The Sick House: An Occult Thriller (The Ulrich Files Book 1)

by Ambrose Ibsen

  Some minutes later, and following the eruption of some hushed conversation throughout the place, the unfriendly waitress walked up to his table and brought coffee and water.

  Without looking up at her frowning face, Ulrich lackadaisically turned the menu this way and that in his hands, ordering the breakfast platter and cheeseburger once again. He also added a side of apple pie and an extra order of sausage links a la carte.

  This enormous order seemed to amuse the waitress, who asked him with an arched brow, “You expecting company to help you eat all that? That's too much food for a skinny fella like you.”

  Ulrich looked up at her, taking a sip of the miserable coffee. “Matter of fact, I'm a stress-eater,” he deadpanned. “Got a long day ahead of me and I need my energy.” Setting down his mug, he stopped the waitress as she attempted to head into the kitchen with his order. “One question.”

  She looked back at him, corners of her mouth creased into a frown.

  “Any idea where Lancaster Street's at? I'm looking for the church.”

  ***

  By the time he made it to the church on Lancaster Street, a modest little thing with a steeple and room enough for perhaps thirty or forty congregants at a time in its pews, Ulrich felt like he needed to be carried out of the driver's seat. His stomach was full to bursting with diner food, and he was some minutes in pacing around the SUV before he could finally rummage up the energy to enter the church.

  Ulrich wasn't a church-goer, but had been to enough weddings and funerals to know that this place was mighty small by any standard. Three pairs of long, wooden pews sat at the center of the room just before the pulpit. There wasn't any mass going on at the moment when he thrust open the door, and save for the small, crooked figure of a nun in prayer in the row nearest the altar, the building appeared completely empty.

  Stepping forth quietly, Ulrich cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the wizened old nun and summoning up a warm smile. “I don't suppose you're sister Ruth?”

  The old woman grunted as she stood up from the kneeler. Brushing off the front of her black habit, she adjusted her veil and nodded. “That's right. How may I help you this morning, sir? I'm afraid you're early for mass; our first service isn't for another two hours yet.”

  “That's very good,” replied Ulrich. “I suppose that means you've got a bit of time to chat with me, then?” Standing beside her, the investigator was stricken by how slight the woman was. Her bent, arthritic hands, which she held at waist-level, appeared child-like in size. Though Ulrich was a tall man, the nun was positively dwarfed by him in every aspect. “You see, I'm a private investigator and I've been hired to look into a certain local disappearance. I was hoping I might ask you some questions.”

  Sister Ruth cocked her head to the side, something of the local disdain entering into her features where previously only an enfeebled placidness had dwelt. “I don't think I can help you,” her voice lowered in a croak. “If you're talking about Dr. Klein, then I can't really tell you anything more than anyone else in town can.”

  Ulrich grinned. “Well, it isn't the doctor that I'm interested in specifically. Not in this particular case. Rather, I was hoping that you might have a few minutes to discuss the Sylvan Infirmary, in nearby Moonville.”

  This put something of a scare into the woman, and she threw out one of those slight hands to grip at the pew. Steadying herself, her gaze dropped to the stony floor at once. She was searching, it was quite clear, for a reason, any reason, not to participate in this interview. “Now, why would you wish to know about that old place, and why, of all people, would you want to ask me about it?”

  “Because I have good reason to believe that the Sisters of Mercy ran the infirmary, and that you're affiliated with them. Or, have I been misled?”

  Sister Ruth shook her head.

  “I am told by a local source that you're perhaps the last surviving member of the order that worked at the infirmary. Is that the case?”

  At this, the nun nodded almost imperceptibly. Ulrich had hitherto asked only simple questions; he hadn't even inquired yet after the level of her involvement in running the place. It was clear that she knew things and that she was hesitant to divulge them, however. Ulrich appraised her narrowly, wondering if she was hesitant to speak due to some sense of guilt. Maybe Dennis was right, he thought. Maybe the nuns there really did do awful things to the patients at the infirmary. And maybe she's clamming up because she took part in it.

