Middlebury Sanitarium (Moving In Series Book 3)

by Ron Ripley

  Some of those residents, men, and women whose families had abandoned them because of depression or anxiety, still remained. They were unable to live outside of the structured and regimented life of the Sanitarium.

  Ken understood. He had grown accustomed to living on the campus. He liked his little house and the quietness it afforded him. He didn’t have any neighbors to interrupt his daytime sleeping. He didn’t have any neighbors at all, thankfully.

  I can’t concentrate tonight, he realized. He put a bookmark into his copy of Shakespeare’s The Tragedy of Coriolanus and stretched out his legs. There was a slight chill in the air, and he had been forced to keep the door shut to the guardhouse for most of his shift. It was five, though, and the sun kissed the horizon. Soon the great orb would rise and shine upon the earth and Middlebury alike, and Ken would go to bed shortly thereafter.

  The phone rang, and Ken nearly jumped out of his chair.

  He answered it.

  “Security.”

  “Ken, this is Sue Jeffries in Four.”

  “Hi Sue,” Ken said, straightening up. “What’s going on?”

  “I’ve got a resident out of bed and possibly out of the building,” she said, her tone one of anxiousness.

  “When?” Ken said, standing.

  “Maybe five minutes ago,” she answered. “I did a surprise sweep back through, and it looks like he slipped away between the first check and the second.”

  “Okay, not too bad,” Ken said soothingly. “Who is it?”

  “Mickey Verranault,” Sue said.

  Ken closed his eyes for a moment and placed the name with a face.

  “About seventy? Bipolar manic depression?” Ken asked.

  “Yeah,” Sue said. “From what I remember he usually heads out just after lights out and not so late in the morning, when he gets out he likes to go to the boneyard.”

  “Got it. Thanks, Sue. I’ll have my radio, and I’ll call you shortly.”

  “Thanks, Ken,” she said. “I’m sorry, we’re short staffed tonight.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Ken said. “Bye now.”

  He hung up the phone, turned to leave and yelled as he stumbled back.

  Mickey Verranault was standing at the door and looking in.

  “Jesus, Mickey,” Ken said, opening the door. “You scared the hell out of me.”

  “Can I come in, Ken?” Mickey asked. His voice trembled, and his eyes darted around crazily.

  “Sure, come on in,” Ken said, gesturing to his chair.

  Mickey shuffled in. He wore his slippers and his pajamas as well as a thick blue robe tied tightly around his narrow waist. Mickey’s gray hair was long, well past his shoulders and his stubble only accentuated the sharp features of his face. As Mickey sat down and Ken closed the door, the older man hid his bony hands in the sleeves of his bathrobe.

  “Just let me call over to Sue, okay?” Ken asked, reaching for the phone.

  “Don’t. Please, Ken,” Mickey said. “Give me a few minutes.”

  The desperation in the man’s voice stopped Ken’s hand. Cautiously Ken leaned back against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. “What’s going on?”

  Mickey chewed on his lip nervously for a moment and then he finally said, “You know He’s coming?”

  “Who?” Ken asked.

  “Septimus Rex,” Mickey replied.

  “How do you know about the King?” Ken asked in a soft voice.

  “I just learned,” Mickey said, tears welling up in his eyes. “Oh, Ken, I just learned. They told me. Yes, they told me. They said soon the King would come when the weather was cold, and when the Watchman was alone, the King would come.”

  “Is there anything else they told you?” Ken asked. He felt uncomfortable, as though he was being watched.

  Mickey nodded as he started to hiccup and cry.

  “What, Mickey?”

  “They said don’t bring her back,” the old man whispered.

  “Don’t bring who back?” Ken asked.

  Mickey shook his head. “They didn’t say her name. Just not to bring her.”

  “Okay,” Ken said. “Okay. Thank you for telling me.”

  “You’re welcome,” Mickey said, and he cried harder.

  “Mickey,” Ken said gently. “Mickey, why are you crying?”

