“Yes,” replied Ulrich flatly. “I got your note.” He pulled his coat down from its perch on the closet door and began batting off the remaining clods of mud on its sleeves.
“You must absolutely stay out of Moonville-- stay away from that terrible place, Mr. Ulrich,” she pleaded.
Why? Because I might discover what a monster your former employer was? He held his tongue. “Thank you for your concern, but my investigation isn't over just yet. I have yet to find Dr. Klein, and have reason to believe that the infirmary may hold some clues. I'm headed there shortly.”
She gasped, her legs quaking like they were about to give way. Her large, yellowish eyes were dressed up in tears and she shook her head. “Please, don't go. Mr. Ulrich, nothing good can come from such a place. It's unsafe there, and besides, enough people have died there. Don't let it claim you, too. It's a godless place, that whole accursed town is.”
“Again, I appreciate your concern, but if you've come to dissuade me, I'm afraid you're too late.” He zipped up his valise and threw his coat over his shoulder. “If that's all, then I must ask you to leave.”
As if she hadn't heard him, Ramona started into a quiet monologue. “He got another one of those notes in the mail about a month ago. I tell you,” she said, twitching uncomfortably, her eyes narrowing in a wince, “he'd always get so angry, worked up, when one of those showed up. I dunno who sent 'em, except that, some mornings, he'd find 'em stuck in the door jamb. Someone must've been dropping them off, and the reaction was always the same. He'd toss them out and be in one of his moods for days. He got them more than a few times over the years, most often in those months before winter, and I never knew what to make of it. But this time, he got one, and he really lost it.” She shuddered. “That morning, he found the note, and he made a real mess of the house. He told me he was sick of it, that he was going to go out there and take care of it once and for all. Now, I don't pretend to know what he was fixing to 'take care' of, but he said he was going to put a stop to 'it', and that he'd suffered long enough, and that he couldn't let this go.
“The doctor was a calm man, a sweet man, in all those years I knew him. But when one of these notes turned up he was another person. The note was always the same. Always the same. Always tellin' him to come to the Sick House, and they were always signed the same, too. Someone, 'A.B.', wanted him to go there, to check on a patient, but we all know round here that there ain't no one left in the old Sick House these days. I don't know who that was, or what it meant to him, but he was always so angry when they turned up. And this last time, well, he really flew off the deep end. He said he was going there, and that he was going to 'handle it'. That morning, when he took off, was the last time I saw him.”
Ulrich cocked his head to the side. From his notebook, he pulled out the yellowed note Jerome had given him. “Wait a minute, you mean to say that he was in the habit of receiving notes like this one?” He handed it to her. “Notes asking him to come to the Sick House? As in, more than once? Over a period of years?”
She looked up at him, her hands shaking as she gave back the paper. “They were all like this one, exactly. He got 'em for years. I tell you, I worked for him a long time and as long as I've known him he's gotten these from time to time. And probably much longer.”
“Who was sending them? Did he ever say who 'A.B.' was?”
She shook her head. “He refused to talk about them, would get really sore if I ever asked questions. I learned to ignore them. But now I know. Someone, something, was drawing him to that evil place.” She tensed up, tears flowing freely now. “And whatever it was, it got him. It got him all because he decided to show up there.”
Ulrich was baffled by this. Someone had been sending the doctor notes like this one for years? That was the first he'd heard of it. He had no reason to doubt the housekeeper; though a drunk, she appeared earnest and concerned. Still, it made little sense. The only explanation he could think of was that someone had known about the killing decades past and had sent him the notes over the years as a sort of taunt, hoping to draw him back to the site and perhaps exact revenge. But who? All of the nuns involved with the Sick House were dead, except for Ruth, and though she had helped stash the body, Ulrich didn't think her capable of luring in the doctor and killing him. So, who was it? Who was responsible for this years-long campaign of harassment? Who else could have possibly known about Teddy's death? Astrid? No, she was dead, and if the preliminary examination of her remains was to be believed, had been for a very long time.
