Rookwood Asylum

by David Longhorn

  “The East Wing is the focus of the phenomena,” Rodria explained pompously, filming himself on a small camera, “therefore, we will fire up the device there.”

  “Has this – degaussing thing – has it ever actually worked?” asked Kate timidly, aware that her bosses might see the video.

  “It has achieved very promising results in tests,” Rodria responded.

  “Lab tests, would those be?” asked Paul. “As in, not actual field tests in haunted buildings?”

  Rodria did not deign to answer and turned to the degausser, barking out orders. Between them, Chris and Declan connected the generator cables. Then Rodria, with a pretentiously detailed running commentary, set a timer on the device.

  “You don’t have to stay, Paul,” Kate pointed out quietly as they looked on. “You’ve officially moved out.”

  “Yeah, but I still feel responsible, somehow,” Paul said. “This place should be torn down, not demagnetized or whatever. Nobody should live here until someone a lot smarter than Max over there figures out how to cleanse it.”

  Perversely, Paul found himself wishing Palmer would manifest himself in a way that even Rodria could not deny. But nothing had happened since Sadie Prescott had horrifically scalded herself. Paul could not help but think that Palmer was playing some demented game of his own, toying with everyone.

  But what’s his purpose? Paul wondered. Even a madman has some kind of objective.

  “Right, let’s start her up,” ordered Rodria, making no move to help.

  Chris struggled with the generator for a few moments before Declan, smiling politely, stepped in and got it running. The motor was shockingly loud in the confined space. Rodria, now shouting his running commentary over the generator, moved to the controls of the degausser. Paul made one more effort to persuade the scientist.

  “Okay, Max, maybe there is some kind of energy field in the building, confining Palmer, or what Palmer has become. But these ghosts are not recordings. They’re not insensate images or emotions being replayed. They are capable of thinking, adapting. You’re making a big mistake.”

  The reply was predictable.

  “A lot of medieval nonsense – there are no such things as ghosts!”

  Rodria waved Paul aside and flicked a couple of switches, then pushed a green button. There was a slight hum, a low vibration that Paul felt as much as heard.

  “Now, we leave,” said Rodria. “When dealing with high voltages, better safe than sorry.”

  That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said, Paul thought.

  They filed out through one of the East Wing’s doors, with Declan fastening the plastic sheet closed behind them. A minute later they had joined the small crowd of reporters and general gawkers at the gates. Rodria explained that the timer had been set for ten minutes, and passed the time giving the media an account of his accomplishments.

  “Do you think this will work?” Paul asked Chris.

  The young woman looked startled, and Paul wondered if she was unused to being asked her opinion.

  “I’m sure it will,” she replied. “You should show more respect to the professor. He’s doing great work, demystifying the paranormal.”

  Hero worship, Paul thought cynically. But he persisted in asking Chris details about the degausser while the minutes ticked away. Eventually, the moment came, and Rodria announced grandly that ‘the process is now complete.’

  The scientist led a small column of reporters back up to Rookwood, accompanied by Kate and Declan. Chris and Paul tagged along behind, the meek assistant apparently under orders to stay in the background.

  “He doesn’t want you to get between him and the media, huh?” asked Paul.

  The young woman did not reply. Rodria led his posse into the East Wing, and the group gathered around the bulk of the degausser. The scientist launched into a basic explanation of what had happened – according to himself, at least. Paul grew frustrated as reporters lobbed softball questions, and Rodria claimed that ‘any so-called haunting has probably been neutralized.’

  “How can you know?” Paul shouted from the back.

  Rodria sneered.

  “One of my esteemed colleagues, there, who moved out of the building to escape the bogies,” he said.

  “But seriously,” one journalist asked, “how can you know things have returned to normal, whatever that is?”

  Rodria puffed himself up like a bullfrog and resumed his diatribe. However, he broke off after a few seconds because he was clearly losing his audience.

  “Oh my God!” exclaimed Kate. “It hasn’t worked.”