  “I'm not a cop,” he added, hoping to help things along. “Anything you tell me is strictly confidential. I'm not trying to get anyone in trouble here. I just want some answers that'll help me in my investigation.”

  Unexpectedly, Sister Ruth smirked. She walked out of the pew and led the way to the main door, slowly pushing it open and leading Ulrich out into the morning sunlight. “You misunderstand, sir,” she said after a time, looking up to the canopy of a large tree and crossing her arms. “No court on Earth can put a scare in me; I am accountable only to God. I can talk to you about the infirmary if you wish, but not here. If you'll come with me, just a short way, then perhaps I can put on some tea for us. Please understand that it is not a pleasant subject, however. Working in such conditions was trying.” Before leading him off in the direction of a small one-story house some two-hundred or so yards from the church, she added, “And before I consent to doing so, I'd like to be clear on your intentions. Why do you want to know about the infirmary, and how will it help you in your investigation, Mr...?”

  “Ulrich. Harlan Ulrich.” He extended a hand to shake, but Sister Ruth only returned with a nod. He continued, “A body was found on the grounds recently. Moreover, I had an... experience there. I would be lying if I said there wasn't a personal aspect to this questioning. I just want to know more about what went on there from someone who actually lived it. I feel that more background will help me connect the dots.”

  “A body.” The sister mulled this over for a time. “So, that's what this is about.” She nodded, then waved him over, leading him to the small house. “We have much to discuss.”

  Chapter 20

  Sister Ruth served up a piping hot cup of Earl Grey to her guest, but didn't bother to fix herself any. Her home, a small one-story house, was very austerely adorned from what Ulrich could tell. It boasted at most two bedrooms, and the furniture in the living room, mostly second-hand store rescues, had seen better days. The mug she handed him was an old one, an off-white color. Once there'd been a slogan dashed across it in a cheesy font, but one too many washings had left it faded.

  Ulrich wasn't much for tea, not compared to coffee, but accepted the mug nonetheless and thanked her for it. He tugged on the tea bag, watching the tea steep for a time as Sister Ruth sat in the ragged wingback chair across from his own. A religious magazine, a rosary, were found on the chipped-up coffee table between them. The nun glanced at them with some degree of longing, like she wished to pick them up and avoid the conversation that was coming, but instead she knotted her veiny hands between her knees and drew in a deep breath. It was a breath of resignation, the kind of breath that said, “You've got me where you want me. Go ahead and ask me anything.”

  That was thing thing, though; Ulrich hadn't shown up at her door demanding answers or intending to make her feel as though she were a suspicious character with something to hide. He was only there because he wanted to learn more about the Sick House, to hear about what it was like from someone who'd actually been there, and to see if he couldn't make a little more sense out of his strange and frightening encounter. The quiet nun, however, had begun acting suspiciously from the onset, like she had something to hide. Ulrich couldn't put his finger on it; he didn't think that the old woman was in any way involved with Dr. Klein's murder, but he didn't like her timidity. He decided to tread lightly, gather what he could by making her feel at ease, lest she clam up. With a big slurp of tea, he thanked her again and set down the mug on the table, crossing his legs and toying with the back of
his pant leg. “Thank you for seeing me today, Sister. I hope that this isn't an inconvenience to you. I know that you have mass today, and I promise not to take too much of your time. My most recent case, however, has brought me to the Sylvan Infirmary, and while investigating there, I had a--”

  “An incident,” she interjected before he could even form the words.

  Ulrich nodded. “I take it you know what I mean, then?”

  Sister Ruth shuddered, and tears seemed to rush to the corners of her eyes, but the nun firmed up and sucked in a breath. “I had some idea that you would be coming today. Or, at least, it doesn't surprise me. They always reach out when they wish to make a connection. They must have wanted me to talk to you, Mr. Ulrich. That's the only reason that they reached out to me last night, I think.”

  “I don't follow...” began the investigator, arching a brow.

