Asylum: The Afterlife investigations #1

by Ibsen, Ambrose

  “Howdy,” I said, taking a slow step towards the gate.

  The security guard, a tall, wiry man with a gun on his hip and a black ball cap, approached the fence with swiftness and gave his belt a tug, doubtless to make sure I'd seen the firearm. “Can I help you folks?” he asked gruffly, yanking a Maglite free of its belt-loop. The three of us took a wave of bright light to the face as he switched it on. “I'm afraid this is private property. No trespassing.”

  I nodded, keeping my hands visible at all times. “Sure, my apologies. We weren't planning on going in there,” I replied. “The three of us were just driving along and wanted to get a look at this big old building from the road here.”

  The guard, his gaunt face pressed into a tight frown, didn't seem to give a damn. “I'm going to need the three of you to leave,” he said.

  “Of course.” I took a step back and was about to return to the car when Elizabeth spoke up.

  “Excuse me,” she began, “but are the things they say about this place true? Is it really haunted?”

  Lifting the bill of his hat, the guard scratched at his thinning mop and gave a weak shrug, the Maglite's beam passing between the three of us in a steady pan. “I'm not really at liberty to discuss the property,” was his canned reply. “I'm paid to drive around it, prevent people from breaking in. That's it. I've never actually been inside.” Perhaps he found it harder to speak harshly to the girl, or else—having sensed that the three of us posed no threat—he was happy to have the monotony of his nightly watch broken up by a bit of conversation, because he continued. “Of course, they say all kinds of things about the building. Now and then they open her up, and one of my buddies got to do a walk-around once. I hear the building's in pretty good shape, but that certain parts are blocked off. Worst of all was the basement, I guess. Most of the lights down there don't work, so you have to take a flashlight. Scared the hell out of him.”

  Now that we had him talking, Elizabeth was determined to try our luck further. “Hugh Blake owns this building, doesn't he?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” replied the guard.

  “We're hoping to contact him. We want to take a tour of the asylum, you see. The three of us are from Moorlake University, members of a new campus organization.” From her purse, she fished out one of the fliers she'd been working on, and slid it to him through one of the links in the fence. “We're with the Moorlake Spiritual Society.”

  “Oh, ghost hunters, huh?” The guard handed back the flier, cracking a grin. “You don't say. I know Mr. Blake is kind of into that whole scene—kind of a superstitious guy. I don't see him too often, but I think he let some other students come by a few years back. They were from Toledo, I thought. Died in a car accident before they could go inside.” He cleared his throat and returned to his gruff, professional persona, motioning to my car. “Anyhow, it's late. I'm going to have to ask you folks to leave. You can contact the owner if you want to check out the building.” Waving us away, he added, “Drive safe.”

  I thought I glimpsed something just then, and it made me do a double-take towards the asylum.

  “Come on, let's beat it,” uttered Jake, pulling my thoughts back to our immediate surroundings.

  I didn't have time to verify, and I shrugged it off just then, backing into the car. Maybe it'd just been the flashing yellows of the SUV's light bar fooling my eyes...

  Silently, we did as we were told, hopping into the car and rolling back onto the highway. A cloud of dust was stirred up in our wake as we flirted with the shoulder. I noticed the security vehicle didn't pull away from the gate until we were almost too far away to see its headlights.

  Cursing under his breath, Jake turned to Elizabeth. “What were you thinking? We should have gotten out of there when he first told us to scram! That dude had a gun.” He shook his head, sparing me a nasty glance. “We shouldn't have come out here to begin with. We knew what would happen. I don't suppose the university would post your bail if we got nabbed for trespassing, would they?” he asked.

  “We didn't trespass,” I reminded him. “But next time, let's make the drive out here with the owner's blessing, yeah?”

  Elizabeth, undaunted by the encounter with the guard, had stars in her eyes. “That building is so huge! Just imagine... Who knows what might be waiting for us in there? It looks so menacing, doesn't it? I can't wait to go inside! This is it, this is what I've been waiting for all these years. If there are answers to be found to life's biggest questions, we're going to find them in that asylum. Can you feel it?”

