting accrual of points of some kind; a handful of lined sheets of paper detailing their respective days’ events in neat, black cursive; a shoddily folded love note (without a ‘to’ or ‘from’) in far less neat pencil, and riddled with spelling mistakes; and finally, a list of each client, sorted by which unit they lived on. I scan the list, hopeful that Willa’s information hadn’t yet been removed from this list’s printing. But alas, I find her, one of the eight clients in a unit called Thunder Springs.

  As quickly as I can without making a mess of things, I tuck the documents back into my bag and find myself surveying that massive hall once again.

  A pregnant stillness hangs in the air, like a dam lined with explosives, waiting only for someone to detonate it; just that, just the press of a button to unleash havoc and chaos upon those once secured by that structure.

  I stand and wait for a moment, as though some other entity will press the button, but this stillness is an old, patient one, and it seems none too bothered by the prospect of holding its breath for a few more minutes while I orient myself. That quality unnerves me just the slightest bit: the idea that this situation, this night, this building, seem to be reacting to me. Surely, it’s a phenomenon all in my head. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. Whether or not it’s true is a door at the end of a mental corridor I don’t care to visit now—can’t afford to visit now—while I have
other matters to deal with, rendering each passing minute more and more precious.

  From what I can tell, there are two sets of stairs on each floor, on opposite corners from each other. The closest one to me is to the north of where I entered, just to my left. Even in the crisp, mountainous September air, even in the scarce ether of the night, I feel a peculiar warmth, perhaps more within me than around me, as I begin my ascent up the stairs. Each footstep, despite my efforts to suppress them, echoes around the tall entryway with a clarity that surprises me; the relentless dust I’ve seen thus far would have led me to expect a more muffled sound. I suppose the amount of empty space coupled with the area of smooth, hard surfaces betrays me this time.

  The sense of being watched threatens to encroach again, but I mentally bat it away, supposing (hoping) that these thoughts are baseless, formless, groundless. Still, sleeves of goosebumps envelop my arms, soon to be a complete jacket (a turtleneck, even). With the augmentation of adrenaline, I fail to keep the paranoia at bay and my senses go to town once more—the tired old building creaks and sways in the night, a lovely wind moans through the eaves, and shadows without casters dance and play in the moonlight’s tricky, fickle gaze. That acute level of concentration is intriguing; an elephant could tap dance on the floor above me and it may escape my notice, but simultaneously, I would be privy to a fly sneezing three rooms away. It’s as though all of my senses—and my mind itself—are operating through a microscope, magnified a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand times. Aware of this, I attempt to calm myself, willing my nerves to drink in the tranquility, rather than speculate on the peculiarity and suspect, of this evening.

  To an extent, it works—the rooms, temporarily transformed to a smattering of materials and dimensions and missing furniture, turn back into rooms. The shadows calm and settle, the easy creaks of the building lose their sinister presence, the face pressing in against the ground-floor window—

  Holy Jesus—

  scurries away, taking its shadow with it.

  Seven

  Ohgodohgodohgod.

  What I’ve been dismissing as nerves and paranoia all night turned out to be true, solid, as though my very fearful apprehension coalesced and took shape. My heart’s normally steady, rhythmic beat now hammers away without restraint. The shadow man having disappeared whips my mind into a hallucinogenic frenzy, my eyes flitting from corner to corner, window to window, watching the shadows dance and dance and churn and swell and heave and—

  Knock knock knock.

  My visitor is knocking at the door. There’s the possibility that that, too, has been a product of my imagination, but I am able to yank my brain reins away from panic for long enough to dwell on it further. Yes, I believe that that was real. The fullness of it, the clarity, the resounding and echoing whispers of its vibrations—they’re real. Is this person playing games with me? There have been times tonight throughout which I was vulnerable; if my stalker had intended to inflict harm upon me, surely he could have, just like at the cottage. Unless, of course, he just barely caught up with me. But then, even if he didn’t intend to hurt (or kill) me now, maybe he’s just waiting until after he finds out what I’m doing here. Frankly, if someone were to ask, I’m not sure I’d be able to answer, in a lie or otherwise.

  Or maybe this is just one of the fabled ghosts of Ghost Fork, the volatile beings so saturated with rage or sorrow or longing or lust that it tethered them to this plane of existence, as though their emotional baggage was too much cargo for the flight to heaven, so rather than abandon it, the host stuck around to feed on it and nothing else for centuries.

  Fortunately, I don’t believe in any of that. That being the case, I must handle this inquirer, this stalker, as a human. That doesn’t offer a whole lot of clarity, however, other than that circles of salt and crucifixes and holy water will be ineffective. No sir, no priest call necessary for this encounter, except maybe to perform last rites.

  In my paralytic indecision, I end up doing nothing but standing, listening, and trying to suppress the volume of my breathing for a minute or so.