  When Sister Ruth slowly drew up both sleeves of her habit and displayed her pale forearms, both of them marked in jet black handprints not unlike the one he himself had worn not so long ago, he suddenly understood however.

  The nun continued. “When the spirits of that infirmary want to talk-- and I assure you that there are a lot of them-- they have a way of reaching out and leaving their mark. Something came to me in the night. I saw it in my dreams.” She tugged her sleeves down and looked wide-eyed at Ulrich. “I'm going to talk to you, to tell you whatever you wish to know. It's what the spirits seem to want. You've seen them too, haven't you?”

  Ulrich chuckled incredulously at first, scaling through his memory and wondering if, in fact, he'd really seen otherworldly things during his visits to the infirmary. It still felt irrational to admit it; he wanted to attribute those episodes to something else, anything but forces outside of nature. But ultimately, he nodded. “I had one of those handprints, too. It faded away, but... something in that building touched me while I was poking around. I don't know what it was. Couldn't quite tell, though it was frightening. Another time, I saw a woman walking out on the grounds. I still don't know what to make of it. The place really is haunted, then?”

  “If any place on Earth is haunted, it's the Sylvan Infirmary,” she replied. “So many people died there, Mr. Ulrich. Before I was even born, people were dying there. It is a place marked by death, and it has an appetite for it. Before we continue this chat, I must recommend, strongly, that you refrain from revisiting the place.”

  Ulrich grinned. “That isn't a promise I can necessarily keep, though I do appreciate your concern.”

  Displeased by this reply, Sister Ruth gave a little wave of her hands. “Well, what is it you wish to know about the place?”

  Still hoping to keep things light and friendly, Ulrich cracked a grin. “Well, so the place is haunted. But I've heard some other outlandish stories-- supposedly there was a killer nun who worked there years back?”

  At this, any trace of calm was immediately drained from the old woman's face, and she slumped forward a touch, like she'd just had the wind knocked out of her. She was quick in recovering, pursing her lips and dabbing at her brow, which was reddening. “No,” she muttered. “That's... that's...” She took a tremulous breath and then leveled her eyes on the investigator, seeming to silently plead with him. She didn't want to discuss this, it was all too clear, and doing so was putting a great strain on her.

  “It isn't true, is it?” asked Ulrich, dropping the amusement in exchange for concern.

  She shook her head fervently. “No. No, that was a rumor that started... you see, when you have a place like that infirmary, where so many people die, and where rumors of unsavory practices are many, it's only natural that the staff should be implicated. That story, though, of the supposed 'killer nun', came from a number of rumors, all of them coalescing into one fabulous lie. Chiefly, it spread due to the disappearance of one nun, my friend Astrid, who went missing in the late 50's.”

  “So,” interrupted Ulrich, taking out his notepad and jotting down a few notes in black ballpoint, “you mean to tell me that the place was open even after being shut down by authorities?” He already knew this to be the case. He just wanted to hear her say it.

  “Oh, yes,” she admitted. “It's true that we continued doing work there. Only a few of us remained; the elder sisters of our order worked mainly in and around the church, here in McArthur. Some of us, though, the younger ones with less experience, would still work in the Sick House. Sister Margaret, who was in charge of the order in those days, had worked out some sort of agreement with the diocese, forged some paperwork, in order to keep the funding going. She was adamant that the infirmary needed to stay open, and that the facilities in McArthur were not sufficient to care for all of the infirm in the area. Some, in fact, were too sick to make the transfer; short of killing them, what were we supposed to do? Just leave them to rot in that old building? So many of them suffered on for years. We did the best we could for them, and the diocese seemed to understand the work we were doing. Sister Margaret was acquainted with the Archbishop as I understand it, and a certain deal was reached. The funds kept coming, albeit in lower amounts than before, and the operation would continue without the State's knowledge. Even back then Moonville was an abandoned ghost town. It wasn't as though we were worried that health inspectors or the like might show up for a tour. It was out of the way, well-hidden and relatively difficult to access. And considering its reputation as a place of death and disease, people knew to stay away.”