His head was spinning.
“Do you know anything else?” he pressed, reaching past her and opening the door to the room.
She shook her head. “He said he was going out there, to the Sick House, and then I never saw him again.” She dried her eyes.
Nodding solemnly, Ulrich motioned her out of the room and locked the door behind him. “Thank you for coming today.” Starting towards the rental office, he gave her a little wave as he left. “I'm afraid I must be going.”
Ramona's eyes plead with him, the crows feet at their corners teeming with fresh tears. She was sure that Ulrich was walking headlong into an insurmountable danger, a trap that would claim him like it had her employer. She uttered some faint warning as he walked off.
He didn't hear it, already having disappeared around the corner.
Chapter 22
The SUV was packed. He was coasting down the main road, keeping a lookout for one of those unmarked side streets he now knew would lead him to Moonville. He remembered his last trip to the Sick House and the route that Mark had supplied. Ulrich cranked up his stereo and listened to Sinatra belt out a fiery rendition of “My Way”.
He wasn't really listening, wasn't much admiring the crisp, even notes or the flourishes of the band like he usually did. The music was just an idle distraction, a little something to take the edge off. He felt like he was headed for the gallows, like he was walking straight into a landmine, and wanted to put the true purpose of his drive out of mind until the infirmary was in view.
The town was dressed in pleasant sunlight. Another nice day in the crumbling backwater of McArthur. The sunlight still didn't suit it; perhaps his impressions of the whole region had been colored by his first day there. That day, there'd been a terrible rainstorm. He remembered what it'd been like, driving through that mess on the disintegrating road. He'd stumbled through the mud, made a terrible mess of himself, and only barely made it to the Hotel Acardi with his wits in tow.
Despite having been in McArthur some days, Ulrich hadn't really explored the town much. He didn't feel especially driven to; there was nothing it could offer him and, besides, the bulk of its inhabitants weren't too fond of him. It was just as well. His business in this little town would be over after this trip. He'd enter the Sick House and poke around for a while. He'd either find something or he wouldn't, but either way, he recognized that this was probably the end of the road. Some trace of Dr. Klein was bound to show up in the building, in the subterranean structure where he and two nuns had stashed away a body so many years ago. Even if he couldn't find the man himself, there'd likely be enough evidence there to implicate him in Teddy's death. When he'd had his fill of the Sick House, he'd be all too happy to turn over what he knew to the authorities and let them take a crack at finding the doctor.
Perhaps, though, the doctor was waiting there for him.
The scenery shifted and the small town aesthetic gave way to woods of increasing density. This was it. He was climbing that hill on the roller coaster again. Very soon he'd be at the top, would be staring that Sick House, with its emotive windows, in the face again. He shuddered to think about it but kept going, cracking a window and letting a little fresh air into the stuffy vehicle. He turned up the music a little further, hoping to drown out his thoughts.
What if you find the doctor in there?
Or Teddy, if the doctor didn't get to his body first?
What will you do? Call the cops? Will they believe tha
t Sister Ruth had a hand in hiding the body back then?
What will Jerome think of all this?
He sighed, the road falling away into dirt and gravel.
“Moonville, here I come.”
***
The Sick House came into view like an old friend, its dark brown paneling meeting his eye as the familiar byroad came up on the left. He gave the SUV a little gas, getting as close to the building as he could. It would be better that way; if things went to hell, he'd be able to sprint out of the joint and speed away.
Parking, Ulrich shut the door and leaned against the mud-flecked exterior for a time, taking in the oppressive quiet. He'd hoped to acclimate himself to it, that it wouldn't unsettle him, but it was futile. The breeze slowed down till it came through as a mere whisper. The birds in the trees seemed to hold their breaths. He wondered if they wouldn't come diving out of the canopy towards the building like they had the first time, and he almost took cover when an uncharacteristic rustling sounded from the treetops. When nothing emerged, he straightened his collar and surveyed the grounds.
