The Redwood Asylum: A Paranormal Horror

by L. A. Detwiler

  “He is quite a storyteller. But, well, he wasn’t teasing.” Anna unwrapped a sandwich, taking a quick bite.

  I stared, waiting for them to both show their tell. Neither budged.

  “Look, it’s nothing to worry about. Redwood is a place with a long history, some of it not so bright. But the spirits here are harmless as long as you’re harmless to them. At least in my experience. I wouldn’t mind if a dark one came and whisked Brett away, but it hasn’t happened yet.”

  I shook my head. “So you’re saying there are ghosts here? That it’s haunted?”

  Anna sighed. “Brett isn’t supposed to say anything to the newbies. We don’t want to freak you out. Please don’t be freaked out. I’ve been here for all these years, and look, I’m fine. They’re harmless, really.”

  “Well, except for that situation on floor two last year,” Roxy said, but Anna shushed her.

  “What happened on floor two?” My stomach churned. I wasn’t one to be frightened of ghosts. But the possibility still left me unsettled, especially since I lived alone. Especially since I was now working in a place that was certainly far from hallowed ground.

  “Nothing. It’s just gossip. Honey, trust me. You’ll be fine. What would the spirits have against you? The debts Redwood owed them have been long since paid. The evil doctors are gone now. They’re just here because they don’t know where else to go. They’ve only known this as home. We don’t bother them, they don’t bother us.”

  “But if that’s true, then what about 5B? Maybe he isn’t crazy. Hasn’t anyone thought of that?”

  Anna and Roxy exchanged a look and burst out laughing. “Oh darling, you do have a lot to learn.”

  The conversation turned to lighter topics, which was unnerving in its own right. How could I be in a place where hauntings and ghosts were just run of the mill workplace banter? And what happened on floor two? Goosebumps formed on my arm underneath my shirt. I thought of the shadow, of the giggles. Of the man in 5B shouting about invisible beings. It was a lot to take in.

  Would I be able to make it at Redwood, really?

  And even if I wanted to leave, was it too late now? Roxy’s words resonated with me. There was something about Redwood that stuck to you. I could smell it in my hair, feel it like a thin layer of glue on my skin at home. It had wormed its way in, clutched onto me. A thought blew through me—maybe I wouldn’t be able to shake off the scent, the dreadful feeling, of Redwood’s essence.

  I spooned in the last of the yogurt before following Anna back to the top floor of Redwood. Some questions were too heavy for the night shift, and some places were too complicated to unpack in one week. I’d have to just give it a chance and see. After all, I’d definitely lived through my share of haunting moments.

  The Painting at the Entrance

  Moments are worth capturing. That’s what the matriarch of the Weathergate family used to say, or so the legend goes. That was until her daughter snapped and the family reputation was at risk. Before that, though, family portraits were a common practice in the prestigious family.

  The larger-than-life portrait that graces the foyer walls on the ground floor is in dull shades of browns and greens, a muddied look. The family is wearing shades of dark blue. It greets everyone who walks inside the main entrance. In the portrait, there’s a woman in a Victorian outfit. She wears frilly black lace around her neck, a stern look, and a monstrous hat. She sits on a park bench beside a pram and a little girl. The girl is smiling ear to ear, her bouncy, wild curls the only piece of fun in the picture, the only piece that feels real. A lanky boy stands behind the bench, his suit crisp. He wears the stoic face of a teenage boy who already knows he’s elite.

  Underneath the enormous painting is a plaque honoring the founder of Redwood, Francis Weathergate, the lanky teen in the photograph. It is his younger sister, Claudette, the girl with the wild curls, who prompted his building of the stone, castle-like dwelling on the outskirts of the town of Oakwood. When construction was done and Claudette was securely in her room on the top floor where she could see out into the forest, Francis had the painting installed. He said it was his favorite—some speculated it was because their father, Joseph Weathergate, was absent. Some say it is because of Claudette’s happy smile.

