Shallow Graves (The Haunted Book 1)

by Patrick Logan

  “Fine. Sorry. Thought it would lighten the mood a bit. You’ve been…serious—so serious lately.” Cal jabbed at his chest with a chubby index finger. “Not good for the old ticker.”

  Robert ignored the comment and turned to Shelly, expecting her to apologize as well. When none was forthcoming, he knew he should have known better. Shelly was standing with her hands on her hips now, her lips still pushed together as if to say, ‘how dare you speak to me this way.’

  He shook his head and closed his eyes. If there was one saving grace to her intractable stubbornness, it was that he was no longer on the verge of bursting into tears.

  Cal quickly moved between them.

  “You want a drink, Robbo?”

  Robert gave his friend a onceover.

  His wide-set eyes were soft, caring. Clearly, the gag wasn’t meant as something cruel, just a practical joke gone wrong.

  Maybe if you weren’t so wrapped up in this stuff about the Marrow…

  Robert shook the thought away.

  No, joking about the dead is never right—Halloween or not.

  Cal went to put his arm around him, but Robert shrugged him off.

  “No, I don’t want one right now… I think—I think I’m going to go for a walk.”

  Cal turned his attention to the window.

  “It’s pitch black out,” he stated matter-of-factly.

  Robert followed his gaze. Living at the Harlop Estate wasn’t like living in the city; when it got dark in Hainsey, it got very dark. And ever since what had happened with the Harlops, he had become leery of the dark, thinking that he could hear things in it, a rat scurrying, nails on wood. But tonight, however, he felt the need to get outside, to get a little exercise. He had to clear his head, and not just because of the distasteful gag.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  Robert made his way toward the massive wooden doors and grabbed his jacket off the clothes rack by the entrance. He pulled the scarf out of the sleeve and wrapped it around his neck before putting on his coat.

  “I’m going out anyway. Be back in an hour or so.”

  He unlatched the door and then pulled it wide.

  “Hey, Robbo?”

  Robert turned, and was surprised to see Cal smiling again.

  “It was a pretty good one, though, wasn’t it?”

  “Fuck off,” Robert replied, before slamming the wooden door to the Harlop Estate behind him.

  ***

  It was Halloween, but Robert didn’t expect to see any trick-or-treaters on this night. Not with the house being as isolated as it was. He turned back to stare at the Harlop Estate, and suddenly felt sad…sad and lonely. Part of him wished that there were trick-or-treaters, some young laughs and cries to liven the place up.

  To remind him of Amy, however painful that might be.

  And, besides, the Harlop Estate would make one hell of a haunted house.

  It wasn’t quite as frightening as it had been when he and Amy had first arrived, but it was impressive, especially at night. The three of them had scrubbed the Xs off the eyes of the cherub out front, and they had filled the basin with fresh water. He had also continued to do some landscaping, trimming hedges, pulling weeds from the cracked stones, but this he had done alone. To their credit, both Cal and Shelly had offered to help, but he had refused. It was his alone time, a distraction from thinking about their finances or the Marrow, to just remember how he and Amy used to do it, even if back then she hadn’t really been there. But the rest of the estate? Doing anything about the cracked exterior far exceeded their paygrades and experience levels, and it was too big to paint.

  So, yeah, it would have freaked the crap out of any kids that made it up to the door. And the wheelchair and fake hand? That would have been the icing on the cake.

  Robert suddenly felt bad for the way he had exploded at Cal and Shelly, but lately he could feel his stress levels rising. Even though the Harlop family was gone, he still didn’t feel perfectly normal in the house.

  What had Cal said? Are you feeling weird? Getting angry more quickly than usual?

  Something like that…the truth was, he did find himself flying off the handle more than usual. And with only the two of them around, they often fell victim to his frustrations.

  It was just that there were so many questions bouncing around in his brain, questions that he just couldn’t rouse up nearly enough satisfactory answers for.

