My gaze landed on her. In the middle of the darkness, the yellow dress was an unmistakable beacon glowing in the darkened forest. Red pigtails flopping as she stalked forward, her face was still a mushy, indistinct mess. My heart caught in my throat, and I prepared to scream. Who would hear it? Who would care?
Tears welled as I scrambled to my feet backing against the stone wall. I slid to the left, trying to creep to the door, even though I knew the interior walls of Redwood offered little if any reprieve from the haunting sight. I tripped over my feet, flashes of all that had happened striking against my brain and clouding my reasoning. I shook my head as the screeching noise drifted on the chilly air, warping my senses as I cried out.
“Please, stop.”
The figure stalked toward me, faster now, as if she were carried by invisible wings. Her whole being was a dusty aura of light, but distinct enough that a chill of recognition rang through my bones.
No. Stop. It isn’t. Stop. Don’t think about that night.
My mind clung to the words in my head as if they were lifelines. They perhaps were. Because I needed to forget. That’s why I came to Redwood. To forget. To move on. To escape. Still, you can’t always outrun the past. 5B had learned that. I had learned that.
As the figure came closer, I scrambled toward the door. Locked. I plunged my hand into my pocket, greedily grabbing for the badge. I needed to get inside. The scream intensified as she stalked closer, her presence right in front of me. The screaming was so intense, I abandoned the badge to cover my ears. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping she would go away. But she didn’t. She stood inches from my face, her gooey skin smelling of death and rubber. I gagged, both from the smell and from sheer terror.
Her fingers clawed at me now, my back pressed against the door. Scratches covered my arms as she pawed at me like a desperate beast.
“Please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I cried out. I shoved at her, but she wouldn’t go away. I knew why. We always know why, even if we don’t want to admit it.
Her piercing scream mixed with mine. Sobs and coughs emitted, I was drowning in fear and wounds from the being. Back against the door, I closed my eyes, convinced it would end right there. I wouldn’t escape Redwood. I was no hero, after all. Just as I was about to succumb to the eternal darkness, though, I stumbled backward, falling with a thud that knocked the wind out of me.
The screeching stopped. My face was sticky with running mascara and snot. An arm shook me, and I jumped. My flesh burned.
“Jessica? Dude, what happened?” I opened my eyes to look up at Brett, his stoner eyes studying me.
I bolted upright, peering out the door into the darkness. But there was no yellow, no distorted face, no being. It was as if I’d imagined her. Just like I’d told myself that night when fate or disaster or simply bad decisions brought us together not so long ago.
I sunk back into myself, breathing out, and thinking about how the past can never disappear when there’s still unfinished business, unfinished justice, and unfinished time.
The Staircase
Time and time again, love gets in the way. It is the classic tale. Two star-crossed lovers separated by class or circumstance or whatever else Shakespeare says in Midsummer Night’s Dream. Love never works out, and mortals are fools when it comes to the emotion. I should know; I have experienced the sorrows of an impossible love myself in a time so different than now.
Redwood itself has its fair share of romance tales for the ages as well. There are, of course, the romance stories within the staff. Some work out. Some fail. Some simply result in lustful romps in various supply closets in the damp, screechy facility. Nonetheless, one love story that took place a decade ago has stood the test of time, has become as legendary as the bard’s greatest tales. It is the story of Phillip and Queenie—and it started and ended right in the halls of Redwood.
There is something about forbidden love that draws the human heart in. So when Phillip took over as head nurse of floor four and a young, vibrant blonde with a penchant for suicidal tendencies moved into the first room, he was hooked. Redwood certainly bends the rules, but romance between staff and patients is forbidden. Needlessly so, for the most part. Most staff members do not eye the residents of Redwood with anything but pity or eventual disgust after too many years of cleaning up messes and dealing with madness in its sometimes-ugly forms.
