Exploring the infirmary now only made sense. The townspeople of McArthur didn't know he was coming just yet. If any of them had had anything to do with the disappearance of Dr. Klein-- and it was certainly possible that someone in the sleepy town indeed did-- then he owed it to himself to check things out now, before they had a chance to come out to the building and hide whatever evidence they might've left, or which the police might've overlooked.
More than this, however, the investigator felt compelled. Something, despite all of the nebulous terror he felt, was egging him on. There was an uncomfortable warmth in his stomach which spread gradually through his limbs like dull fire. Pressing on, he felt, was the only way it might be quelled. He recognized in this sensation no shortage of curiosity; curiosity intermingled with raw fear.
The first thing he noticed as he came within twenty feet of it was the way it seemed to cast an unnatural shadow about its surroundings. Though the infirmary was surrounded by countless trees of variable height and thickness, the bulk of the darkness came unquestionably from its own form, and the general impression was one of spoilage, as though the rain had washed filth of a kind from the ancient building and subsequently poisoned the land with a dark blight. Ulrich's boots sank into the mud as he fought his way off of the road and into the tall grass. In spots, the grass was up to his hips, and the wide, unnatural-looking fronds that sometimes sprang up along the way were dripping in cold rain that soaked into him. Shivering, Ulrich went on as quickly as he could, pushing up onto the property from the side before rounding a corner and leaving the SUV behind. From where he now stood the road was no longer visible, the sight blocked out by a particularly dense cluster of trees. However, the back of the building was presently in view and he ambled by, looking up and down its length for anything out of the ordinary, anything but the loathsome degeneration with which he'd already become well-acquainted. There were windows here, all of them intact. Opaque, filled with shadow so that they were bordering on black, it was a marvel to him that none had been broken over the years by ballsy college students.
Ulrich flinched as he came upon something in the grass. It was a dead bird, its dark brown wings stretched out and vaguely twisted. To which species it belonged or how it'd met its end, he was unsure. Grimacing, Ulrich stepped over it and continued on, peering up guardedly at the exterior of the building. There was a single door in the rear of the house, still some paces ahead, through which he might gain access. The exterior was pockmarked in several places with perfectly circular openings the size of a silver dollar. These holes, which appeared every ten or so feet in seemingly random positions, had probably been made by carpenter bees during the summer. Above him, he heard a groaning and tapping, as of metal scraping wood. A loosened gutter converted mainly into rust swayed in the breeze and grazed the second story.
Ulrich very nearly stepped on a pair of dead birds, their bodies bloated with rot and rain. They'd apparently fallen in the same place, had died in the same fashion as the last one, and were of the same dark brown coloration. He sidestepped them, only to narrowly miss a mound of plumage half-obscured by tall grass. More dead birds, three or four of them here, and only a few feet from where the last two had been. Marching a few steps further, he discovered several more. All told, there must have been twenty or thirty scattered across the back of the property.
Then, when the back door was coming into view, he saw it.
A single bird, with dark brown plumage, dove out of a neighboring tree, sailed quickly through the air and slammed headlong into the back of the building. Its tiny body crumpled at once and fell, twitching, to the grass. Ulrich was spooked by this, shambled over awkwardly to the bird's resting place, only to find it in a similar state to the others, its body contracting spasmodically in its death throes. “Jesus,” he muttered, looking up to the building and then to the canopy overhead as though expecting more birds to attempt a kamikaze. Was something drawing them in? Throwing off their navigation, perhaps? He pursed his lips and looked out to the dark woods about him, at the crest of a far-off hill that was partly visible between the crowded trees that exploded for miles behind the infirmary.
He was one of those birds. His navigational system had been disrupted. He'd been drawn to the building, despite his aversion. If he wasn't careful, he would join those birds as a casualty. That the infirmary could break him, too, was never in doubt.