  I felt something, all right. A burning in my stomach. A new ulcer, maybe? I choked back a wave of acid and cracked my window, taking a whiff of the cool, country air, and tried to settle my nerves.

  It wasn't the encounter with the rent-a-cop that had me rattled. No, my thoughts were on the asylum. Before leaving, I'd noticed something—or thought I'd noticed something—happening inside the building. There'd been no time to take a closer look, though, which left me adrift on a sea of uncomfortable uncertainty.

  Unless I was mistaken, one of the lights in the asylum had come on just as we'd piled back into the car, leaving a second story window curiously aglow.

  I didn't say anything to the others as we drove. There was no sense in it, not if I wasn't certain. Working pensively over a Viceroy, flicking my ashes out the window at seventy miles per hour, I pointed the car south and, when the edge of Moorlake entered into view some forty minutes later, I spoke for the first time since leaving the asylum. “Where am I dropping you two?”

  13

  I dropped the youngins off on campus, near the dorms, and then flew back to my apartment like a bat out of hell. Once home, I dove into bed, wrapped myself up tightly into a blanket and tried to will myself to sleep.

  It didn't work.

  My mind was fixed not on the pursuit of rest, but on the memory of Chaythe Asylum. The dark shape of the thing rose up in my mind again and again, one of its square windows flashing yellow in my remembrance and some crooked humanoid shape shambling past it like a shadow puppet.

  That last part had been my own creation. I hadn't seen anyone in the window—wasn't even sure that I'd seen the light on in the joint—but the idea that the long-abandoned building might still be occupied took my imagination to some rather obscure places.

  Fatigue eventually overpowered me and I slipped into a semi-peaceful sleep of some hours until the chirping of my phone, coupled with the nagging rays of the sun, drew me out of bed. I knew who the texts were from before I even batted my phone off of the nightstand in a groggy stupor.

  “Goddamnit, Elizabeth. Can't you cut me a damn break?” I swiped through the texts sleepily and found that they made up what appeared to be a rambling, disjointed story. In order for me to follow along, I was going to have to wake up a little first. Hiking to the shower, I stood in the warm spray until my brain started firing on all cylinders and then, toweling off, tried to start from the beginning. In the meantime, still more texts had poured in, the most recent of which asked, “Are you SERIOUSLY still asleep?”

  Elizabeth's story turned out to be a new lead. She wrote about how, in an exchange with Jake the night before, after our stop at the asylum, she'd learned something new. Her boyfriend, it turned out, was related to a former patient of the Chaythe Asylum. An aunt of his had been admitted there for three years in the mid-80's for a serious case of depression which she now kept in check with a whole lot of anti-depressants. She lived near the campus with her husband and their golden retriever, and Elizabeth seemed to think she might be willing to talk about her time there.

  Ah, so that'd been the source of Jake's discomfort all night. Someone in his family had a personal connection to the asylum. I could tell already that seeking out Jake's aunt to talk about her experiences in the place was going to lead to arguments. The kid certainly wasn't going to be cool with that plan.

  And neither was I, really. Chatting up a former patient, someone who still struggled with depression on a daily
basis, seemed pretty tactless for what basically amounted to a field trip. It bordered on exploitative, really, but in my head-achey state I didn't feel like pressing the issue and simply replied, “OK”, in the vain hope that Elizabeth would leave me the hell alone until I'd gotten some food and coffee into my system. I stepped into my closet and went looking for my day's clothes, settling on a black T-shirt, grey button down and a pair of chinos, which I left spread out on my bed.

  With that, I absconded to the kitchenette, where I sat down on the counter to sip french press coffee in my underwear and fuss with my phone.

  From my wallet I took the scrap of paper upon which I'd jotted Hugh Blake's number. When I felt sure my voice had lost that gravelly edge so representative of poor sleep, I dialed him and held my breath.