Queenie was different. So was Phillip. He had lost his family in a terrible car accident two years before coming to Redwood. Lonely and desperate to feel something, he found that something in the blue eyes of the woman who sometimes heard voices, who often tried to kill herself, and who liked to tell everyone that in a previous life, she was actually royalty. Hence the name—her real name has since been forgotten.
It was perhaps a harmless flirtation at first. Phillip was guarded, but Queenie was open and vivacious despite her proclivity for slitting her own wrists. She was a walking paradox—a woman who both hated life so desperately but also was full of it. She was the enigma that Phillip could not reject.
It started with a few harmless tokens. The staff noticed, but they turned their heads. A lot goes on in the walls, and there are worse things at Redwood than a few stolen kisses. At least that is what they convinced themselves. They even assured themselves it might be good for Queenie. It might be good for Phillip.
But rumors kept spreading, and Phillip was getting distracted. Suddenly, he started requesting information about Queenie’s treatments. He started asking questions about the experimental drugs, the shock treatment therapies, the questionable tactics. He started, in short, to see through the façade Redwood is adept at upholding.
And that made certain protectors of the realm of Redwood angry. Terribly angry. There is nothing more dangerous than an age-old institution protected by money, time, and the fact that it is forgotten by so many. Sheltered in a way.
One fateful night, when Phillip was walking down the stairwell—some say it was the night he was planning to escape with Queenie—a tragic accident happened. While the male nurse was preparing to move a resident to another floor, he tripped and fell down the stairs. His neck cracked, and he died of a terrible head wound. So sad. Yet no newspapers picked up the story. In fact, no funeral was held. No services took place. No one other than the staff uttered his name.
Queenie never recovered from the disappearance of Phillip. She was told, of course, that he had taken another job. To protect her. It did not do anything of the sort. After depression seeped in, she grew violent. Anna had to move her to the top floor, where, after a period of time, she was moved to another facility that could be of a greater help.
No one talks about the star-crossed lovers, except to pass down the legend of their tale. In truth, it is one of the lesser discussed stories of Redwood. After all, what excitement is there in a story of an accidental death on the stairs and a mad woman who no longer lives in Redwood?
Still, there are whispers, as there always are. Whispers that it was not truly an accident. Whispers that a grown man would not break his neck that way from a simple fall on the stairs. And whispers that Queenie’s new facility was, of course, nothing of the sort.
But perhaps it is all just madness. Still, for several weeks after the accident, before she was moved, Queenie started saying bizarre things. Crazy things. Insane things. She started shouting that Anna did it. She accused her of murder. The staff laughed. Her family laughed when they visited at Christmas, the only day they came to the asylum. They never came back again, which suited everyone just fine. Everyone laughed at the mad woman making up insane claims about Anna. Who would believe her? Who could believe her? No wonder the woman was locked away, they said.
They all dismissed the nonsensical ravings of a mad woman, passing down the crazy story of Phillip and Queenie as an understated, duller story than Josephine or the Pig’s Blood or the other tales of Redwood.
I didn’t shrug it off. I cried a few tears. Because Phillip and Queenie, they gave me hope. They made
me feel like it might all matter after all. That what I was doing and watching might matter, if just one person could escape this hell hole. Phillip’s murder and Queenie’s disappearance, though, made me feel depressed. Because it reminded me that the legends are true.
Redwood sucks you in and never truly spits you out.
I felt more trapped than ever that year, if that could ever even be possible.
Chapter Thirty
Ihad to see him. There was no getting around it. Even if it meant getting fired, I needed to see him again, if not to solve the mystery than to assuage my fears. But how could I possibly get into 5B without Anna stopping me? When my shift ended, I drove down the foggy road on the Redwood property. I didn’t go home. I parked my car in a parking lot a few blocks away, tucked inconspicuously behind a strip mall of cafes and the post office. Then, I began the careful trek back to Redwood and hopefully the answers I needed.