  Robert tucked his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket as a gust of wind struck him. It was unseasonably cold out, he realized, and he hoped that the snow would hold off for as long as possible. What he had said about their finances had been true, but if the snow came early, or it was a particularly cold fall, heating the massive estate would only serve to blow through their paltry resources.

  Before even realizing it, he had made his way down to the front gate. The gate had proven to be another point of frustration for him, as no matter how much olive oil or grease or WD-40 they applied to the hinges, the damn thing wouldn’t open more than five feet. Robert reached over and pressed the button on the inside of the gate, preparing himself for the awful grinding sound that was coming.

  The screech cut through the night air, a strange surrogate for children’s joyful, frightened Halloween cries, and Robert pulled his hands out of his pockets and covered his ears. After a full minute of the horrible noise, the gate finally came to a stop and he slipped through the opening. He debated closing it, but that would mean hearing the horrible noise three more times, something he didn’t want to do.

  He left it open.

  Head down, Robert started walking down the empty street, lost in thought. It was, as Cal had said, near-pitch black out, his path only illuminated by the pale moonlight.

  And the glowing cherry of a lit cigarette twenty yards away.

  What the—?

  A man stepped out of the shadows and Robert froze.

  “You!”

  Chapter 4

  FOURTEEN YEARS AGO

  Nurse Justine made it through the first week just fine, if a bit tentative. In fact, she was well into her second month as a full-time Seventh Ward nurse. In this case, and only this case, Dr. Mansfield didn’t mind being wrong. And the truth was, for all of his reservations from their initial encounter, the woman was actually useful, which was saying something considering how jaded some of the other, more experienced nurses had become. But that wasn’t the only good news that brightened his mood; in fact, it paled in comparison to the news surrounding his newest patient.

  Although his initial interviews had revealed that there was something to Andrew Shaw, something hidden just below the surface, he wasn’t certain that it was a violent second personality. Time and further interviews would tell, and there was certainly enough evidence to commit Andrew, but this was no bug-in-the-ear scenario. And, like Justine, the man was actually smart and helpful. Obedient, docile, and more knowledgeable of psychiatric disorders and symptoms than any third-year medical student he had ever met before.

  Low staffed as the Seventh Ward was, it wasn’t long before Dr. Mansfield invited Andrew to come along with him for his daily rounds. Together they would interview other patients, and at first Andrew did nothing but observe. Which was fine by Dr. Mansfield; in fact, it was something that he would have insisted should Andrew have attempted to interact with the patients in this capacity. He made damn sure to make it clear that Andrew was also admitted, that he was a patient and not a doctor. It was a non-traditional approach, to be sure, and likely flew in the face of a half dozen protocols, but Dr. Mansfield was the psychiatrist-in-chief and he needed all the help he could get. And besides, he thought that this treatment would actually help the man’s condition, however clandestine.

  After a particularly difficult case—a young woman with at least sixteen documented personalities—Dr. Mansfield found himself in the staff lounge for a much-needed cup of coffee. He was nearing the end of a fourteen-hour shift, and he was particularly exhausted. Usually af
ter seeing patients with Andrew tagging along, he made sure to send him back to his room—reinforcing the notion that he was indeed a patient. But this time, it slipped his mind, and now he found himself pouring two cups of coffee—one for him, and one for Andrew Shaw.

  “So? What do you think, Andrew?”

  The man looked so surprised to be called upon that at first he only gaped.

  Dr. Mansfield’s query served two purposes: one, to see if he could find any more cracks in the veneer that he had first identified when Andrew had arrived; and, two, he was genuinely interested in what the man had to say.

  He really had shown some insight over the past month or so.

  “Andrew? What do you think of Giselle Stall? Any opinions on her split personality disorder?”

  Again, Andrew didn’t answer. Instead, he chewed the inside of his lip for so long that Dr. Mansfield had started to think that maybe it would be better to send him back to his room after all. But then he spoke, and Dr. Mansfield listened.