He'd arrived within reach of the back door. It was a wooden thing, meaty, on ragged steel hinges, and looked every bit as battered as the rest of the place. A broken lightbulb was positioned just above it, the glass vessel that'd once encased it thoroughly shattered and thick with dewy spider's silk. Ulrich sucked in a deep breath as he reached out to touch the door. The grooves in the wood, slick with rain, had about them a softness and coolness that was not unlike cold skin, and he recoiled at once. Peering down at the door handle, he found it locked with a padlock. The brand name was effaced by rust, but the mechanism looked largely intact. Slowly, he reached out and jostled it. It proved as hearty as it looked and would not budge. He considered strong-arming his way in, but thought better of it when a second bird descended from the canopy and slammed into one of the upper story windows right above him. Its body sailed to the ground and crashed into the tall grass, where it disappeared in a series of flutters. It would be best not to do anything brash...
Heart pounding, Ulrich took a few steps back and continued round the other side. The front door, or a side door, perhaps, would be open. He wouldn't attempt to break into the place unless absolutely necessary. Later on, if he couldn't make his way in, a cop could likely assist him. It would be safer that way, too. More and more he reconsidered his course of action and began to plan a retreat. He'd come back with more men, more resources, on a brighter day. That would be the sensible thing to do, said the cowardly voice in the back of his head.
More dead birds marked the way forward, and it wasn't until he rounded a corner and arrived on the shadow-swollen side of the house, wreathed in wild trees, that the avian carnage ceased. Here there were no windows or doors, merely two stories of wood paneling and a chimney whose structural integrity was questionable at best. A few bricks had fallen from the stack and were buried in the yard. He nudged one of them with his foot, and noticed that its ruddy edges had begun to crumble.
Disheartened at the lack of a side door, Ulrich soldiered on, the tops of his boots dappled in thick knots of mud. To his side, clinging to one of the rain-soaked wooden panels, was a curious-looking insect, a fly of some kind with disproportionately long limbs. Its tiny eyes were focused on him as he passed, its thin body and membranous wings twitching ever so slightly with the passage of the breeze. He didn't care for the sight of it. In fact, he found it utterly disgusting, representative, perhaps, of the oddities a further exploration of the site might yield. Beads of cold rain struck him from above, rolling off of the tree tops in fat globules. His shoulders, his neck, his face, were all dampened before he managed to round the next corner and survey the front of the infirmary. His woolen coat could not altogether protect him from the weather, and though he pulled the collar closed, the cold still pressed against him like an unwelcome stranger.
The front of the building was presently in view.
The scene there could not have been more grotesquely picturesque. It called to mind Poe's House of Usher or something equally sinister. The swaying of a loose wooden panel in the harsh wind served as a kind of salutation to the investigator and all but cemented in his mind that this old building was not so feebly inanimate as it might have seemed to an ignorant observer. It was a living, breathing thing, insofar as it appeared to have thoughts and an agenda of its own. To step through its front door, which was similarly constructed to the one in the rear and, unsettlingly, ajar, was to deliver one's self into the mouth of an enormous beast. Even without the common perils associated with old and decrepit buildings such as this, there could be no denying that to enter it would be to put himself in great danger, such was its malicious appe
arance. Nothing good could possibly dwell within. It was a place long abandoned by pleasantry, used only to nurturing decay and foisting such on all who were foolish enough to venture inside. The door creaked on its hinges, the lock that'd kept it shut laying on a stoop of discolored concrete. Glancing upward and burying his hands in his pockets in search of warmth, Ulrich studied the three rows of windows that looked out upon the overgrown field where he stood. The dim outer light could not penetrate them.
Surveying the field, Ulrich spotted a tottering wooden sign. The paint had long been washed away, but with a bit of effort the carved message on it could still be read. He walked up to it and squatted down until it was at eye-level. SYLVAN INFIRMARY EST. 1875
He took in a deep breath through his mouth, leaving his throat icy, and then looked back at the building. The door eased open a bit further, as though inviting him. A light rain began to fall, sending the sea of green about him rippling. Springy leaves and blades of grass all quivered in the fresh rain, and before he gave himself a chance to second-guess it, Ulrich marched towards the entrance. A sound erupted from up in the canopy, a sound which he hadn't heard since leaving the SUV. A cacophony of squawking birds. What message were they seeking to convey? He gulped as he heard their cries ring out, his advance slowing, if only temporarily.
