I nodded as his incomprehensible words echoed in my heavy head.
“First, let me make some coffee, sir,” rambling, he yanked the tray off the counter. “And I definitely need some of that cream. Are you sure you don’t want it?”
I shook my head, repeating his words silently in my heart.
“You’re solely responsible for what happens after that.”
Barry shrugged and headed straight towards the kitchen.
I slumped back in the armchair and closed my eyes, listening to the silent beating of my heart, felling unsure whether it was a wise decision or not to ask Barry about Martha or should I call her Mad Martha. It was all too vague…
Chapter 8: Barry’s Tale
My eyes blinked open at the sound of a whistle and saw Barry resting an excited, silver kettle and a pitcher bigger than the one he’d brought before, brimming with snow-white, whipped cream.
It looked like that we were in for a longer period of time that I’d anticipated.
I glanced at the grandfather clock and saw that it was nearly half past two in the day.
“It’s my grandmother’s,” he said happily, pointing at the rusty kettle which honked one final, weak hiss before becoming silent.
He drained nearly half of the cream on his plate and pushed my coffee towards me.
I waited eagerly for him to start.
Catching the look on my face, he looked at me and raised his eyebrows.
“Sir, I hope you don’t mind me asking you—but how did you find out about her?” he asked warily and began buttering the crumpets.
My heart skipped a beat.
“Well…err…I was just cleaning the wardrobe yesterday and I saw the word “Martha” etched on the back of it. Umm … I thought it’d be better if I asked you about her and it seems like you know her too.”
He continued to look at me dubiously, not completely convinced with my story. He gobbled the cream quickly with his finger, and before helping himself to some more, he began, clearing his throat loudly:
“Sir, long before this lodge came into existence, this place was originally an asylum for the mentally insane and handicapped. And long before that, some people say it was a tuberculosis treatment center and before that-- a nursing home for the widows. That’s what I heard from my grandma and she heard it from hers,” he paused and, burping loudly like a frog, pushed the plate of crumpets towards me.
“Thank you, Barry,” I said, picking one up. They smelled like stale washcloths.
Controlling myself not to gag, I sneaked it under the counter when he got busy; spreading generous amounts of cream on his plate of crumpets and humming Queen’s “Another one bites the dust.”
“Where was I? Oh, yes—” He pushed the knife aside, took another large bite and then munching slowly, said, “It was a monolith. Some say it was bigger than the British museum. Yes! I know it’s hard to believe but you heard me right, sir. It officially opened on December 6, 1843, and had a capacity of roughly about fifteen hundred beds. From its clock tower to the long, winding corridors and staircases-- it was simply massive. You could walk around all day but never could walk around all of it. No sooner than a decade later, it became more of a dumping place…offering home and refuge to people with no psychiatric history. A place where families would abandon their old ones, leaving them to rot. And then came a time when the asylum faced a dire shortage of staff, with up to one nurse attending more than two hundred patients a day. Some called it the problem of the century, you know. But it wasn’t that big of a deal because similar problems plagued nearly every asylum of that time. My grandmother, Ruth was a head nurse there. God bless her soul!”
He paused, gazed blearily around the foyer and then continued.
“The place was run by Dr. Gerald. A nice little fellow, accommodating everyone around...be it the patients or the homeless—everybody seemed to love him. But that was before he met Martha. Yes! That was before he met her! Things were never quite the same afterwards. He went completely bonkers after the encounter--did things to his patients that I dare not speak about and what followed was, however, more terrible which eventually led to the closure of the asylum in 1916. The doctor’s grisly additions to the original building ranged from padded cells and solitary confinement in sewers to an underground mustard gas chamber for his unshakable inmates who…well…refused to agree with his novel methods of cure. The most abhorred was his modified pre-frontal lobotomy. It gave me nightmares when I first overhead my grandmother tell my pa on her death bed. That’s another story altogether, sir…
“So, from the biggest advocate of medical intervention, he became a monster. Favoring extreme forms of human experimentation and torture to cure his patients. But everybody knew that his idea of a perfect cure was nothing more than a mere fiction—an excuse to evade the officials. All he wanted was torture, torture and some more torture. He’d go nuts if he didn’t see at least ten patients dying daily. Whoever used to get better, he’d put them in the gas chamber for an hour. He had even built a body chute where he’d burn the deceased, often to conceal the grisly injuries on their bodies. And when finally the death toll reached more than six thousand, the authorities closed down the place. Dr. Gerald disappeared without a trace, never to be heard from again. My grandma resigned long before the officials raided the place. Some say his body was discovered in the very gas chamber. I’m not sure if he managed to escape the place alive or not, however, his atrocities were rumored to be so notorious that it led many to believe that the area became haunted shortly after the place got closed.”
The clock groaned loudly as it struck three.
“Haunted?” I blurted out.