  “I think…I think most of her personalities are fake. I counted eighteen different personalities, but—”

  Dr. Mansfield raised an eyebrow.

  “Eighteen?”

  Andrew nodded.

  “Yes, eighteen. The old croon, the innocent four-year-old, the inquisitive seven-year-old, the bratty—”

  Dr. Mansfield stopped him by raising a hand.

  “Okay, fine, I know the personalities. Please, just go on with your diagnosis.”

  Andrew sighed.

  “Like I was saying, I think that most of them are fabricated. In fact, I believe that all but two are just figments that she made up. But here’s the thing, I think that both of these true personalities—which, incidentally, are the inquisitive four-year-old and the doting mother—made up the others. I need more time to tell which ones came up with which, but it’s clear that both of her personalities are conjuring the others as a sort of coping mechanism.”

  Dr. Mansfield’s brow furrowed. It was common for traumatic events to cause a person’s brain to fragment, the result of which was often different personalities. It was something he had coined ‘extreme cognizant dissidence’—a way of dealing with something that was difficult or impossible to comprehend.

  He opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again and observed Andrew carefully. The man, usually quiet, eyes downcast, was now staring him with an air of confidence that he hadn’t seen before. And Dr. Mansfield found it slightly unnerving. And the diagnosis, while he had not come to the same conclusion, was interesting, to say the least. And advanced, if a little misguided.

  “Alright, Andrew, let’s say I buy your diagnosis. And, for the record, I too believe that the two main personalities are the mother and the seven-year-old. But now for the most important question.” He paused for effect, and Andrew predictably leaned forward in his chair in anticipation. “Which is the real Giselle Stall?”

  Andrew’s eyes immediately narrowed.

  It was a trick question, of course. There was no one ‘real’ Ms. Stall; Ms. Stall was all of her personalities, whether they were fabricated as Andrew believed, or existed in individual compartments of her mind.

  Twice the man across from Dr. Mansfield opened his mouth as if to say something, but he shut it again. He sipped his coffee slowly as he waited patiently.

  Eventually, Andrew answered.

  “Both…and none, I guess. Giselle is both of them.”

  Dr. Mansfield nodded and finished the rest of his coffee. He placed the Styrofoam cup down on the table and was about to stand when Andrew spoke again.

  “Did you see the scar on her chest? Right”—Andrew drew a finger from just below the hollow of his throat and drew a line partway down his breastbone—“here?”

  Dr. Mansfield nodded.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “It’s from a lung transplant. When she was younger, very young, she developed severe pneumonia and her lung collapsed.”

  Dr. Mansfield’s brow furrowed.

  “And she received a transplant from—get this—a seven-year-old girl.”

  Andrew raised an eyebrow when he said this, as if it was an important revelation. Unfortunately, Dr. Mansfield wasn’t making the connection.

  “And?”

  “And that’s where her second personality comes from, Dr. Mansfield. It’s from the transplant, and it’s…it’s…it’s someone else. There’s someone inside her…”

  Dr. Mansfield immediately stood.

  “That’s enough for today, Andrew. You should go back to your room now.”

  Andrew rose and bowed his head again, the proud glint rubbed away from his eyes.

  “Did I do something wrong?” he asked meekly.

  “No, of course not. But you can’t ‘adopt’ a personality from a lung transplant, Andrew. I think you know that.”

  Dr. Mansfield held the door open for Andrew to exit. But before he left, the man turned back.

  “You can’t?”

  Dr. Mansfield frowned.

  “No, of course not. Sometimes traumatic events, such as a serious illness, can…” Dr. Mansfield stopped himself before he started to ramble. “How did you know about Giselle’s lung transplant?” he asked suddenly.

  Andrew made a face as if Dr. Mansfield should know this already. Despite taking him along with him, George made a point never to show him the patient files, for confidentiality reasons, among others.

  “Justine gave them to me, of course. Didn’t she tell you?”

