Whispers of Bedlam Asylum (Sigmund Shaw Book 2)

by Mark C. King

  “Come,” Dr. Madfyre said. “Let me take you back upstairs. I think we are done for now.”

  She again nodded quietly and then followed him in a near mindless trance. The short journey up the steps and to the her wing was a brief unconscious passing of space and time. He left her at the double doors and she wordlessly went to her room and straight to her bed. She curled up on the uncomfortable mattress, pulled the threadbare blanket over her, and withdrew. She had no use for anything or anyone. The simple state of being alive was overwhelming. Consciousness hurt.

  Where was the emotional protection from this?

  23.

  The second floor men’s corridor was like a dark tunnel that stretched into unending blackness. Sigmund snuck down the hallway, moving carefully and keeping quiet so as not to arouse any interest from the other patients. As he approached the door to his room, he paused at a nearby sound. There was no mistaking it, it was the squeak. Puzzling, he thought, the noise came from inside his room. Looking back down the hallway, it appeared even darker than before, a pitch black that almost felt like an entity. Looking in his little room, there was enough grey light – source unknown – to make out a person sitting in a wheeled-chair, their back to Sigmund. The curly hair looked familiar, but the low-light made it impossible to see many details.

  “Hello?” he whispered into the room. “Can I help you?”

  There was no answer so Sigmund cautiously stepped inside. As he approached the person in the chair, he suddenly, somehow, knew exactly who it was. It shouldn’t be possible, but he knew. Grabbing the chair’s handles, he twisted it around and saw the person he least wanted to see here – Sarah, his niece.

  Her large eyes were unfocused, her mouth slightly open with a spiderweb of drool draping from her lip to her shirt. In a raspy whisper, Sarah said, “Hello, Uncle,” and then looked up at him and smiled. Normally, her smile was one of the most pleasant experiences Sigmund had ever known, but not now, not here, not with the look on her face. The smile was one that told of a twisted mind, an evil madness.

  “Why are you here?” Sigmund pleaded. “What has happened? Where is your mother?”

  In her raspy whisper, she answered, “Mum? I made her sleep.”

  It made no sense, but Sigmund somehow knew beyond a doubt that Sarah was talking about death. She had just said that she killed her mother, Sigmund’s sister, Alexis. Tears started to flow and Sigmund took a few steps back before falling to his knees. Nothing made sense. What was happening?

  “Sarah, please. What is happening? Why did you say that?”

  “You don’t know, Uncle? Have you learned nothing in your stay here? There are no answer for madness. You ask, ‘What is happening?’, I say that the answer is whatever you want. Minds without restriction. Actions without reason.”

  Sigmund stared at Sarah, completely speechless. His mind raced trying to figure out an answer. It couldn’t be true.

  “Let me show you, Uncle,” Sarah said as she wheeled her chair against the back wall. Sigmund watched in horror as she pushed herself out of the chair and onto the floor, her legs trailing uselessly. He wanted to help her, to sit her up, to carry her, anything other than watch her drag herself, but he couldn’t move. He was still on his knees, but his legs would not respond, his arms wouldn’t budge. “Sarah, please.”

  On her stomach, she moved forward by putting one arm in front of the other and pulling herself towards him, her eyes never leaving his face. It was torture to watch her. He would never stand for anyone to undignify Sarah like this, even herself. “Sarah, please stop. Let me help.”

  She continued forward and when only a meter away, she brought her feet up under her in a move that she shouldn’t be capable of making. Sigmund watched dumbstruck. How could this be?

  “Uncle, I will make you sleep now, too.” Impossibly, she launched herself at him. Her hands curled like claws, her mouth open and ready to bite. Sigmund tried to avoid her but still couldn’t move. The moment of approach should have taken only a split second, but it seemed to last an hour.

  With her face approaching his, a loud clank could be heard from behind him and Sigmund awoke to the sound of his door lock being opened. His body shook with fear as relief slowly started to settle in. It had been a nightmare. He closed his eyes and took some deep breaths to calm himself, but his calming exercise was interrupted by a pair of hands grabbing him by the shoulders, dragging him out of bed, and unceremoniously dumping him outside his room door.

  “I have no patience today for loafers,” yelled Mr. Pegg. “I need you to clean that room,” he pointed towards The Beast’s door, “and I don’t want to hear any complaining. I have to do double work today because of the inability of Mr. Baker to traverse some stairs.”

  Sigmund was still on the ground and quite disoriented, but had enough reasoning to understand that his ruse from last night seemed to have worked. He watched as Mr. Pegg stomped away and Sigmund felt as if he was forgetting something. Think, Sigmund! His mind chastised him. Wait, that’s it, The Beast!

  “Wait, Mr. Pegg!”

  The orderly turned around, a look of pure hatred on his face. “What?”

  Not wanting to anger the man further but needing to know, he asked respectfully, “Excuse me, sir, but is it safe? Where is The Beast?”