“Well …yes, sir. Exactly seven years later, a fire broke out in the north tower… bringing down the whole structure with its harrowing past. What left of it was mostly rubble and some burnt trolleys and beds. And what started the fire is a mystery to this day, and even stranger is the fact that it was raining the night it crumbled down. Children would often go there to play hide and seek in the ruins. It became more of a playground for them. But soon they went missing…one by one. About sixty of them had vanished by the end of 1932, and despite thousands of hours of searching— none of them were ever found. Not even their bodies. Discovery of dismembered animals was, however, another concern for the shepherds, you see. The greenery always attracted them. But not for long. They began avoiding the place altogether…calling it…the cursed land. I still remember back in the day when I wandered off into the woods, searching for my dog. The only time I really saw my pa so angry. Beat me to a blood pulp…oh, yes...and that’s how the peculiar rules came into being,” he finished sighing wistfully.
“Cursed by what exactly, Barry?” I asked slowly.
There was an uncomfortable pause. Even the groans of the grumpy grandfather clock paused as if waiting in dread for the answer.
“By the legend of Martha,” he whispered, his eyes narrowing. “And it all began on the day she arrived at Gerald’s institute for mentally insane and handicapped.”
Lightening flashed and the thunder roared overhead as a spine tingling shiver ran down my spine, raising every sleeping hair on my body.
Chapter 9: Gerald’s Institute for Mentally Insane and Handicapped
31st October 1904
Gerald’s Office
Second floor
South Tower
Skiddaw Forest, England
5:30 pm
An old man, in early sixties, fumbled through a pile of papers on a battered desk. He pushed the glasses up his sweaty nose and frowned at the untidy scrawls, trying to make out their vague meaning under the dim lamp light. When the piece of scroll did not interest him, he threw it in to a dusty crate and watched the shriveling paper turn to ashes among the dancing flames. Thinking hard, he poured some amber colored liquid from an old stein and drank deeply.
“Now where did I keep it?” he mumbled, scratching his head as he placed the glass back on the shelf.
&nb
sp; He looked nervous and tired. For a moment, his eyes flickered to a frame on his table; a woman with greying, blonde hair stared back at him. She was his wife, Helen, and their last adventure together before she got ill— seriously ill. A lump formed in his throat. He tried to gulp down the awkward feeling. But when it didn’t disappear, he thrust the photo face downwards on the desk and blinked away the tears.
Sighing, he shook his head rather frantically and resumed with the tedious task.
“Can’t ask them to send a new one now,” he muttered under his breath as he bent over a rack of files, his eyes flicking from one name to another.
“No…no…I didn’t keep it here… these are old…” he thought and rose. Straightening his glasses and panting heavily, his eyes fell on the drawer.
His personal drawer.
“Of course!” he exclaimed, dashing forward. He picked up a jumble of keys from the wall behind the desk, as his eyes flashed anxiously across the window. The sun glinted duskily through the window. The clouds were building up on the far horizon, an unmistakable shade of grey surmounting the royal blue.
Any time now, he wondered loudly and then nearly letting the jumble fall, he selected a battered looking key and thrust it inside the lock of the drawer. The lock clicked open and he pushed the drawer out.
Looking down, he saw a relatively new file scattered among the rusty paperclips. Smiling, sighing and panting, he wiped the sweat off his brow, gathered the new file and dropped heavily in his chair.
He flipped it open and began to study.
Miss Martha: A case Undiagnosed
His eyes fell on the recent picture of a woman wearing an off-white hospital robes. She looked in her early twenties with untrimmed bushy eye brows and a broad smile plastered across her sallow face. A smile that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. It was only very rarely that patients at his facility were able to instill a feeling of unease and dread in him. And she seemed like one of those inmates. His eyes danced from her face to a tainted rag doll, which she was clutching firmly to her chest. One plastic eye was missing. He strained his eyes for a few seconds on the dull patch of wall paper behind her. It looked like a thick shadow. More like an obscure smoke, rising all the way to the ceiling.
Maybe it’s a glitch. Yes, that must be it!
He shoved the eccentric looking picture back in the desk. He needed to concentrate. He turned the yellow introductory page and began reading the patient’s profile:
Name: Miss Martha
Age: Unknown
Sex: Female
Address: Current location: High Royds, Menston, Previously: St. Gillham’s orphanage.
Date of Admission: 25th September 1904
Admitted to the services of Dr. Paula Bethlem
Height: 163 cm
Weight: 120 pounds
Eye Colour: Grey
Dear Dr. Gerald,
I hope my letter finds you well and in good spirits. I congratulate you on your research paper on chemical lobotomy and as an antagonist of surgical interventions myself; I have found it to be truly enlightening and encouraging.
I’m writing to you because of a series of bizarre and strange phenomena that I have myself experienced, but which is beyond the comprehension of the doctors at High Royds. I deem it necessary that she should be shifted immediately to your facility without further delay.