  “I can’t leave!” Mickey moaned, looking up at Ken in terror. “Oh, Ken, I can’t leave!”

  The phone rang, and Mickey continued to sob. Ken reached over the man and answered the phone.

  “Security,” Ken said.

  “Oh Ken,” Sue said, her voice thick, “I’m glad I caught you. Marianne from the first floor, she went out to check the boneyard, and she found Mickey. He’s dead, Ken. He fell and hit his head on a marker, and he’s dead.”

  “Okay, Sue,” Ken said numbly. “I’ll be right there.”

  He hung up the phone, stepped back and looked at Mickey.

  Mickey continued to cry.

  “You’re dead?” Ken said.

  Mickey nodded.

  “And now you can’t leave.”

  “I can’t leave!” Mickey said, becoming frantic. “I can’t leave, Ken. I can’t leave. I can’t leave!”

  The window in the door shattered and a blast of cold air raced through Ken.

  “It’s okay,” Ken said, gathering his thoughts. “You can always come and see me. Do you understand?”

  Mickey nodded, wiped his nose with the cuff of his robe and said, “Are you sure?”

  Ken smiled. “I’m sure. I have to go to the boneyard right now. You can stay here if you want.”

  “I will,” Mickey said, a small smile appearing on his face. “You bet I will.”

  “Good,” Ken said. “I’m glad. I’ll be back soon, Mickey.”

  “Okay, Ken,” Mickey said happily, and he started to rock in the chair.

  With a sigh, Ken opened the door, stepped over the broken glass and made his way to the boneyard to gather up Mickey’s body.

  Chapter 38: Making a Call

  Brian sat in the kitchen of Ken’s house.

  His cell phone wouldn’t send texts or make calls. He couldn’t use it to piggy-back a signal so he could email from his laptop.

  Luckily he could still access his contacts. Even luckier still, Ken had a landline.

  And it was working.

  Not only was the phone hard-lined into the system, but the phone itself was a rotary. An old, mustard yellow wall job with a cord an easy thirteen feet in length.

  Whatever, so long as it works, Brian thought with a sigh. He brought Charles Gottesman’s number up and dialed it. The click of the rotary reminded him of his childhood, the memories cut off as the phone started to ring on the other end.

  The phone rang three times before Ellen picked up and said, “Hello?”

  “Ellen, it’s Brian Roy.”

  “Oh,” she laughed. “I had no idea who it could be. The caller ID was saying it was the Middlebury Sanitarium.”

  “Well, I’m at Middlebury,” Brian said, trying to keep his voice light.

  “Seriously?” she asked. “I thought they had closed the place down.”

  “They did. I’m on a job. And, actually, I called to ask a favor of you and Charles.”

  “Sure, she said. “What’s up?”

  “I was wondering if one of you could bring Florence up here,” Brian said, wincing as he asked.

  Ellen paused for a long time before responding.

  “You want Florence?”

  “Yes,” Brian said.

  “Why?” Ellen’s tone was sharp and cold.

  “There’s something bad going on here,” Brian said. “Something terrible. There’s a thing coming. Septimus Rex. The King. We also found a book here, and it says the only person who ever successfully banished this King before was Florence.”

  “And you think she’ll do it again?” Ellen asked skeptically.

  “All I can do is hope,” Brian said. “But the information we’
ve received is ‘yes,’ she’ll do it.”

  “You’re risking a lot,” Ellen said. “A real lot. She gets loose, and there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “I know,” Brian said with a sigh, “and I don’t like it.”

  “Well,” Ellen said, “let me talk with Charles. If he thinks you’re out of your mind, he’ll call back. If not, we’ll be there soon.”

  “Listen,” Brian said, “I’ll ask the security guard to meet you at the gate. Do not come in here, Ellen. No matter what. Okay?”

  Ellen paused and then she asked, “Is it really bad?”

  “It’s terrible,” Brian answered. “Absolutely terrible.”

  “Alright then,” she said. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks,” Brian said, and he hung up the phone.