  Paul could not see what was happening at first. But then a couple of reporters blocking his view stepped back, collided with him, and pushed past. Paul could see what had spooked them now. Behind Rodria there were too many shadows, and they were moving slowly, hypnotically. The swirl of dark shapes grew more substantial. There was a general movement back, toward the exit to the grounds.

  A sudden wave of cold penetrated through Paul’s clothes. Other people noticed it, too, and more people moved toward the door.

  “What’s wrong?” Rodria demanded. His breath was visible, a rapidly-dispersing cloud in front of his face. Then he turned, peered at the gathering darkness. A vibration began to throb through the floor and walls, a blizzard of plaster fell from the ceiling. Almost everyone was either outside or leaving in confusion that bordered on panic. Paul began to back off, taking Chris by the arm, pulling her away.

  “This is not happening!” Rodria bellowed. “This is not acceptable!”

  Rodria, Paul realized, was offended that the ghosts had not stuck to the script. This was not meant to happen. The shadowy presence flowed like vapor toward Rodria, then seemed to hesitate. As the scientist stood, apparently refusing to accept the evidence of his own senses, the darkness surrounded the generator and Rodria’s magnetic device. The cold was intense, almost Arctic.

  “Get out!” Paul shouted. “Run!”

  Just before he fled Paul saw the dark presence coalesce into a human figure – short, narrow-shouldered, with gleaming circles for eyes. Miles Rugeley Palmer glared up at Max Rodria, who had finally fallen silent. Then another shockwave ran through the building, and Paul retreated. The familiar plastic sheet fell back to cover the door. Through it, Paul could just make out vague shapes moving. One, he assumed, was Rodria.

  “We must help him!”

  Chris, the scientist’s assistant, was looking up at Paul, her expression pleading. Paul was about to warn her not to risk going back inside when there was a crackling sound. The plastic was pushed aside, and Max Rodria emerged into the July sunlight. He looked disheveled, his face pale, but he seemed unharmed.

  “Max!” Chris cried, and ran over to her boss.

  Rodria looked down at her with a blank expression, then smiled benignly.

  “Ah, my dear girl, there’s nothing to worry about,” he said. “As I predicted, whatever traces of past events that lingered in the building –”

  Rodria stopped, his expression changing. He looked confused, then seemed to catch sight of Paul.

  “You!” he bellowed. “You always tried to undermine me, denigrate my work, hold me up to ridicule!”

  Rodria strode toward Paul, almost knocking Chris down in his fury, and with him, came the now familiar wave of unnatural cold. Paul retreated, stumbled, fell on the uneven turf. Around him he saw people gawping, the cameraman filming, but nobody moving to intervene. Rodria descended upon Paul, who was struggling to stand up. The scientist kicked at Paul’s leg, sending him sprawling, then kicked again, the toe of his brown brogue connecting with a rib.

  “Hey, that’s out of order mate!”

  Declan ran at Rodria and grappled with the older man. Paul, winded and unable to move, assumed the Irishman would easily subdue the seemingly insane professor. But Rodria flung Declan aside, as if the older man had suddenly acquired superhuman strength. In that moment, he knew what was happening.

  Rodria started forw
ard again, walking quickly toward the gates. People stood aside as the scientist barged through the small crowd, ignoring questions from reporters.

  “Stop him!” Paul managed to shout. “Don’t let them escape.”

  As he got to his feet, he pointed at Rodria’s back, tried to find the right words.

  “He’s possessed! Palmer’s using him to escape.”

  Declan looked at Paul, wide-eyed, then seemed to make a decision. He ran at Rodria, tackled him, and brought the hefty man down. Again, Rodria began kicking out, but now Paul and Kate had joined Declan. Among them, they managed to restrain him. Rodria glared at Paul, spat in his face, kept trying to break free.

  “Get him back inside,” Paul urged. “It could kill him if this goes on too long.”

  “You meddling bastard!” snarled Rodria. “You can’t defeat us. Let us go free!”