  I thought it was going to go to voicemail, but at the last second there was an answer.

  “Hello, this is Hugh.”

  Flexing my toes as my feet dangled over the floor, I put on as friendly a tone as I could, quickly swallowing a last sip of coffee. “Good morning, Mr. Blake.”

  He hesitated. I pictured him glancing down at a Citizen watch and furrowing his brow as he replied, “Er... it's mid-day.”

  One of these days I was going to work out a normal schedule. “Right, sorry.” I cleared my throat. “I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Blake. My name is Professor Stephen Barlow. I'm with the English department at Moorlake University and I'm calling you today because I have a few questions about a property you own.”

  More hesitance. “Oh, Ok...” He licked his lips. “What property might that be?”

  I didn't see any sense in holding back and went right for the jugular. “You see, Mr. Blake, I've been appointed faculty advisor of a new campus organization, the Moorlake Spiritual Society, and my students have expressed great interest in taking a tour of the Chaythe Asylum up north, near Toledo. A building of that age, and with such a reputation, would be a phenomenal site for one of our psychical surveys and I was calling today to inquire after the possibility of our paying it an official visit.”

  Blake worked this over a moment, then replied with a slight laugh that seemed to betray willingness. “Oh, is that right? You're with the university, a ghost-hunting group?”

  “That's about the size of it,” I replied, siphoning a bit of coffee into my mouth. “Your consideration on this matter means a great deal. I put off this call, admittedly, because I didn't want to disturb you for such a trivial thing, but if there's any way for us to arrange a visit it would make my students extremely happy to explore the building.”

  “It's no bother at all,” declared Blake. “I'm sure that we can work something out. The building, except for those sections that've been closed off due to structural damage, is fairly safe. I happen to be a believer in the paranormal, and I've always wanted to do a detailed investigation of the asylum. Years back a student group from UT was going to do it and I was going to follow along, but unfortunately they had an accident and never made it. Tell me, what kinds of things would you and your students be doing in the building?”

  I nearly dropped my mug. I hadn't been prepared to answer questions like that. Elizabeth probably had a full-blown itinerary drawn, but I didn't know the first thing about the pseudo-science of paranormal research.

  So, I made shit up instead. “W-Well, we were hoping to go inside and have a thorough look around... Maybe do a, uh... a séance. Commune with any lingering spiritual energies.”

  “Right, right,” came Blake's reply. “That's an interesting angle. The other students, they were going to go for a more scientific approach. They planned on recording EVPs and had some other gear they planned to bring along.”

  “Oh, we might do some of that too,” I was quick to reply. “But, before we got too invested in our plans, I wanted to reach out to you and see if we couldn't green-light this visit.”

  “Well,” began Blake, “I have no problem with it, provided that your students are respectful of the building and any entities therein. I'm always open to helping students and furthering the sciences. Your club sounds great; I wish I'd had something like that when I was in school. Of course, there are some things to consider. It's an old building, and I can't be held responsible for...” He trailed off. “I'll need you all to sign some kind of waiver,” he continued with a chuckle. “Just in case.”

  “Of course, of course,” I replied. “That's no problem.”

  “And, in the event that you all find something,” he said, “I'd like to be the first to know. Usually, I'd want to come along on something like this, but I'll be off for the next few weeks to Thailand on vacation. The wife and I have some sightseeing to do, you understand. But... in the case that you do find anything, shall we say, persuasive, then I'd like to know about it first. Before it ends up on YouTube or what have you. Sound good?”

  “Yeah, of course.” I thought back to the events of the night before and asked, “Tell me, is there electricity in the asylum? Is there anyone staying in the building currently—a groundsman or something like that?”