I crossed easily in the early morning light toward the property, the dense forest daunting before me. My body ached from the night’s work, but my mind was the more painful aspect of myself. It whirled around images of the kids, of the yellow girl, of everything that had transpired. I pushed back a strand of hair, wondering if I would even recognize my own reflection if I looked in a mirror. Could a blackened soul be spotted in the reflective glass? I wasn’t sure.
The iron gate seemed to beckon me forward at the front of the asylum property, but I knew it was too risky. I could be spotted, and then I’d be done for. I already knew my days were probably numbered at Redwood, and it was probably for the best.
My shoes squeaked in the dewy grass as I edged to the side of the property. The iron fence was still intimidating, but I knew what I had to do. I mustered up strength and a bit of wily resolve, stepping up on the bottom rung of the iron fence. The pointy top mocked me, and I pictured myself falling onto the spike, bleeding out on the edge of the property while Redwood drank me in. Shuddering, I murmured an inadequate prayer and hoisted myself upward, balancing precariously on the dampened top rung before heaving myself over the pointed top. I fell in a heap on the deviled ground, the dark energy surging through my veins as though the earth here was different, was malicious. Was deadly.
Standing slowly like an aching, elderly woman, I assessed the damage. I was in one piece. The spikes hadn’t killed me. But as I looked toward the direction of the stone asylum, the dense forest smothered me. I felt claustrophobic yet paradoxically unrestrained in the leafy, wet forest around me. It was silent, the soft morning light splotching against certain branches in a not-quite-ethereal way. I inhaled, trudging forward. My work was just beginning, and I was so tired already.
Dread careened into my chest as I forced myself forward. My feet crunching the foliage beneath them was the only sound. Still, as I edged through the maze of trees, I felt the familiar feeling: I wasn’t alone.
I steadied my breathing, my hands feeling along against the branches as I made the trek onward, toward the stone coffin that so many were trapped in. I longed for the feel of the cold wall underneath my fingers, for the noisy screams in the halls of the prison-like building.
My skin prickled as I heard footsteps approaching behind me. Heart racing, I paused, leaning on the scratchy bark of the nearby tree. My fingers felt a smooth carving. I glanced over, my finger tracing the number three. I didn’t have time to ponder it, however; the footsteps stopped and then started once more. I turned to face what I felt was certainly my impending doom.
He stood here, tall and gangly. The gaping hole on his face oozed with mud, with earthworms, with blood. His masculine body was marred by clods of dirt as if he’d been birthed from the earth itself. I backed against the tree as he moaned and groaned, worms swirling and twirling around his limbs.
I stood, appraising him for a moment. Wondering what it would take to release him even though I thought I knew. But how could I track him down? How could I make any of it sensical? I stood for a long moment, pity usurping my fear for a split second.
And then he was upon me.
I couldn’t breathe. Dirt clods pummeled into my open mouth, stifling my scream. I was choking and sputtering on dirt, the gritty texture clogging my throat and soaking up my spit, my voice, my life force. I looked up at the forest covering, longing to see the sun but only seeing the being above me. He strangled the life out of me as his moan drowned out my own thoughts. I would die alone in the forest, staring up at the sky. Who would find me? It was a perfect place to disappear, I realized. The perfect place to hide one’s crime.
One, two, three. Straight from the gate.
The tree had a three etched on it. We were straight back from the front gate, I imagined.
I felt his gritty hands wrapped around my neck. With our contact sealed, my mind flashed. Images that matched the view I was seeing flashed before me—but there was one difference.
He was standing over me. 5B, a younger version of course. He grinned, his eyes lustful and hungry, eyeing me as I lay helplessly on the ground.
And then the shoveling began. I realized I was in a hole, my body being covered by every scoop. I was being buried alive. I needed air. I gasped and begged and pleaded with the universe, but no one came. No one heard. My stomach churned at the realization that it was really here. My death. My end. I would die here, alone. No one to rescue me, to find me, to grieve me. I would disappear into the forever darkness, a forgotten figment of the collective imagination. I would be swept away with the millions of memories and hopes and fears that humanity forgets they ever had.