  As they dragged the big man back to the East Wing, the cursing became more inventive, profoundly obscene. Rodria’s voice also shifted in tone, becoming thinner, higher, as Palmer came to the fore.

  They were too good a match, thought Paul, as they half-dragged the scientist over the grass. Palmer’s ego must have meshed with Rodria’s almost perfectly.

  Once more inside the building, Rodria suddenly became limp. They almost dropped him. The cold was even more intense now they were indoors. Paul felt a sudden nausea, felt a tingling like a static charge run over his skin.

  But it was too late. With a loud snap, the thick, black generator cables broke free from the degausser and lashed out at Rodria. The tips of the metallic tentacles crackled, dropped sparks. When they struck Rodria, there was a blinding flash. The scientist jerked, writhing on the tiled floor, and the cables wrapped around him as smoke rose from a huge burn mark on his tweed jacket.

  With a piercing scream, Chris ran for the exit, followed by Paul. Outside, the well-kept lawns of Rookwood were dotted with pale-faced witnesses. One cameraman from a local TV news service was checking his equipment, hands clumsy with shock. Chris was gazing at the outer doorway to the East Wing, face contorted with horror.

  “What happened?”

  It was the reporter from the Tynecastle Gazette, looking at Paul as if he had some special insight to offer.

  “He got himself killed,” he said simply.

  “But what happened, and why?” the woman persisted.

  Paul shook his head, turned to look back at the East Wing. Bright sparks were visible through the door and windows. The electrical equipment was still malfunctioning. He wondered if Rodria’s experiment had actually boosted the energy available to the entity Palmer had become.

  And now Max is subject to Palmer’s deranged whims.

  He had to laugh, albeit grimly, at the thought of Rodria’s massive ego being enslaved by anyone, even a long-dead maniac. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he wondered if some great clash of wills was currently underway in the East Wing of Rookwood.

  “It’s on fire!” someone shouted.

  They were right. Paul could see smoke emerging from the East Wing, and the flashes of electric sparks had been replaced by the orange glow of flames.

  He remembered the fuel tank of Rodria’s generator and heard sirens growing closer.

  Epilogue

  “And you haven’t heard anything more from – from Liz?”

  Paul shook his head, continued to gaze up at a picture on the wall above the woman’s head.

  “So far as I know she’s moved on to heaven, or the astral plane, or maybe Nirvana.”

  Doctor Weller shifted in her seat, wrote a few words on her pad. Paul felt, not for the first time, a deep desire to read her notes.

  I could always ask, he thought. But that might not be appropriate.

  “You appreciate that this is not the kind of thing I normally hear,” she said. “At least, not in cases of depression.”

  “I’ve told you what occurred,” Paul pointed out. “Crazy or not, it’s what happened to me. And I’ve filled in a few details from what other people said.”

  The doctor made another note.

  “Is there anything particularly interesting about that picture?” she asked, twisting round to look at the painting.

  Paul looked at the doctor, shrugged. The painting was a reproduction of a dull seascape, with a little sailboat on a calm ocean, under a blue sky with a few fleecy white clouds.

  “I just find it helpful to focus on something – relaxing, while I’m talking about all this,” he admitted. “I suppose you choose pictures for that reason?”

  “Well, we’re not going to put Hieronymus Bosch up there,” she smiled. “Nothing that might cause agitation or be too distracting. Now, perhaps it would help if you told me more about your mother…”

  The session continued, with Paul gradually peeling back layers of memory, revealing things he had never told anyone before. He felt it was probably helping and told Doctor Weller so. But there was one thing he could not reveal. It was, he suspected, a legacy from his close contact with Liz, coupled with the more general ordeal he had undergone at Rookwood. It was an intermittent problem, but just at the moment, it seemed to be manifesting itself with some intensity.

  “Did this place used to be a children’s home?” he asked suddenly.

  The therapist stopped in mid-remark, surprised by the question. She looked speculatively at Paul for a moment, then made another note.