There was no one else there; no cops, nothing, though traces of the frenzy there the previous day were still abundant in the form of footprints and tire tracks. He remembered the swarm of cops and police cruisers that'd filled the property then, and the way that he hadn't felt any more comfortable there even with them present. There was no power in numbers where the Sick House was concerned; a crowd might've assembled there, but the effect was the same. It was impossible not to feel alone, vulnerable, while in its vicinity.
Ulrich staggered forward, cell phone in hand. He wished he'd had the foresight to pick up a hardier flashlight, but figured it would suffice under the circumstances, so long as he didn't drop it this time. Anyhow, his mission was a simple one on its face. He wouldn't be stumbling through the building without an objective, just getting a feel for the layout. He'd be searching for a way into the cellar, for a way into the tunnels running under the building. He'd keep his eyes open along the way for anything incongruous, but ultimately his mission would begin in the underground. He'd be avoiding that stairwell where he'd been ambushed during his last tour and the whole of the upper story. Only the cellar and the space rumored to exist beneath it was of interest.
Rounding the corner, the front of the infirmary came into view. Lain across the front door, left slightly ajar, was a single strip of yellow caution tape. He chuckled to himself a little. What good is that going to do? Then again, he understood that no one in the area was dumb enough to mess around in the place; the yellow tape was likely more than enough to keep people out. Redundant, even. A formality. He frowned a little. As usual, you're the only one in this town without the sense to turn back. The only one who doesn't know better.
His breakfast welled up in his stomach. He could feel it climbing the rungs in his throat like a prisoner attempting a jailbreak. Ulrich patted on his chest, grimacing at the cloud of acid stewing, and started for the door of the building, trying hard not to look up into the black windows. Nothing good had ever come of staring into them, and as he advanced he felt more and more sure that he'd find something looking out at him if he did. His gaze was drawn to the surrounding woods, to the spot, blocked off by a small makeshift rope barrier, where the bones had been found. Recalling the misty specter he'd glimpsed out there, he wondered if it hadn't been Astrid. There was no way to know for sure, but he felt the odds were good. Astrid's just one of many spirits hanging around this old place. But why is she here?Did she want to reach out to me, too? To tell me something about her murderer, like Teddy did?
“Who buried you out here, Astrid?” he wondered aloud.
Though he had his suspicions, he wasn't sure he was ready for the answer just yet. The wind coursed through the trees, brushing past his ears and setting them twitching. The hairs on the back of his neck were caressed as if by invisible fingers, and he had to grit his teeth to keep from belching acid all over the overgrown lawn.
Standing before the door, in the calf-deep grass, Ulrich reached out and pulled away the caution tape. He folded it carefully, almost lovingly, and dropped it just inside the door, where it unfurled like a yellow snake. Sniffing the air, he pushed open the door further, its hinges groaning as if to welcome him back. The inside of the building was crowded with a punishing darkness. Had it really been this dark the last time he'd been inside, or had something changed in the interim? He assured himself it'd been this dark all along and took his first nervous step through the threshold.
The floorboards creaked beneath his boot.
Gulping, he stepped in with his other foot, officially leaving the outside world behind.
He was inside the Sick House now, and not for the first time. Just how big a fool was he? This was the kind of place that no one in their right mind would set foot in once, much less twice.
You never have been the sharpest, have you? he thought, gulping. His breakfast scrambled up his throat, reminding him of its presence with a hint of searing bile.
The flashlight setting on his phone was promptly switched on, allowing him to canvass the main room. He held it out before him, panning left to right, then right to left, slowly. The jumble of busted furniture, of ancient refuse, remained, though whether everything in the room was unchanged since his last visit his memory refused to commit. Pulled, as if by a vacuum, Ulrich ambled further in.
The door behind him squealed, closing slightly.
It's just the wind, he told himself.
Though, it might just as easily have been something else closing the door. An invisible doorman, maybe, hoping to trap the investigator inside. Ulrich remembered Mark's account of the place, his claim that, as a child, he'd wandered into the infirmary and seen a group of nebulous, human-shaped things crowding this very room. It wasn't exactly the best time for him to remember such an anecdote, but it filled his mind just the same as he scanned the room and threw up shadows on the ruined walls with his light.