  “I see.” Ulrich was pleased to finally talk with someone who'd worked there. Much of his research was being borne out now by the old nun's accounts, and he urged her on. “So, this friend of yours that went missing?”

  “Her name was Astrid. Astrid Baker. She, too, was a nun. The youngest of our order. She'd been assigned to work as a caretaker at the infirmary during those latter years, along with me and another sister, Lydia, who has since passed on.”

  As Ulrich wrote down the name, something struck him about it. He narrowed his gaze, tracing the letters over and over again until he finally made the connection. Astrid Baker... A.B. The note Dr. Klein received urging him to visit the Sick House had been signed with the initials “A.B.”. He licked his lips, circling the name numerous times. Astrid Baker had just nudged her way onto the list of suspects in this case. It was an a-ha moment. He felt like some long-elusive piece of the puzzle had just fallen into place. It was too early to say how she might be involved yet, and he did his best to restrain his excitement at the connection, but the presence of the woman's initials on the note was compelling. He looked to Sister Ruth expectantly, eager to learn more.

  Ruth cleared her throat, clutching at the armrests as she went on, her face crinkling in a painful reminisce. “Near the end, before the place was shuttered for good, the Sisters had us doing a rotation; there was only ever one of us on duty. There was talk back then that parts of Moonville might be reinvigorated, land bought for the construction of businesses or the like. This never came to pass, but the Sisters wanted to keep things especially discrete in case developers did come through. It was a heavy workload in those days; we had minimal training and even more minimal equipment.

  “Working the infirmary solo was miserable, but we did the best we could. Sometimes, we'd get a little help in the way of medical students from the nearby universities; Sister Margaret was willing to invite them so that they might gain a little experience. Usually they were vetted by some process-- I can't recall how. I think that they were associated with the archbishop or other higher-ups, referred by someone connected with the diocese. Anyhow, the acuity of those patients was enormously high, so that it would make a phenomenal training ground for a novice physician. Of course, the conditions there, and the lack of proper equipment, made it very hard for them, but all of us Sisters were very happy for the extra help when we could get it.”

  “And I take it Dr. Klein was brought in as one of those student physicians, then?”

  Ruth nodded. “He was the last, in fact.”

  Somethi
ng about the way she said that word, last, made him uncomfortable enough to squirm in his chair.

  She continued without invitation, her voice taking on a new, urgent energy. The words were flowing freely now; words that'd been dammed and held back for ages. It was clear that she'd kept all of this history to herself for far too long, and that she wanted to air it all out.

  “I remember him back then,” she said. “He was a sharp kid, kind of cocky; but then, they all were. Those doctors thought they were God's gift to medicine, and some of them did great work, even under the circumstances. He worked there off and on, when his classes weren't too heavy, for nearly three months, as I recall. It was late autumn when...” She gulped, and just like that, the tap was shut off.

  “When...?” asked Ulrich, leaning forward in his chair and waving his notepad in the air.

  “There was an accident,” she said, starting off after a brief reverie. “We had one patient, a middle-aged man, who'd been seriously ill for a long while. In fact, he shouldn't have made it, the tuberculosis should have ruined him, but he made a miraculous recovery. He'd been too sick to transfer out of the infirmary to McArthur-- the trip might've literally killed him. That's how ill he was. But, over time, his health coalesced and he was on his way to being released.”

  Ulrich furrowed his brow. His crossed legs quaked in anticipation, his planted foot hammering out a nervous cadence on the shabby rug. “So, what happened to him?”

  Sister Ruth sighed. “Well, one evening, in late autumn-- I can't recall the day-- he was to be dosed with a medicine. An antibiotic, or pain medicine. It's been a long time, so please forgive me if I can't remember exactly. Dr. Klein administered medications all the time, had access to simple painkillers and the like through his university, and often carried a large case of them during his rounds at the infirmary. Well, anyway, he was skilled for a student, but he wasn't above making mistakes. And in medicine, sometimes, even small mistakes can be incredibly costly.” She paused. “I think you can see where I'm going with this.”