  “Yes, I believe so,” she replied. “Some kind of Victorian orphanage, anyhow. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, just something I – I read it somewhere, I guess,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Sorry, please go on.”

  Paul made a determined effort to focus on the questions, give intelligent responses, be as truthful as he could. But he began to suspect that this was not going to work. It was not because Doctor Weller was unhelpful – far from it. It was because they were not alone.

  No matter how intently he stared at the picture of the serene little boat, he could not ignore the shifting figures that were a little too substantial to be shadows. They stood behind the therapist, peering over her shoulder, jostling to see what she thought of Paul. They were small figures, and sometimes they became substantial enough for Paul to make out pale, thin faces, and their antiquated clothes. He thought of the high death rate infectious diseases used to inflict on the young, especially the poorest children. He felt pity for them, but also fear of what might happen if he spoke to them.

  No, he thought, I’d better not ask what she’s written. It could cause more trouble than it’s worth.

  ***

  “I’m just saying,” said Neve’s mother. “It’s shocking the way things are, these days.”

  “Yes, mum,” replied Neve. “Shocking.”

  She had learned a long time ago not to argue with her mother about the state of the nation.

  “Finish your cereal, miss,” she added, speaking to Ella. “You’ll be late for school again, and we don’t want more trouble there, do we?”

  Ella remained sitting still, spoon paused above the bowl of cornflakes. She was obviously listening to the grownups, head cocked to one side. Neve’s mother was still bustling around the cramped kitchen, despite Neve’s insistence that she could manage.

  Sooner we get a place of our own the better, Neve thought. I’m going barmy living here. And it’s not good for Ella, seeing us bickering.

  “I’m just saying,” Mrs. Cotter repeated. “In my day, people had more respect. You could leave your front door unlocked because there wasn’t all this crime going on.”

  At that, Ella tilted her head the other way, nodded. Neve was about to tell her off when the girl spoke.

  “That’s not true, granny,” she said firmly, waving her spoon for emphasis. “In the old days there were lots of criminals around here, and people locked their doors at night.”

  Both women looked at Ella in startled silence. Neve tried not to laugh, seeing her mother’s face.

  “What are they teaching them these days?
” said Mrs. Cotter finally. “How on earth would you know about that, missy?”

  Ella shrugged and began to scoop up her cereal. Her grandmother made a disapproving noise, but withdrew from the fray and went out to fuss in other rooms. Neve gulped down the last of her coffee and then started searching in her handbag for her keys.

  “You put them in the bowl on the sideboard, mummy,” said Ella. “Along with granny’s keys.”

  “Oh, thanks,” Neve replied, then stopped, stared. It was not like Ella to know where anything of her mother’s was. Rather the opposite, in fact.

  She’s been acting quite oddly, Neve thought. But that’s not surprising, given what she’s been through. We’ll see what the child psychologist makes of it next week.

  “Darling,” Neve said, sitting opposite her daughter. “We’re very lucky to be able to live with granny, you know? Without her, we’d really be in a pickle. And we’ll soon have a new place, a nice place.”

  Ella nodded.

  “I won’t say anything about the old days anymore,” she promised.

  Neve smiled, reached over to ruffle Ella’s hair. Then she frowned, took hold of her daughter’s free hand. Ella pulled away quickly, shoveled up another mouthful of cereal.

  “Have you hurt yourself, poppet?” Neve asked anxiously, getting up. “Let me see.”

  “No,” Ella insisted, not meeting her mother’s eye. “It’s all right. I’m fine.”

  For a moment, Neve thought about persisting, then saw the clock on the kitchen wall. They were going to be late, and the matter would wait. She had to get Ella out of the door and into the car, tackle the rush hour traffic, apologize to the teacher for yet another late start…

  By the time she collected Ella from school that day, Neve had almost resolved to take her to a doctor. But she discreetly checked the girl’s hands as they drove home, and decided against it. Whatever had caused them, the faint red marks around Ella’s wrists had disappeared.