He'd taken the door to the right last time, the door that led to the kitchen and to the upstairs. He shuddered for the remembrance, wondering if that grotesque, pale thing still lurked at the top of the stairwell. Maybe it'd been Teddy's spirit, unable to move on after Dr. Klein's terrible act. Maybe it'd been something else. Either way, he didn't want to know, and wouldn't be exploring the upstairs unless it was absolutely necessary. Instead, he'd be turning his attention to the lower level, to the cellar and the tunnels that ran beneath it.
It was hardly a more comforting prospect.
Sidling up to the door on the left of the main room, stepping gingerly over a pile of sodden leaves, Ulrich placed a hand against the cool metal sheeting and glanced through the opaque panel of glass. He expected to see something in it, a dark shape, a face or hand pressed to it. There was nothing there, however, save for darkness and possibility. Licking his lips, he carefully pushed at the door, finding it to open with surprising ease. It squealed, giving way to a dark room much in the spirit of the main one, with masses of broken furniture. In this space, close to the door, was a rusted bed frame, flanked by a large and curiously-shaped water stain on the adjacent wall. Something scurried across the floor, disappearing in a hurry into a divot in the base molding.
The investigator grasped his light carefully and edged his way into the room, letting the door close softly behind him. The room opened into a dark hallway.
“Well, here we go,” he mumbled. “Into the unknown.”
Chapter 23
The hallway was relatively clean when compared to the rest of the building he'd so far surveyed, though a thread of degradation still ran through its weather-beaten features. There was a marked shortage of water damage here, and the dust seemed thinner than it did in other spots. He fancied that it was due to increased foot traffic, perhaps recent, and the notion was redoubled when the creaking of the floorboards fed him the distinct impression of another presence at the far end of the unlit hallway. His light bobbed uneasily against the dusty, wooden floor
s until Ulrich could finally summon the courage to raise it.
If there had been anyone there, then they'd since gone. A sigh of relief was not forthcoming, however. The stuffy air clutched at the pockets in his lungs, made him want to cough and sneeze something awful. Breathing through his mouth, he found he could taste the air. It was the taste of an old, abandoned book; of a damp cemetery in autumn.
Ulrich paused, nearly hyperventilating, until he was certain it'd been his own advance that'd incited the floors to groan. Hey, don't panic, he thought. These floors are old, loose... they're bound to make a load of noise. They're not used to being walked on anymore.
Continuing through the hall at a snail's pace, he finally entered into a small room that featured a single door, along with a stairwell not unlike the one he'd seen near the kitchen during his previous visit. Both sides of the lower level terminated in stairways leading up to the upper story, by the looks of it. Uninterested in what the second story held however, Ulrich turned his attention to the door. His goal was in the guts of the old building, in the cellar. If there was a way into basement, and subsequently into the series of tunnels beneath the infirmary, then the door was likely it.
Ulrich shrank away from the door, with its wooden frame and brassy knob seeming to beckon him through the murk. Compared to every other wooden fixture he'd seen, this door looked somehow robust. It looked like something that'd persisted because it'd been tasked with holding some secret. Perhaps it was merely the outline of the thing, cast sharply in the sparse light of his phone that made it so, but Ulrich was reminded of the doors that sealed off the tombs of ancient pharaohs, and half-expected to find things etched into it. That something significant awaited him on the other side could not be denied.
He knew that every step forward, every corner turned, increased the probability of some awful discovery tenfold. The tunnels, wherever they were, were sure to contain at least one body-- that is, if Dr. Klein hadn't gotten to it first and hidden it away elsewhere. But what else might he find there, or on the way? Tensing up, he reached out and touched the doorknob, finding it uncomfortably cold. Unnaturally so. His palm was met with a cool wetness, like a thin layer of frost.
The Sick House: An Occult Thriller (The Ulrich Files Book 1) Page 16