Perhaps they were trying to warn him off.
Maybe they were reciting his last rites.
Standing at the threshold, the rain now falling harder and seeming to urge him in with haste, Ulrich looked inside. The grey light did not penetrate far, elucidating only a few feet's worth of raw, wooden flooring. The remainder of the room was eaten up by shadow, and he flinched at the thought of entering, lest he, too, should be consumed by it. From his pocket he drew out his cellphone, and by some clumsy combination he switched on the flashlight function. Raising it up, he took another step, his muddy heel landing on a squealing floorboard, and held his breath.
Then, he followed through with his other foot.
There, he thought. You're inside now. That wasn't so bad, was it? He stood just inside the door for a few moments, blinking vacantly at his dark surroundings and sucking in lungfuls of the still, rarified air. It tasted of antiquity. Though shabby, the building did well to stifle the sound of the rain outside, which was now falling once more with gusto.
He was about to continue on when a sudden noise rang out and shortened his nerve.
From above came a familiar thud.
Turning slowly, Ulrich glanced through the half-open door at his back, just in time to see the body of a brownish bird sailing to the ground.
Chapter 7
The light jumped around, though he did his best to keep it steady. Canvassing his surroundings, Ulrich built a bit of distance from the door and, when he was sure the floor beneath his feet was sound, ventured deep into the spacious entry room. It'd probably been a lobby, once, though to look at it now one had to use no little imagination to picture it as such. Broken furniture cluttered the far corners; chairs, small tables, all of them broken either intentionally or degraded through decades of disuse.
Though he was alone, Ulrich could not exorcise the feeling that he was being watched. A careful search of the room, which proved it empty of any presence, should have put his mind at ease, but in fact the effect it had on him was quite the opposite. He scanned the plaster ceiling above him, tracing the wandering cracks with his light. He squinted into every pile of broken furniture, sure that no human agency dwelt there. With every passing moment, however, he sensed more and more the weight of strange eyes. Despite the cold, he felt his hand grow sweaty as it gripped the phone. Licking pensively at his lips, Ulrich peered to his sides, where the main room evidently branched off into two directions. The way to each of the adjoining rooms was blocked by doors of similar manufacture; they were built of a soft-looking metal, flecked in rust and thoroughly dented. Small windows of dense glass sat at the top of them, and would have given an opaque view of the rooms beyond if not for the pervasive darkness. Ulrich wasn't ready yet to move on, wished to explore this first chamber and steel his nerves before continuing, and so turned his attentions to the walls.
In two spots, a long, almost tarry trail of mold seeped from the ceiling. Age-old water damage, presumably. The dark, speckled rings on the ceiling from whence these black trails sprang reminded him of the water stain on the ceiling of his own office. He raised one of his arms and blocked out his nose and mouth with the damp sleeve of his coat. It was an impotent defense, but was better than willingly breathing in whatever spores this hateful building might have fostered. At least, he hoped so. I don't know what kind of mold that is, but it better not be the deadly kind. He tensed, searching the walls for anything more of interest. Pocks and gashes in the plaster were frequent. In these nooks were mounds of accumulated dust. Spiders had made their homes in others. Gossamer threads lined the stretches of wall that were untainted by mold like Christmas garlands.
Tangled up in a cluster of broken furniture was a bit of yellow caution tape. Compared to everything else in view, it appeared new, vibrant. Ulrich grit his teeth and wondered what it was doing there. He knew the Sick House had been investigated after the disappearance of Dr. Klein by the State Highway Patrol, but the presence of this tape made him wonder whether he was supposed to be there at all. The front door had been open, the tape removed from the entry, and he hadn't so much as given the police station a ring to let them know that he was in town. In the best case, he'd look like an over-eager amateur if found there by the authorities. In the worst case, he'd spend a night in jail for trespassing.
But why had the door been open, and why had the tape been cast aside? Had someone broken into the place before him? For what reason?