  Claudette’s residence in the top floor of the building is also marked by a plaque outside of room 5B. The asylum has been modernized and updated through the decades. New locks, new features, a computer system have been put in. Still, many of the rooms—or cells, depending on which side of the locked doors you reside—remain the same. The stone walls in the B wing are the same walls Claudette would have touched as she was escorted back from her surgery that helped with her nervous condition—a condition that caused her to stab her father and accuse him of sexual irregularities. The surgery, of course, righted those wrongs, to the family’s relief. Wouldn’t do for a prominent family to have scandalous, reputation-killing remarks made about them from a daughter who was clearly mad.

  The portrait hangs as a reminder of a brother’s love, at least if the inscription is worthy of belief. Francis Weathergate remained at Redwood for the duration of Claudette’s stay through 1848 when an unfortunate accident ended with her falling out a fifth-story window in the asylum, her tediously treated brain splattering on the ground below. It seems an unwelcome coincidence that Mrs. Weathergate was visiting Claudette on the same day and that Francis happened to be at a board meeting for one of his investments. The newspapers of the time left that out, but the oral history has been passed down, staff to staff to staff.

  Still, the current staff of Redwood swear that if you stand in front of the painting long enough, you’ll see a tear fall from Claudette’s eye, a true paradox considering the bright smile. The newbies are always shown this relic and told the story, but only after they’ve proven they’re going to stick around for a while and are hearty enough to handle the going ons in Redwood’s walls. It is hard enough to find help at Redwood, after all.

  A single tear falling from a painting might be sad and alarming, but not terrifying. Claudette, some say, was freed by her fall. She was never a vengeful woman, anyway. And Francis made sure there was no ill treatment of his sister. As the decades passed, however, there was no watchdog to keep an eye on the standards, and some wicked hands made their way into the asylum.

  Not all occurrences, therefore, are as simple and pitiful as a tear falling. Some of the spirits that walk the halls are much angrier than Claudette. Some have a score to settle. And some will take revenge on anyone or anything they can.

  Chapter Four

  While Anna talked at the man in 5B, I studied the drawings on the table in the corner of the room. The surface was fastened to the wall, more like a shelf. But all over the top were pieces of paper, drawn in crayon. They looked like the drawings of a child with all of their fantastical elements and colors—reds, blues, browns, and pinks lit up the stark, thin paper in way that was mesmerizing.

  However, it was also terrifying. As I leaned closer to the drawings, I discerned the eerie details I had missed at first glance. The blue drawing with puddles and raindrops looked serene from a distance. Up close, though, one could see a severed hand floating, and it was in exquisite detail for being a crayon drawing. The red drawing featured eyeballs in puddles of blood and what appeared to be a child with a nearly severed head. The brown drawing hid a skull and crossbones design throughout the trees and limbs. All about, each drawing was filled with images of childhood—lemonade and dancing dogs and sunshine. But interspersed were horrifying images that sent a shudder through the observer.

  Each drawing was done in only one color, but there were multiples of each, as if they’d been silk screened. The ones on the corner were a frenzy of scribbles in black with large Xs and skulls.

  “Therapy,” Anna replied when I looked at her questioningly. She was helping 5B change. His eyes were vacant and glassy, but they were somehow still focused on me. I squirmed in discomfort, feeling badly for starin
g at the drawings and for talking about him like he wasn’t even there.

  “The drawings?”

  She nodded in response. “After his treatment last year, he started saying concerning things. Dr. Righthound thought it might help us understand him. Started it last year. Of course, pencils were out of the question, so we went with crayons. We let him draw with the crayons when he’s feeling agitated. But he always draws these childish, overhand pictures, and he never will explain them when prompted. You ask me, they make it worse because every time he draws them, his mood deteriorates. He talks to his invisible friends more frequently.”

  I stared at 5B, glancing back at the pictures and tried to make sense of it. A broken childhood perhaps? Demons from the war? What a mysterious place the human mind can be. Anna’s pager went off, interrupting my speculation.