  Now he had to talk with Ken and hope Charles would bring Florence up.

  Chapter 39: Alone in the House

  When Brian had talked to Ken about going out and meeting the Gottesmans, Ken had readily agreed. This left Anne alone in the house with Brian. Under different circumstances she might have gone over and spoken to him about the way she felt.

  As it was, she was barely able to control herself.

  The entire adrenaline rush of the situation had kicked her hormones into overdrive, and she had to force herself to remain in her seat.

  There was entirely too much space open on the couch.

  Entirely too much couch to begin with.

  The butterflies in her stomach were a mixture of fear and raw sexuality, and if Brian even walked by her, she wasn’t sure if she would be able to contain herself.

  And it looked as though Brian felt the same. He stole glances at her out of the corner of his eye and seemed to have been reading the same page from Dashiell Hammett mystery for the past ten minutes.

  Anne closed her eyes and tried to focus on the situation outside of the house rather than the one in it.

  The King is coming, Anne told herself. Someone named Florence is dead, and she’s coming. I’m surrounded by the dead. By things, I really wasn’t quite sure of when I pulled into the Sanitarium this morning.

  The sound of movement caused her to open her eyes. Brian stood up, went to a window, looked out of it and sighed. He turned away from it, smiled at Anne and walked towards her. He dropped his hand down as he passed and lightly caressed her arm.

  The thrill it sent through her caused goose bumps to ripple across her skin.

  Oh, Brain don’t touch me, she thought desperately.

  Brian walked to a back window and looked out of it. He shook his head a moment later and rubbed his chin.

  “Something wrong?” Anne asked. “I mean, other than the obvious stuff?”

  He glanced over his shoulder and smiled at her, and Anne understood how Jenny could have fallen in love with the man. There was something perfect about his smile. Unguarded and inoffensive.

  “It’s the dead,” he said, returning to his seat. He looked tired and worn out.

  “What about them?” Anne asked.

  “They’re here.”

  “I know,” she said.

  He chuckled. “No. I mean they’re here, at the house.”

  “What?” she asked, sitting up a little straighter.

  “Outside of the house,” Brian said. “They’ve formed a ring. They must be at least ten or fifteen deep. Maybe more.”

  “What about Ken?” Anne asked. “Will he be okay?”

  “Yes,” Brian said. “I don’t think anyone except the King would interfere with Ken at this point. Some of them may not like him. Some of them may actually wish to harm him. But with the King’s arrival imminent, I think they’re too afraid. Ken should be able to meet with Florence without any of the dead giving him a hard time.”

  “Who is Florence?” Anne said. “I meant to ask you earlier.”

  “Florence,” Brian said, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “Florence is a nightmare.”

  And Anne listened as Brian began to speak about Florence, Leo, Paul, and the Kenyon Farm.

  Chapter 40: Ken and an Old Friend

  Ken heard him before he saw him.

  Someone kept pace with him, a short distance behind.

  A look over his shoulder had shown nothing, but it was Middlebury. There could have been a marching band ready to play, and Ken wouldn’t see them if they didn’t want him to.

  Of course, a marching band of the dead was a ridiculous image, and he let out a snort of laughter.

  He paused and dug out his pipe and tobacco. The old routine calmed him as he packed the bowl, the interior of the briarwood dark with years of use.

  I’ll have to clean this soon, Ken thought. If I get the chance to ever clean anything again.

  The rustle of clothes caught his ears, and Ken looked up as he put the tobacco away and found his lighter.

  Mickey Verranault stood on the road a few feet ahead of him.

  Mickey looked the same as he had all those years before when he had visited Ken at the guardhouse.

  “Hello Mickey,” Ken said conversationally, lighting his pipe. He took several deep breaths, made sure the tobacco was fully lit and dropped the lighter back into his pocket.

  “Hi Ken,” Mickey said. He squinted. “You’re old.”

  Ken chuckled. “You’re no spring chicken yourself, Mickey.”

  “But I won’t get any older,” Mickey said sadly.