Dirt clotted onto my eyes, and then, as terror reigned supreme within me, it all spun away. Like water swirling down a drain, the images disappeared, pulling at my life force on their way out. I was once more in the present, the dewy grass on my back as I stared up at Little Brown, his distorted face and distant moan calmed. And then he was gone, evaporated into the foggy mist as if I’d imagined him entirely. I sat up slowly, breathing greedily as I rub my head. What the hell?
I swiped at tears as I stood once more to head toward the asylum, knowing my madness might just be real—but so was the fact that 5B did it. I knew what he did to the kids.
Isn’t that what we all want, after all? That sense of peace even after the worst storm? That belief that someone, everyone, anyone will mourn us, remember us, and believe our life had value?
I trudged onward, my mission set in the cold stone walls of the asylum as I realized my life still had some value to it. And more determined than ever to shake out the answers I sought, no matter what forces stood in the way. I walked beyond tree three and the secrets it housed, shivering as I imagined what lay six odd feet or so beneath my feet.
***
My breathing was labored as I pressed my back against the wall. I’d crept in a side entrance and then repeated the inadequate prayer as I climbed the stairwells, swiftly but light on my feet. I needed to make it to the top floor without being spotted. At this point, I didn’t know whom I could trust. Anna clearly was a powerful force, and she had many people on her side. But who, and how many? I was fairly certain it was late enough in the morning for her to be gone. It was a risk I would have to take. I creaked open the door to floor five after beeping my badge. If someone did some digging, they would see I’d checked back in. I would have no excuse for being there. I would be caught. Still, I felt I had nothing to lose, having lost it all already.
I held my breath. I eyed the desk. Empty. Brett or whoever was on duty now was making rounds. Perhaps I would get lucky after all.
I pressed against the wall, edging toward the room that magnetized me. I thought of that first day, that dreary morning when I’d first laid eyes on the man who would clutch me tighter than Redwood ever could. It seemed like a lifetime ago that the lost woman I was became even more lost. I shrugged it off. I didn’t have time for this inner monologue. I pressed forward, beeping myself into the room. I slipped inside, exhaling audibly as I took in the sight of him.
He was scrawling ima
ges at his desk, the sight somewhat comforting. I knew I didn’t have much time. I walked over to see scribbles of Brown hovering over something.
A woman. This woman was drawn in black. Her ponytail, her lanky features. I suspected the truth, shuddering at the reality.
“Jessica, you came back. He told me you would,” he murmured matter-of-factly, his hand still scribbling with the crayon in a rage of art and death.
“I don’t have much time.” I was panting, my lungs heaving from the day’s events and from the flights of stairs.
He stopped mid-drawing and snapped his head to the left to gaze at me. “No, you don’t. No time at all. Hurry, Jessica. Or we’re all doomed. All of us.”
“You killed them. You killed them all. I need to know where they are. Where the rest of them are. Red? Pink? What did you do with them?”
He turned back to his drawing, doodling again.
“Little blue, wide water, the field of cats. Little red, around the bend, the crooked nose. Little brown, one, two, three, straight from the gate. Little pink, her mother’s grave, a lost cause.”
The words came out, a sea of sing-song terror. I tried to commit it all to memory, but my hands were shaking. It was too much. I grabbed a piece of paper out from underneath him. He snapped at me with his teeth, but I moved just in time. I grabbed a red crayon and scratched down what I assumed were clues. I pulled on a strand of hair, shaking my head. I didn’t have time for a damn riddle solving event or a scavenger hunt. I slammed my hand down.
“Tell me where they are, you bastard,” I shouted. I realized too late that it had probably been too loud.
He stared at me before chuckling, a rasp in his chest adding an edge of eeriness. “I already have, you foolish girl. I already have.”
I breathed in, breathed out.
The Redwood Asylum: A Paranormal Horror Page 13