  No further sounds fill this entryway. A human would normally try again, right? Not that there’s anything ‘normal’ about these circumstances. And even if the knock were to come again, what would I do? He’s already seen me through the window, I can’t very well pretend I’m not here. And if I just elect to ignore him, what then? He has managed to tail me this far, who’s to say he wouldn’t maintain surveillance of me until the minute I walk out of here? It’s probably best to face him now. I remind myself that there’s a chain with a corroded padlock on the other side of that door, and take comfort in noting the drastic limitations imposed on how far the door will open. If he wants a fight, it won’t be happening now. At least, not a fist fight.

  I inhale deeply. Exhale. My heart rate is back under control. The door is thick and metal. If stalker turns assailant, it will provide a fairly reliable shield, even if fists aren’t his weapon of choice.

  I pull the door open and hold it close to my shoulder. A whooshing gust of wind gushes in, giving this hall its first breath of fresh air in many years. Swirls of dust skate just above the floor, kicking up small motes of it, which form whirling, curling shafts in the moonlight.

  And then, nothing.

  No flurry of gunfire, no grasping arm trying to claw its way in, no sudden explosion or thudding impact longing to ram through the precipice.

  I look out the threshold and see a darkness only slightly more forgiving than that from which I view it. The shapes that are visible—the tree line, the mountainous silhouettes, the opposite wall, the school building—rush into place, like a liquid poured into a mold, ready to be baked into a solid by the sun’s imminent rise.

  Alongside that solidarity comes a stillness of light and sound, unbroken by crickets or birds, the whispering breeze or the subsequent chattering rustle of the leaves. Surely, the courtyard has its own muffling quality, but this is an ethereal atmosphere, more fabricated than natural, rendering it all the more unsettling. An abrupt, irrational (although recognizing its irrationality doesn’t help to loosen its grip on me) fear seeps into my mind like a dye, that the world is balanced precariously on the edge of some great galactic cliff, and that any of my movements will upset that balance and send the world tumbling into the abyss.

  However, as suddenly as it arrived, that fear is dismissed by the embrace of an unseasonably warm wind.

  Perhaps my mind’s tether to sanity is a bit more tenuous than I thought. I breathe deeply the night air, hoping that its refreshing fingers will help to augment the remaining functional faculties of my mind.

  Deep breath.

  An animal startles in the woods beyond the courtyard’s outer wall.

  Deep breath.

  The birds return from their brief auditory absence to resume their singing (which will continue to seem premature until the sun rises).

  Deep breath.

  With a refreshed sobriety, I step back into the building, uncertain of whether that is a retreat to safety or from it.

  As I step back, my flashlight’s sweeping pool of light glints over something small and shiny. I crouch to see it better. I’m greeted by a tiny silver key, sparkling in its rounded edges, sitting perfectly centered atop a drying leaf, like a gift from Pan.

  The key is old-fashioned, and brings to mind thoughts of music boxes and old piano covers. Despite its otherwise apparent age, however, the brilliant sheen is entirely without tarnish or blemish. Its long neck unites the simple-looking head with an ornate, loopy handle. I inspect it for a moment, then stuff it into my pocket. It feels heavier there than it did in my fingers.

  My trinket stowed away, I scan the courtyard once more, but find nothing, no one. Had this key been here before? Did I overlook it completely when I came to find the corroded lock?

  More than anything else, the casual ease with which this guy has been poking around makes me uneasy. When you see a stranger poking around in abandoned houses and sc
hools, there are various assumptions you might make. Perhaps that man has an affinity for the old and derelict, or he is on some kind of dare or bet. In any case, the subsequent deduction would be that he’s also pumped full of adrenaline, and that following him in too close proximity could result in a scare, or worse.

  So, then, what kind of person is either unaware of or undeterred by such inhibitions? Is my stalker simply that fearless? Or does he have some insight into who I am?

  Given that my mystery texter knows seemingly everything about me, maybe someone else found a way to access such information, as well, which makes me uncomfortable. The more likely situation, I deduce, is that if this person knows about me, there’s a striking chance that he’s connected to my texting buddy. That is a mystery, but I sense that the ball is beginning to roll on this. In any case, he hasn’t shown any aggression or ill intent. At least, not yet.

  I push the door shut with a resounding clang and head toward the stairs. In spite of the confusing and mysterious accompaniment I’ve (apparently) had tonight, I feel an odd sensation of comfort, as though having reunited with an old friend rather than a stranger shrouded in enigmatic shadow. I hope my intuition holds true in that sentiment; as much as I like to be alone, I could sure use an ally.

  Eight

  Todd

  “Oh yeah, I’ve seen him once or twice. Quiet guy, but always polite. He in some kind of trouble?”

  “Not at all. Just an old friend. Thanks for your help.”

  Finally, Todd thinks. He has always considered himself intuitive, and a logical, thoughtful detective, but Remy’s vanishing act would make Houdini himself sweat.

  Todd, saturated in hunter’s elation, purchases an iced tea and a candy bar and heads out.

  With this new information, he faces the crisp air with a renewed optimism. This intel was not so much that Remy has been here, but the one word that the store clerk used: always. He’s always polite. That means that Remy not only was here somewhere, but is. The transition from the past tense to the present is an event he has been looking forward to for some time now.