  The words next uttered were preposterous, but the only explanation that would be given. Mr. Pegg answered, “Released. He has been cured. I guess there is hope for you nutters after all.” He turned and continued to stomp down the hallway.

  Released? Cured? It can’t be possible. Sigmund struggled with all that his brain was trying to process. The nightmare lingered, the attack of last night was fresh, the taking of The Beast, and now to hear that that animal of a man had been cured and released…. It was too much.

  Sigmund crawled back into his room and sat on his bed. Sitting in the greyness, he allowed his mind to organize his thoughts and feelings. Habitually, he reached for his watch and grumbled when he found it not there. He hadn’t brought it, he remembered, but wished for it, as the touch of its cover gave him calm and helped him to think. Plus, a piece of home, a piece of his life outside of this building would have been most welcomed.

  Coming to grips with all that he had learned, impossible as it might be, he put his shoes on and left his room – this time on his feet. The hallway had its usual activity, but Sigmund was focused on one thing now, The Beast’s cell. The door was open and Sigmund approached. The smell hit him hard again and he once more he had to cover his nose with his arm. Skipping breakfast was probably a good idea, he concluded. Just inside the door was a bucket of water and a brush, Sigmund’s tools for the job.

  With the room unlocked, Sigmund was able to have a better look at the interior than he had before. It was almost identical to his own room, except for the filth, the random wall marks, and the heavy chain and collar that rested on the floor. The mattress of the bed was ripped up and hardly recognizable. The blanket was a torn mess that must have provided no warmth.

  He entered the room and stooped down next to the metal collar. Lifting the heavy ring, he tried to imagine it around his own neck. After only a moment’s consideration he dropped the iron restraint as if it was on fire. Could even The Beast of Bedlam’s wildness justify this treatment? Basil had said that the man’s name was Roland Oxley and Sigmund decided that when he got out, he would try to find out what happened to this poor individual.

  Thinking about how wild, how truly mad Roland Oxley was, reminded Sigmund of how improbable it was that he was cured. Perhaps over time there could be improvements, but to go from what Sigmund saw yesterday to being acceptable to society was hard to believe. Impossible to believe!

  Another thought occurred to Sigmund. What if The Beast had the disease? What if he was removed to protect the other patients? Not that the Beast had friends here, but news that he was cured would have a much better effect on the patients than telling them that he died from a contagious illness.

  There wer
e just so many unanswered questions.

  Stepping out of the room and taking in a deep breath, Sigmund shuddered to think that he would be spending the next bit of time in there cleaning. On many occasions he had helped Harry clean out the horse stalls, but this was far beyond that chore. He imagined that cleaning horse stalls would be a holiday compared to what was in store. In addition to not wanting to start this foul assignment, Sigmund wanted to talk with Basil, to get his thoughts on what happened to The Beast. Looking back at the room, he reluctantly submitted to his assignment. He would catch up with Basil once he finished.

  In the short amount of time that Sigmund had been here, he had been able to gather some evidence – well, evidence might be too strong a word. He had heard and seen many things – but it only seemed to create more questions. He let out a sigh as he knew there was still a fair amount of work to be done in order to solve this mystery and get out of this place.

  24.

  Charlotte lay awake in her bed, curled up, and missing Edmund, her late husband, to a point beyond tears. There was no word for this pain, for this level of sadness and loss. Breathing became a conscious chore, a habit that she more and more wished she could break.

  Her body and mind felt beyond exhausted, but sleep was a remedy that would not visit her.

  “Hi,” a small voice sounded behind her.

  The greeting was a complete surprise, but she didn’t jump – far too numb to actually care.

  “I said ‘hi’, Miss Charlotte.” It was Pocket.

  “Pocket,” Charlotte responded with an emotionless voice, “I don’t feel well. Please go away.” She heard his little footsteps, but they weren’t getting fainter. She opened her eyes to find the little boy standing in front of her. Please leave me alone.

  “Where does it hurt, Miss Charlotte?” he asked, his large eyes showing unbridled concern. “I’m good at fixing booboos.”

  Despite her deep melancholy, a small part of Charlotte felt a warmth towards this child. The sincereness of his question was very touching. With a little emotion creeping into her voice, she said, “That is very sweet of you, Pocket, but I do not think you can help this hurt.”

  “But why? Whenever I get a booboo, my mom blows softly on it and then kisses it. That always makes it feel better. Maybe I could do that for you?”

  She looked at his curious face, knowing that he wanted to help, that he truly thought he could. “That is a very good cure, but my pain is not like that. My booboo is inside of me.”

  Pocket looked down and said, “Oh.” He did not have an answer for that.

  “I appreciate you coming to see me, Pocket, but I think I would like to sleep some more.”

  “Okay, Miss Charlotte,” his voice sounded smaller, a touch defeated.

  She closed her eyes and heard his footsteps going away. Before they went too far, however, they stopped and ran back to her. She opened her eyes and saw his excited face looking back. “I think I know how to help!” he said excitedly.

  “Please, no…”

  Reaching into a pocket on his waistcoat, he said, “Here.”