  “Shit. Cody said they’re short-staffed on floor two and it looks like there’s some kind of an emergency. Can you finish up here? He seems to be okay. Just push your pager button if you need something. And I’ll tell security to head up here right away as backup.”

  Before I could respond, she was gone. I was reminded that protocol at Redwood was a suggestion. The door shut and I was alone with 5B, left with his tray of meds, his warped mind, and the unsettling pictures. He stared at me, empty yet more alive now that we were alone.

  “You’re really here. She said you would come,” he whispered, his craggy face alight with emotion. My stomach lurched. Maybe I should leave, come back later.

  Stop being a wimp, I scolded myself. You wanted your chance to make a difference. Here it is.

  “Who?” I asked, handing him his meds. He obediently swallowed the pills, opening his mouth for me to check and make sure they were gone.

  “I don’t know her name. But she said you were coming. Said you would help, that you owed us.”

  “Help with what?” I’d taken a few psychology classes and courses on mental illness. I’d dealt with some unstable patients at my last hospital. But I wasn’t sure if this was helping or hurting in the case of 5B.

  He shook his head, giggling. “They disappeared. But not forever.” His giggle turned angry and then pained. Soon he was in the whirlwind of melancholy tinged with rage. He slammed his fists mercilessly on the bed. I took a step back.

  “Leave me alone. Why can’t you leave me alone? It’s over. You’re gone. Stop it, go away. Get out of here. Please, please stop,” he begged, his eyes now fixated on the back corner of the room. I turned slowly to look, but there was nothing there. Of course. What had I expected? Obviously, 5B had many demons to battle. He was so far gone from the realm of reality. Maybe Anna was right. It was senseless to try. He was a lost cause. I turned back to him, shushing him and trying to soothe him with reassuring words. But before I could get another “it’s okay” out of my mouth, he had jolted upright, lunging toward me. My heart stopped. This was it.

  His hands found my neck as he shoved me against the wall. I squeezed my eyes shut as his breath that smelled of orange juice and decay filtered into my nose. His hands were strong and sweaty but somehow cold to the touch. They tightened on my neck. I breathed slowly, forcing myself to open my eyes. I needed to appeal to him if I was going to win this fight. He was too strong for me to overpower. He held me in place against the stone wall but didn’t squeeze.

  “Shh, I won’t bite. Now listen. Listen close.”

  I nodded, tears welling. I told myself to be strong, that he saw me as an ally. In what, I didn’t know. And then came the chant. Over and over and over again.

  “Little red, around the bed, the crooked nose.”

  He repeated it for what felt like an eternity, my heart racing as I tried to decode his meaning. But his eyes were dark and wild, a hunger in them I couldn’t quite identify. A cold sweat broke out, and a fear I was no stranger to surged within me. Before I could scream out or collapse from sheer terror, though, he let go. He backed away so quickly, it was as if I’d imagined the whole scene. I clutched at my aching throat, smoothed my clothes, and tried to regain my composure.

  5B returned to his bed and sat down as if our exchange was perfectly logical. It was nonsensical craziness. I breathed a sigh of relief as he rocked himself slowly, seemingly at peace. Dusting imaginary dirt off myself, I readjusted my clothes, smiled at 5B, and left the room, shaken but okay. I’d survived. See, it was okay. I reassured myself, inhaling and exhaling purposefully to calm my racing heart. So many had suffered at the violence of 5B, I’d learned. He’d even been restrained for a period of time, but eventually he’d been unchained when he’d grown despondent and complacent.

  Somehow, he seemed to pose no risk to me because he thought I was a savior of sorts. What did he think I would save him from? And how would I convince him I was doing my job? I needed to keep him calm, play the game a bit. But to do so would require figuring out exactly what he wanted, who he thought he saw, and what it all meant.

  I made some more rounds, thinking about 5B the whole time. It might be nonsense, or it might simply be a riddle no one had taken the time to figure out, I tossed in my mind over and over. If I could solve it, I could decipher him. I could make his life a little better, give some insight that would lead to real treatment.