Ulrich felt a twinge of stiffness dash across his broad shoulders. He stopped dead in his tracks, his perception of another presence in the building redoubling and pressing down on him as though it were a load of stones strapped to his back. Had someone else beat him to the punch? Had the perpetrator, the one responsible for luring Dr. Klein here in the first place, been by to clean up whatever evidence had been left behind? If so, were they still in the infirmary, watching him from some unseen vantage point? These and other questions assailed his mind, heaping yet more unease onto his loaded shoulders. Suddenly, the sounds of his muffled breathing against his coat sleeve seemed ludicrously loud. Grey hairs on the back of his neck began to stand on end like the feelers of an insect, attempting to zero in on the threat that he was certain must loom very close now. He was a sitting duck, would be attacked at any moment--
But nothing came. No death blow, no sucker-punch. Nothing. Ulrich stood in place, hyperventilating in the dusty air and shuddering. When a few moments had passed, he raised the light afresh and began once more to take stock of the room around him. Nothing of substance had changed, nothing had moved, but somehow the positioning of the shadows appeared different to him. It was only after a lengthy study of each corner, and then a second, that he felt sure that he was alone in the room.
That was not to say, however, that someone did not wait for him in one of the adjacent chambers, yet unexplored.
After some hesitation, Ulrich decided to start through the door on the right. It was stubborn, and his initial cautious attempts to wrench it open were met with frustration. In order to pull the metal door open, Ulrich found it necessary to use both hands. He set his phone down gingerly on the floor and then grunted as the door popped and groaned. The dented sheet metal loosed a queer pop as some component grated unnaturally against another. When it was half-way open and showed no signs of closing on its own, Ulrich snatched up his phone, wiped his shaky hands frantically against the front of his coat and then peered inside timidly.
Something inside the room bolted as his light illuminated the space. Ulrich pressed his back to the metallic doorframe, his heart in his throat, only relaxing when the commotion ceased and he had some time to attribute the noise to vermin. A rat. Maybe a cat or dog. Standing up
right and taking another step into the room, he held out the light and explored its dimensions.
It was not a room at all, however, but a short hallway. The ceiling here bulged very slightly, as though bloated. The way the light green paint was fragmented and worn away from the ceiling, the way that the floorboards directly beneath the spot in question sagged for the dripping of water from above, indicated a serious leak. He proceeded with great caution, one of his hands up against the dirty wall and his eyes darting between the ceiling and floor as though expecting one to suddenly give way as he advanced. Ulrich passed over the soggy, sagging floorboards and avoided a trickle of water that emerged from the watery boil that bloomed across the ceiling. When past this, he arrived at the threshold to another room which, in the scant light, he recognized as a kitchen.
A pair of rusted sink basins sagged against the walls, the pipes that'd once fed them now escaping from the cracking plaster and hanging limply like ruddy tree branches. There was a good deal of litter to be found across the floor, much of which came in the form of discarded newspaper. How it was that this paper had not broken down in such wet conditions was a mystery to him, however large swaths of the floor appeared covered in shreds of it. There were other things, too, which threw off light when brought under the scrutiny of his glowing phone. Shards of glass, broken bits of what had probably once been ceramic dishes, were scattered about amidst the paper, their outlines veiled in thick layers of dust. Upon entering this room he'd been struck by the smell of moisture; the wetness here was more profound than it'd been at the entrance, though from where it came specifically he could not say. A chill breeze carried the sour, earthy smell to his nostrils, presumably a draft creeping in from behind the walls where the plaster had crumbled.
It was hard to believe that anyone had ever prepared food here. A wooden table, split into two pieces, sat near the room's center like a piece of modern art, giving no indication of what had left it in such a state. He stepped on something hard and wooden, the handle to some cooking instrument, and then witnessed some furtive rustling beneath a mound of paper near his other foot. He was quick to spring away, the floor groaning as he did so and a pair of large, round insects dashing to one of the corners as fast as their many legs could take them.
The Sick House: An Occult Thriller (The Ulrich Files Book 1) Page 5