The Christmas Bell

by L. A. Detwiler

  Rachel’s Story: The Christmas Bell

  L.A. Detwiler

  A short story prequel

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  THE CHRISTMAS BELL: RACHEL'S STORY

  First edition. December 17, 2020.

  Copyright © 2020 L.A. Detwiler.

  ISBN: 978-1393448273

  Written by L.A. Detwiler.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One | 1955

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Further Reading: The Christmas Bell: A Horror Novel

  Also By L.A. Detwiler

  About the Author

  To everyone who is just waiting for their story to be heard.

  Chapter One

  1955

  The sun shining in a contradiction to the grayness inside of her, Rachel settled on a single truth that she would clutch for the rest of her days: she should have killed herself rather than let them bring her back to the demented place.

  Rachel pressed her nose up against the glass in the car window, her dad stoic as he drove through the iron gate into the dark forest surrounding Redwood Asylum. She’d been there once and swore she’d never let them bring her back. She’d do whatever she had to do to stay away from the malevolent stone walls that had suffocated her last time. Yet, there she was, the car driving up the winding path as the silence of the place crept into her bones. Most forests touted wildlife, a serenity. The forest surrounding Redwood reeked of death and sounded like decay to Rachel.

  She thought about running away. She could jump out of her door and be lost in the thick forestry before Dad had time to react. She should have run when she had the chance back at home. Still, she’d thought it would be different. She thought that maybe, just maybe, her mother, her sister could learn to love her. To see her. She thought it could be different.

  Where there used to be hope, now hatred and hurt manifested instead. She now dreamed about her sister squirming under the end of a butcher knife, her mother hacked to pieces in a pool of blood. She pictured the house burning down, both of them caught in a hellish inferno, gasping for air like she had before. She thought of so many scenarios that would bring the retribution they deserved.

  There was just one problem: Rachel was too tired to carry out any plan. The truth of her existence, of her lack of value to the family that was supposed to love her unconditionally, all had taken a toll on her. She didn’t have the energy for revenge in the worn-out body she claimed as her own. She didn’t have the tenacity to fight a losing battle. She could no longer beg for someone to notice her.

  She just wondered how in the hell you became a ghost in your own life. How did you become a non-existent being locked away in a stone chamber, forgotten by all? She wondered how you even survived that, or what the point was.

  Because as her Dad pulled up to the front entrance, mumbling about getting Rachel the help she needed and love, Rachel knew as the orderly came out to collect her that she would never leave the place again. That the stone walls and the crushing interior would swallow her up this time, body and soul. The haunted place would become her grave, and she was too tired to fight it.

  It’s not easy fighting for life when no one cares if you have it, after all. She walked through the door and didn’t look back. As she passed the eerie portrait in the foyer, the chill from the stone wormed through her body, her bones, and reminded her of how desolate the world can truly be.

  Chapter Two

  His yellow teeth peeked out from his sinister grin. Rachel shuddered, wishing she’d tried harder. How had she forgotten the malicious face, the eyes tinged with lust and carnage? Her stomach dropped, the harsh reality sinking in. She’d messed up. She absolutely should have killed herself rather than end up back here.

  She’d tried for a while to be good when she’d been sent home last time. She’d seen it as an opportunity to turn things around, to escape and start over. But time eases your fears and twists the memories. With the passage of time in the free world, she forgot just how bad it was to be locked up. She forgot how horrific of a place Redwood really was. She hadn’t thought returning was a possibility. Certainly, her mother wouldn’t risk the stigma for the family name again. And, in truth, even if she thought Mother would send her back, no matter how hard Rachel tried, she couldn’t fight who she was. At the core, there was something wrong with her. It was undeniable, her desire to be different. Maybe she did belong here—but no one belonged in his hands, no matter how wicked.

  His head stuck through the door of her stagnant room, if one could call it that. The freezing air in her blank cell matched the emptiness inside of her. She rose from the stiff bed and backed away to the corner.

  “Rachel, Rachel. I’ve heard you’ve been a bad, bad girl. But you know what? I think you just missed me, didn’t you?” His words taunted her as she tried to stand strong. She looked him in his slate gray eyes and tried not to blink. She was older now, stronger. She didn’t want him to have the satisfaction of hearing her screams like when she was younger.

  He stepped toward her, his feet shuffling on the floor in a robotic dance. Time can dull the senses, the terror, but as he slinked across the room, the door to her cell shutting and locking behind him, the fear flooded back. Suddenly, she was nine again, at the mercy of an evil man wearing a doctor’s coat.

  He touched her chin, and she thought about biting him, crunching his finger clean off with her teeth and tasting his blood. But she wasn’t that rashly stupid. She was in his sinister hands now, like it or not. Not. Clearly not. Still, she was powerless here, a feeble mouse caught in a trap of lies. There was no one to free her, no one to see what a monster he was. More importantly, there was no one to care.

  His scratchy skin caressed her cheek, but she turned her head and stared at a spot on the wall, trying to go blank. She’d learned that it was the best solution, to go empty inside. Still, no matter how strong her mind, her body trembled in terror.