  “I might not either,” Ken said soberly, realizing, for the first time the end truly could be near for him. Who knew what the plan of the King entailed.

  “I don’t know about how old you’ll get,” Mickey said. He scratched at the back of his head.

  “So,” Ken said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?”

  “I came to tell you to be careful,” Mickey said in a low voice. “You know the King is coming.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  Ken nodded.

  “And you’re getting ready to get help,” Mickey continued.

  “How do you know about it?” Ken asked.

  “Clyde told me,” Mickey whispered.

  “Who’s Clyde?” Ken said.

  “Clyde lives in the tunnels,” Mickey said confidentially. “You met him. His face is gone, poor Clyde. It wasn’t even the Germans. An artillery round from the French fell short. Poor Clyde. I like Clyde. He’s always nice to me. He even lets me hide in his room sometimes, when the bad ones are out.”

  “The bad ones?” Ken asked.

  Mickey nodded. “You know the bad ones. The ones Isabella likes. Ones like Francine. Bad, bad, bad ones.”

  “Yes,” Ken said, thinking about both the girl and the woman. “The bad ones.”

  “Some of the bad ones,” Mickey said, “they don’t want you to bring help. They await the coming of the King. Be careful, Ken. Be very careful.”

  “I will,” Ken said seriously. “Thank you, Mickey.”

  “You’re welcome,” Mickey said, glancing around nervously. “You were always nice to me. Always. I’m going to go back to Clyde’s. It’s quiet there. And safe.”

  And Mickey vanished, and Ken choked on his smoke at the suddenness of it.

  Ken cleared his throat and started again on the road towards the guardhouse. He didn’t know when the people would show up with Florence, but he needed to be ready.

  Chapter 41: Ken, September 2nd, 1998

  Ken found the Honda Civic parked behind Building One.

  The engine was still warm, and the car was empty. A quick look inside showed three McDonald’s cups with condensation on them.

  Three, Ken thought. He turned his flashlight away from the car. Three.

  They could be anywhere. The cemetery. One of the buildings. One of the residences.

  God help them if they’re in the tunnels, Ken thought.

  He walked around Building One and checked the windows of the basement and the first floor. He made sure the doors were secure, and then he moved on to Building Two where
he repeated the process. Buildings Three and Four were fine. The library and the chow hall. The maintenance building and the crematorium as well. His own house was untouched, Isabella’s and the Head Nurse’s and the Superintendent’s homes all stood pristine.

  Only the sheds remained.

  The stairs into the tunnels.

  He found the doors closed and locked.

  Middlebury didn’t want the strangers in its tunnels.

  A horrified scream tore through the air.

  The boneyard, Ken thought as he turned. He started to jog towards the cemetery. Another scream broke free only to suddenly be cut off.

  Ken sighed tiredly.

  Too late.

  He slowed back down to a walk.

  No more screams issued forth from the boneyard. They would either be dead, or close to it. Middlebury had not been forgiving of late.

  Ken had found a transient dead in the maintenance building at the beginning of August. Halfway through July, he had picked up over a hundred dead Canadian geese. Each neck had been twisted, so the bird had looked along its own back. The wings had all been broken.

  No, something at the Sanitarium was angry. Angrier than usual.

  Francine stood near the cemetery’s gates. She held her stuffed dog in one hand, the other hand behind her back. She glared at Ken.

  Ken stopped and looked at her. “Hello.”

  “Kenneth,” she said, her voice heavy with anger.

  “I heard some screams,” he said. “I came to find out why.”

  “You would have heard more,” she said, her voice suddenly sweet. “But we didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “How did you stop the screaming?” Ken asked, afraid of the answer.

  Francine smiled happily as she brought the hidden hand out before her. She held some bloody meat out to him.

  “What are those?” he asked politely, quelling the roiling bile in his stomach.

  “Tongues,” she said happily. “They can moan and groan, but they cannot scream, Watchman. Not without their tongues.”

  “How many?”

  “Just two,” she said with a smile.