  “There's electricity, yes. Well—in most areas. We've cut the power in all of the closed sections, and the basement lights never seem to work, for whatever reason. Faulty wiring. But beyond that, you should have electricity and running water throughout. I've hired nightly security, but I don't have anyone staying inside the building, no. I do have a guy, Terrence, who stops by for inspections every now and then. Checks to make sure there are no leaks, shoos away any animals that might've wandered in, etcetera. Come to think of it, we're about due for an inspection of the grounds. I can give ol' Terrence a ring and schedule something with him. He can serve as your guide. He knows the building real well. Not a talkative fellow, but he'd be able to answer all of your questions and he won't get in your way. And so long as your students don't get up to any mischief, I don't mind you all striking out on your own to have a look at the spots that most interest you.”

  “That would be excellent, thanks,” I said. “May I ask what it is you plan for the asylum in the future?”

  Blake took his time in answering. “Truth be told, I've gone back and forth over the years. Part of me wants to restore it—it's a gorgeous bit of architecture. Thought about turning it into a museum, or else a sort of housing project for local artists and musicians. Then again, I might turn around and knock it down—put a mini-mall on that land. Too much on my plate these last few years has kept that old building on the back-burner.”

  I gave him my phone number and he promised to let me know when he'd gotten ahold of Terrence. After the exchange of some pleasantries, I hung up and drained the rest of my coffee. Then, firing off a quick text to Elizabeth, I threw on the rest of my clothes.

  Just spoke to Hugh Blake. He's A-Ok with us visiting the asylum. He'll get back to me soon with the when and how.

  Her reply came a few minutes later, weighed down by a ridiculous amount of exclamation marks.

  With that phone call out of the way, my day should have been wide open. I considered a light lunch downtown, maybe a matinee at the cheap mall cinema, and even went so far as to see what was playing.

  It soon became clear that my day would be spent looking deeper into the mysteries of Chaythe Asylum, however. In the past few days I'd become mightily invested in the place, had grown rather curious about what secrets the old madhouse might hold.

  The building, mostly undisturbed for decades, was now stirring to life. Why was that?

  I was determined to find out.

  14

  I dug up what I could of the so-called “Third Ward Incident” of March 1989 while digging into a turkey and bacon panini at the cafe down the street. There was hardly anyone there; the usual throngs of students were missing, leaving me alone in the vast dining area with a handful of Sudoku-tinkering retirees and a Frank Sinatra tune coming in thick over the sound system. I couldn't remember the name of the song, but that it was off of his In the Wee Small Hours album I had no doubt. I'd listened to that album a gre
at deal in my youth, during visits with my grandmother, who'd been a diehard Sinatra fan. Peering out the window, I noticed it was a very In the Wee Small Hours kind of day; misty, grey, about ten degrees colder than I'd have liked.

  I took a sip of iced tea as I grappled with something. It wasn't a new piece of information—technically speaking, it was something I'd known for a bit now—but something had struck me in retreading old ground, something I'd glazed over on the first pass.

  In March of 1989—the 28thth to be exact—there'd been a complete power outage at Chaythe Asylum, resulting in pandemonium. A patient by the name of Enid Lancaster had capitalized on that chaos, escaping from her quarters and going on a killing spree with a meat cleaver.

  It was the date that sent up a red flag.

  I glanced at my phone, pulling up the day's date. It was March 27th. The Third Ward Incident had taken place nearly 28 years ago this month. We were just a day off from its anniversary. Dave Thackeray had mentioned the curious timing. At the time I'd thought little of it, but the more I dwelt on this detail, the harder it was becoming to ignore.

  And then, diving back into my reading, I was confronted by another detail that seemed eerily coincidental.

  Enid Lancaster had been 28 years old when she'd gone on her rampage on the 28th of March, nearly 28 years ago.

  Was I supposed to consider that just another coincidence, too?

  I set the phone down, concentrating on my meal and letting the wheels turn in my head. 28 years ago, almost to the day, a 28 year old mental patient killed a number of people during a power outage. A week or two ago, just in time for the anniversary of that incident, Dave Thackeray started getting strange calls from a disconnected number that'd been tied to the asylum. Almost as though... something were reaching out from the old building.