  “Naughty girl. I’ve heard all of the trouble you’ve caused. But don’t worry. Doctor Woolstone will make it all better, won’t he? We’ll let you settle in today and then jump right to the treatments tomorrow. What do you think, Rachel? I’ve got some new medicines I’ve been dying to try out. Oh, and the shocks are so beneficial for you, don’t you think?”

  She shuddered, remembering what it was like last time. The painful treatments, the pleas for him to stop that went unnoticed. She was marked as damaged, as incapable of rational thought at this place. No one, not even the kind nurses, would believe a girl like her. She was doomed.

  Nonetheless, this time was markedly different. This time, she had nothing to lose. When she was nine, she’d been disillusioned by her family’s visits and assurances that this place would make her better. For a period of time, she’d gritted her teeth and bared the horrors in the hopes that maybe they were right. Maybe she was defective, and Redwood would put her back together.

  It hadn’t taken long, though, for her to unearth the truth. This place was haunted by a power-hungry man who relished in cruelty. It was desecrated by horrific torture that was labeled as treatment. It was infiltrated with people who had been forgotten by the world. She was on a demented island where there was no hope of rescue, not now. For last time, there was an end in sight. This time, her family was intent on leaving behind the one they didn’t want and letting her rot to her own accord. She had nothing to lose, which was a desperate place to be. But it was also liberating.

  She turned to the villain in fron
t of her, and, driven by the pain of the past, she forced herself to smile way too wide. “Fuck you, you disgusting pervert,” she replied. She wouldn’t play nice this time. She’d do her best to go down fighting.

  The jab in her arm hurt, but perhaps what hurt worse was knowing what he would do to her as she faded away into unconsciousness. At least she would be blank for a period of time. That’s how you survived when you were a girl like Rachel, after all.

  You went blank. Apathy was your best friend, your lover, and your rescuer.

  Chapter Three

  The “treatments” started the next day, and Rachel immediately remembered why she’d so desperately clung to goodness last time, had tried her best to escape the clutches of Redwood. Tears fell as she rocked herself on the bed after being returned from the water “therapy.” She had been sure he would drown her this time, her lungs burning with the need for oxygen as the shock of the freezing-cold water bit into her skin. She’d wanted so badly to die, but her body wouldn’t let her suck in the water necessary. Instinct was her enemy, one that she cursed.

  She rocked back and forth on the bed, banging her head against the wall. When she wasn’t being taken hostage for treatments that were more like torture, she was alone. All alone, her deranged thoughts and anger her only company. Even a sane person would go mad in the walls of that place, she thought.

  She jolted at the sound of the door, hating the terror he sent through her. Hating that she wasn’t as strong as she thought she could be. His maniacal grin beamed in the doorway as he perused her.

  “My little dove,” he murmured, gingerly closing the door behind him. “How are we today? Did this morning’s treatment help?” He winked at her, and she stared straight ahead, escaping in her mind to a place where she could kill him, make him suffer, too. She grinned at the thought of plucking out an eye or stabbing him in the throat, watching him gurgle and choke on his own blood. She forced her breathing to slow. It wouldn’t do for him to know she was nervous.

  He caressed her cheek, running a hand through her tangled, black hair. Inhaling, she noted how the sting of alcohol in the air mixed with the smell of sweat on his skin. Vomit rose in her throat, but she quelled it. She thought seriously about biting his finger, about the possibility of gnawing on his throat like a vicious dog. But he was certainly armed, and within a minute of the bite, she would be unconscious, and he would be left to play. The thought of him doing as he pleased to her while she was an unmoving victim was even more disturbing than the excruciating treatments that were certainly to come.

  “Any day now, my little dove, I’ll take you to the room downstairs. You’re familiar with it, I think. I’m sure you’ve seen the patients who come back from the basement. One of these days, I’ll come for you. And then you won’t fight me anymore, will you? All your fears and anger will disappear.”

  She shuddered at his touch, tears stinging her eyes. She had seen the patients come back from the basement. She’d seen the screaming, violent people return as zombies, barely breathing vegetables staring blankly ahead as if frozen in time. What were they thinking? Were they the same inside, simply trapped, expressionless, from the procedure? She was scared of disappearing, but she was more terrified of being trapped forever in his clutches with no mental capacity to fight back. She quivered underneath his touch, which made him snicker.

  “One of these days, love. You just won’t know when.” And then he turned and left, whistling on his way out. She squeezed her hands into fists. She was powerless. There was no escape.

  In that moment, Rachel came to realize that it wasn’t always the ending that created the most dread. It was the waiting. The waiting game was almost always worse than the final demise. The anticipation of a horrid occurrence plagued the human psyche more than anything.

  A vision of Anne came to her. Smiling, sweet Anne who had done this to her and put her in this place. Anne deserved to be at Redwood, to suffer under the doctor’s faux care. Her deed merited the mental anguish of knowing her life would be lived in these cold, damp walls, that at any moment, everything could be taken from her. In truth, Anne deserved so much worse than the torture of Redwood. Someday, Rachel thought. Someday, I’ll find a way to make her suffer.