  Charlotte watched as he struggled to get something out, and finally produced a small wrapped item. “Mr. Thursby gave this to me for helping him with chores.”

  Pocket held the item out and said reverently, “It is a peppermint candy. The taste is amazing and I always feel better when I have one.”

  Charlotte knew that this piece of candy must have been a rare treat for someone like Pocket. He probably had been saving it, anticipating it, not wanting to lose its enjoyment too fast. And yet, he was offering this prized possession to her, to help her. Tears started to well in her eyes at the pure kindness of this little boy. She sensed an unexpected shift of her pain, a division of grief. Some of the hurt that she was feeling for the loss of her husband was transferred to concern for Pocket. More than that, her concern grew for all the patients in Bedlam. Charlotte welcomed the change. Their pain was easier to bear than her own.

  While Pocket kept looking at her, waiting to see if his cure would help, she grabbed him and pulled him into a hug. “Thank you, Pocket. You are a sweet, sweet boy. I want you to keep that peppermint. I also want you to know that you have helped me to feel better – just by being you.”

  When released from the hug, he looked at her with a little confusion but evidently was satisfied that he helped her even if he didn’t understand exactly how. After carefully putting the candy back in his pocket, he looked up with a big smile and then turned and ran off.

  The numbness was wearing off a little, but the grief for her husband was not something overcome or replaced easily. Removing the blanket from off of her, she sat up on the side of the bed. She didn’t want to lose the growing concern she had for Pocket and for the patients of Bedlam – the momentum of alternate grief. She didn’t want the pain of her husband to overwhelm this new direction of her emotions. There was something in the fact that she could possibly help these poor patients that made their grief a lighter burden. There was nothing she could do for her husband, but the power of her pen and the distribution of The Strand Magazine was potent. A righteous fire was growing inside her, giving her energy like coal being added to a steam engine.

  A small part of her felt that these new feelings were disrespectful to Edmund, that her husband was being replaced somehow. She combatted these thoughts with the ones that started this whole adventure – he would have done the same thing. Facing trials to help others, enduring personal pain to accomplish community relief. It was hard for her not to see that her actions and thoughts were, in truth, the greatest respect she could give him.

  When Charlotte exited her dorm room, she was surprised at how dark it was in the hallway. She had lost track of time in her bed and figured that it now must be close to the evening meal. She desperately wanted to talk with Jena and Anne, partially for comfort, but mainly to learn more about Bedlam. She would allow no stone, no secret, no transgression to go unturned for her article. Her focus on work would once again prove to be a welcomed distraction.

  At the double doors, Charlotte found Miss Yates. The orderly’s appearance never ceased to disturb Charlotte, the unkempt black hair, the pale skin, and dark makeup around the eyes. She wouldn’t be out of place in Castle Dracula, thought Charlotte darkly. Actually, maybe Bedlam wasn’t too bad a fit either.

  Walking up to her, Charlotte said, “Excuse me, Miss Yates. Would you know where I might find Jena or Anne?”

  Yates looked at Charlotte as if she had two heads, a look of disgust and surprise. She responded, “I do not answer to you! Find them yourself. Go check the dining room or the community room.” With that, the orderly opened one of the doors and let Charlotte out.

  It felt strange being on the second floor landing alone – what if she was a legitimate patient? What would prevent her from just leaving? The thought of being out of the asylum was incredibly appealing and Charlotte even gave it a moment’s consideration. She squashed the thought with her growing anger at the facility and the help she would provide.

  Anne and Jena were at their usual table in the community room and Charlotte sat down with them.

  “There you are!” said Anne. “We were getting a little worried about you.”

  Jena asked, “Are you alright?”

  Charlotte hadn’t given thought as to how to answer but once again decided on the truth. “I had a meeting with Doctor Madfyre this morning and we talked about some painful experiences from the past. It was…it was just a lot to deal with. I needed some time to work through some of it.”

  Anne put her hand on Charlotte’s arm and said, “My dear Charlotte, that is an experience that we have had many times. This place can be tolerable at times, but there is no permanent escape for the pain – at least not here, not when you are surrounded by it.”

  Charlotte was about to respond when a crashing sound caused the three of them to look towards the door. Across the room, they could see that the sound was evidently from Mr. Pegg. For
some reason he was on the ground, his face red with anger. It looked as if his chair had broken under him.

  “Mr. Pig, what an unsightly slob,” commented Jena.

  Turning their attention back to each other they were once again interrupted by Mr. Pegg shouting, “Who did that? Who rigged my chair?”

  What a stupid question, thought Charlotte. That chair, like everything else in this place was in great disrepair. She smiled grimly at the scene but the smile quickly turned to shock. Mr. Pegg started to angrily line up patients against the wall. With complete mortification, she thought, What is he doing?

  She looked back and Jena and Anne and they, too, were staring with sad, if not shocked, looks on their faces.

  Looking back to Mr. Pegg and the unfolding scene, she heard him yell at the patients he had lined up, “You all think it is fun to play games with me? I’ll show you how fun it is!”