  That night, back at my apartment, I started a notebook, a list of things he’d said. I would do some investigating, get to the bottom of 5B if my life depended on it. In some ways, I supposed it just might.

  The Staff at Redwood

  Might we take a moment to discuss the staff at the glorious Redwood. With prestigious names gracing the halls, especially in its early years, one would expect the staff of Redwood to be elite, highly trained, the cream of the crop. And perhaps that was true at first, when the vision for the asylum was seemingly pure-hearted, when the age of asylum medicine was seen as practical and necessary. As the decades slipped away and the century turned, however, the stigma with the asylum grew. The best of the best in the medical field strayed away from asylum medicine. It was easier to fix a heart. It was easier to get recognition as a surgeon of noteworthiness. Playing with the mind was, well, a thankless profession, at least to many.

  So the staff at Redwood slowly slipped. If you look in the hallway on the second floor, near the break room for the staff, there is a wing dedicated to the doctors of Redwood. Photograph after photograph of white coats and stern faces grace the intricate wallpaper in carefully crafted gilded frames. A few are smiling demurely at the camera. Many wear spectacles. Their names are inscribed on tiny plaques. Some names are still remembered, some forgotten. But several are, above all else, notorious.

  Not all their smiles are out of concern for the patients. It is well-known that in the history of the asylum, some have used their power in the hallways of Redwood for malice. Some have taken on a self-proclaimed god-like stance in the meddling with their patients. Some have gone downright mad themselves. One, a Dr. Woolstone, was even murdered within the walls. Many felt he deserved it for his wicked practices. Others claim that the black-haired girl who did it was demented in her own right.

  Several doctors now preside over Redwood. Dr. Righthound, who almost failed out of medical school but was saved by a last-minute awareness of the importance of studying—and perhaps his father’s connection to the dean at the medical school. Dr. Mason, who is genuinely quiet and seems to have a care for his patients even though he is approaching the age of eighty and struggles with mobility. And then there is Dr. Bluefield, who does not technically earn the title of doctor, but the staff refer to him that way in spite of his lacking credentials. He never completed his studies at medical school, but his father is friends with the current owner of Redwood, so exceptions were made. Technically, he is simply a medical assistant. Practically, he is used as a doctor for all intents and purposes. Laws and legal ramifications and moral codes of ethics are, after all, used as guidelines at Redwood as any staff quickly learns.

  The doctors don’t have the wickedness of some of their predecessors, true. But ove
r the years, working with those deemed insane and dangerous will plague a person. A surge of power is difficult to squelch, so if one were to keep vigil over their actions, one would perhaps see examples that appear to be cruel, ruthless, and unnecessary.

  The staff—the nurses, the cooks, the maids, and the assistants—hail from a wide range of walks of life. When looking for workers, the asylum tends to seek those who will not run a confidentiality risk, who will do their job, keep their noses down, and go home to sleep. For Redwood to truly remain tucked away, this is crucial. Selfie queens, those chasing larger-than-life dreams, and those with big families to gossip with need not apply. The asylum certainly values medical experience, but more than that, it values those who are looking to blend in and be forgotten, much like the residents at Redwood. Drifters, ex-convicts looking for a second chance, loners—these are the gilded qualifications sought by the Redwood higher ups. Unsavory workers to other institutions are treasured in Redwood simply because those with little will do a lot and put up with a lot. They are easier to be silenced by any and all means.

  The wealthy families who pay for their family members to reside at Redwood look the other way when it comes to the staff. They are not fools, of course. They just, perhaps, do not care as much as one would think they should. Better tucked away with unsavory workers than put on display in their own mansions, the tabloids of social gossip squelching their reputations.

  And how do the criminally insane, the wardens of the state, end up at a private institution? Money talks. It is something the founder, Francis Weathergate, knew. It is something the current board knows and those charged with carrying on the Weathergate legacy understand. You can cover up any sins with the right bribes, with the right amount of money, or with the best set of resources. Who has time to investigate a few criminally insane psychopaths, after all? And who will even want to invest the energy?