  Rachel leaned back on the cot, staring at the blank ceiling. Sleep washed over her, but before she drifted off, she jolted back awake. Stuck between consciousness and unconsciousness, she blinked a few times. For a second, she swore someone was in her room. A redheaded figure was in the corner, skulking about with its back to her in what looked like a gauzy shift. When Rachel sat up, though, it was gone.

  Deciding it was a side effect of Dr. Woolstone’s malicious treatments, she squeezed her eyes shut, terrified that any day now, she really would lose her mind.

  Chapter Four

  The months ticked by, but they felt like years as Rachel had no way to track the days. Dr. Woolstone had labeled her as dangerous, meaning she had more restrictions than most. It was his way of keeping her to himself.

  “I like to hear you scream,” he’d said yesterday after a round of hydrotherapy treatments, the one Rachel feared the most. She’d made it her mission to stay quiet, to never cry out even when the fear and pain was unbearable. It was the one point of satisfaction she could have, her one source of power.

  Every day, he threatened her with the promise of a trip to the basement. She thought eventually the fear would wear off. It didn’t. A few times, he’d had her transported down to the surgery, strapped to a bed, only to change his mind at the last second. Her heart raced every time he came in, giving him control she couldn’t reclaim, in spite of her best efforts to stay strong. He was a fiend of the darkest kind. She needed to make him pay. But how could she?

  Rachel’s mind worked endlessly on a solution, on a way out. She’d wrestled with the notion of being on her best behavior, but that didn’t matter. He’d let her go last time because her parents had insisted on giving her another chance. There was no one to fight for her now, and Dr. Woolstone would never let his favorite plaything go willingly.

  She’d considered escape, but that, too, seemed impossible. How could she get out when she had no options at her disposal? Even killing herself was so far out of her grasp. She’d tried prying lose a section of the iron on the bed, to no avail. She’d tried figuring out a way to hang herself, but what would she use? In desperate moments, she considered how long it would take to starve herself, but he’d never allow it. He was always there to make sure she stayed alive, to keep her going. He wouldn’t let her go, not in any way.

  Rachel stared at the ceiling, wishing there was a way to make it all end. As she drifted toward the blankness of sleep, the only relief she could luxuriate in, she heard the familiar footsteps in her room. They’d been here often in the past several months, and Rachel had come to assume it was the restless soul of another of Dr. Woolstone’s victims. Redwood’s walls always seemed to twitch with activity, and it didn’t seem farfetched to her that the spirits of the deceased would remain behind. It didn’t scare her. In fact, it was a welcome reprieve to the boredom and loneliness. It was comforting, in a way, to know someone or something else understood her trouble.

  She’d caught glimpses of the figure repeatedly, the red hair flowing, the ghoulish face that was bony and taut. The black holes where the eyes should be. It was an alarming sight, but Rachel never cowered. She’d found that the real monsters to be feared walked the earth, after all.

  She sat up, hugging her knees to her chest. There was a tiny window covered in iron bars, too high up for her to reach. She looked up and saw snow cascading down in the moonlight, though. It was almost Christmas, she imagined. Her family was probably drinking cocoa by the fire and talking about all the ways the holiday would be special this year. Rachel shoved down the pain and hurt, letting rage bubble to the surface. Sadness was for the weak. Anger and hatred were for the powerful. It was the only form of control she had left. The footsteps continued, and Rachel turned her gaze back to the
room. Before her, the figure stood. Rachel’s heart raced, but she didn’t back away, apathetic even to the apparition of a supernatural type. Without appropriate socialization and hope, the human mind becomes quite unenthused by all stimulus, she’d learned.

  The figure hung above her for a long moment before coming closer, its tendril-like fingers reaching out to touch her cheek. Rachel didn’t move when the nail bit into her flesh. The pain felt gloriously good, welcome even. She stared straight ahead.

  “Revenge,” the figure whispered, its voice scratchy and difficult to understand.

  “What?” Rachel asked, wondering what that could possibly mean other than the obvious.

  The figure pointed to a vent in the corner of the room.

  “Revenge for us all,” it whispered, and Rachel sensed pain in the being’s voice. She looked at the vent in the corner of the room. It was rusty and forgotten near the baseboard. Rachel had tried tirelessly to pry it off, to no avail. Not that getting it off would do any good. But when you were alone in a room with nothing to do, the mind makes up all sorts of fantasies.

  “Revenge,” the figure whispered again, more sinister this time. Its nail scratched a mark on Rachel’s arm this time, a thin line of blood forming. “Then you will join us.”

  “Who?” Rachel asked, wondering if she actually had lost her mind.

  “The forgotten,” the figure replied.

  Rachel needed to know more, to understand. But she couldn’t ask anything else because the figure was gone. Rachel clung to her knees a little tighter, looking at the vent. Maybe she had gone crazy. Maybe she did belong here. But a tiny sliver of hope rose in her heart, in her chest. Along with it came something else: a burning need for vengeance. She was already one of the forgotten at Redwood, her family having abandoned her. She was forgotten by the world at the hands of the cruel Dr. Woolstone. There were so many who deserved to pay. But how could she? She wasn’t strong enough, didn’t have the ability.