  Dr. Mansfield’s frown deepened and he made a mental note to speak to Justine when her shift started in an hour or so. It wasn’t just that the nurse had shown him the files, which was definitely against the rules, but it was also the words that Andrew had used that perturbed him.

  Of course—why of course?

  “No, Andrew, she most definitely did not. Now please just head back to your room.”

  Chapter 5

  Sean Sommers took a final drag from his cigarette before flicking it to the ground. Then he exhaled a thick cloud of smoke and stepped forward.

  “Nice to see you, too,” he said with a frown.

  Robert’s eyes narrowed.

  “Can’t say I feel the same.”

  Sean glanced over Robert’s shoulder, his gaze leading to the Harlop Estate.

  “No? You have me to thank for that house you have there.”

  Robert scoffed.

  “You mean I have Ruth Harlop to thank for that.”

  Sean snickered.

  “You think she signed that deed over to you? C’mon, Robert. I thought you were smarter than that. In fact, if that is what you truly believe, I should probably take this with me and just go.”

  Sean had one hand inside his navy peacoat and flashed the corner of an envelope before tucking it back in.

  Robert suddenly had a change of heart. After all, he had a feeling that Sean knew more about the Marrow than all of the Internet sites he had frequented over the past couple of months combined.

  Probably even more than LBlack, whoever the hell he was.

  He reached out to grab Sean’s arm, but the man pulled back.

  “Wait—don’t go. I have some questions…” His eyes were downcast now. “…some things I was hoping that you might be able to clear up for me.”

  Sean started to withdraw the envelope again.

  “This is not Jeopardy, Robert. I’m not here to fulfill your desire to know. You need to come to grips with the fact that there are some things in this world and the other side that you will never be privy to.” Sean pulled the envelope out of his pocket and held it out to Robert, much like he had all those months ago at his foreclosed home.

  Just after Wendy died.

  Robert felt an unexpected pang of sadness at the thought of his late wife. He had so entrenched himself in his research that he had had very little time to think about Wendy. Or Amy.

  And perhaps that was the point.

  But now, the reemergence of Sean Sommer
s brought back memories that he would have rather forgotten.

  Like memories of Landon.

  Fucking Landon.

  “You want the job or not, Robert? Because—”

  “What job?”

  “Take the envelope.”

  Robert hesitated, but his curiosity grabbed hold and he accepted the envelope from Sean. He was apprehensive, of course, but a sudden surge of adventure coursed through him. And there was also the notion that Sean had answers…answers about the Marrow, among other things.

  The fissure in the sky, the shrieks and the pain coming down like hail…

  Robert used the flashlight from his cellphone to illuminate the printed document within.

  Robert,

  Pinedale Hospital has been closed for nearly a decade—abandoned. Until now.

  A few nights ago, there was an awakening of sorts, and the Seventh Ward is now thriving, when it should remain silent. When it needs to remain silent.

  We need you to go there and take care of this mess. In return for your services, you will receive $100,000.

  Sean

  Robert read the letter a second time, then a third. It was transactional, for sure, but he also noted some strange choices of words.

  Like we need you, when the only name at the bottom was Sean’s.

  “What?” he asked, a smirk creeping onto his face. “No Uncle Tom or Aunt May to go and visit?”

  Sean didn’t smile. Instead, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it.

  “This is not a game, Robert,” Sean said after a drag. “No matter how much you or Cal or Shelly want to make it one. There is…” Sean let his sentence trail off, and Robert got the impression that the man had already said more than he’d wanted to.

  “Go on,” Robert encouraged him.

  But Sean remained silent.

  Robert put the letter back into the envelope and then tapped it against his palm for a moment.

  Then he held it out to Sean.

  “Thank you, but I’m not interested.”

  This time, a flash of emotion crossed Sean’s face. He tried to hide it by taking another drag of his cigarette, but it stayed for just long enough for Robert to pick it up.