It all started about five days ago on September 21st, 1904. Mr. Andrew Philip, Associate Dean of St. Gillham’s orphanage, arrived at High Royds, precisely at midnight in a state of complete apprehension. At first, I thought he was suffering from delirium tremens. On further examination I discovered that he was trembling all over but surprisingly his speech was intact. This was, of course, in contradiction to the condition which I’d suspected earlier. So after I’d calmed him down with a shot of Lorazepam, he confided his fear and overwhelming concern for the children at the orphanage. With his permission I’ve recorded the whole meeting by jotting down what he said. The following are his words in exact quotation as they came out of his mouth:
“About three days ago…it was a stormy night...yes… I remember it. I was rolling in my bed, unable to sleep. Hence, I decided to read a book to distract myself. I situated myself in my study chair near my bedroom window and began to read. It was half past three that night when I noticed that a figure was standing near the front gate. At first glance, I couldn’t discern what it was and I thought it to be a mere figment of my imagination but as the lightning struck, I saw a woman. Yes…a woman…staring at my window!
I speculated maybe she was homeless and was looking for shelter. I woke up my caretaker and asked him to go out and see what the case was.
As I watched through my window I saw him opening the gate and approaching her.
He talked and talked but the woman just stood there, eyes locked on my window.
Her face was as calm as a summer sea.
Deeply perplexed and feeling pity for her, I thought it would be better if I’d go myself to ask her if she wanted to spend the night at our orphanage. When I went outside—it was awfully cold yet she was standing in her flimsy clothing with her hair, a tangled mess, tumbling down her back. I offered her to stay until the storm was over but in return she gave me a cold, empty stare and then nodding her head vaguely, followed us inside.
We gave her new clothes and ushered her to one of our empty rooms. She didn’t speak once. She just sat on the bed, eyeing the surroundings and humming to an ugly doll—the only belonging she carried with her.
I figured she must be mute…or nearly.
I left her inside, feeling content with my decision but I never foresaw what terror was about to follow…
The very next morning we discovered half of our chickens were missing in our coop, with blood and feathers all over the floor. We speculated that a fox or a wolf might have found a way in through the chick wire, but it was intact and unbroken. In the afternoon our windows and dormitory doors were opening and slamming shut on their own, and clothes from the cupboards were flying everywhere. I and my wife including my servants couldn’t comprehend what exactly was going on. The woman sat near the fireplace, smiling and humming to herself. Some of the children approached me and asked about her. I reassured them that she was only a guest and would leave soon. Her eyes met mine and I saw the…the …evil in them. I could see the flames burning in her eyes; full of hatred and anger. Yet, she was so calm and collected
The next day we discovered that all the food in our pantry had gone bad and some more chickens were missing. We spent most of our day cleaning up the mess. We could sense that something was oddly wrong, but, yet we couldn’t relate...Oh God! —I wish I hadn’t invited that evil inside. I tried in my best capacity to calm the restless children but the sense of impending doom had gripped all of us.
Today I woke up to the noise of a horrible noise of someone screaming in agony. It was half past ten. The children usually go to bed by eight. With my heart galloping like a mad horse, I jumped out of my bed. I could recognize some of the voices that were yelling or screaming…I wasn’t sure. Without wasting another minute, I immediately ran downstairs to the main hall, nearly slipping on the stairs— and what I saw… Oh, I’ll never forget it… Never!
About twenty children were hanging in mid-air in the main hall as if tied with invisible ropes. Some were screaming and some were crying. Rolling up and down, precariously close to the chandelier. I thought I was still dreaming. And then— I saw her— sitting with her doll in the center of the hall in what looked like a pool of blood, with chicken feathers everywhere… and she was singing a poem. No…she wasn’t singing …no …that’s not how you sing…she was screaming. Her screams pierced my ears, and I felt my intestines squirm as if they’d rip out of my belly.
I hurried to my servant quarters and asked one of them to fetch the local police. Please…doctor…I need you to give me something…something that will ease my senses. I think I’ll go insane…please, help me!”
/> The police brought Miss Martha in shackles to our hospital. They told me that she had found a way to get out of those chains and had bit several officers during the transfer. At a mere glance, I knew that she was psychic; with startling abilities like closing the doors without even touching them and making objects fly straight in our faces. She even told me the name of my grandmother who’d passed away several years ago from cancer.
I know telekinesis and telepathy are your expertise, Dr. Gerald, and I also know that you would love to work on this case. I’ve attached the formal letter of transfer. Kindly, let me know before the 20th so that we’re able to shift her to your facility. It would be impossible before that because many doctors from all over Europe are flying to have a look at her. She’s famous already without even making the newspapers.
I have run some basic tests and found out that she has a brain tumor. An aggressive one. From the initial pneumoencephalography report it seems that she has developed Glioblastoma Multiforme, a very uncommon tumor at such a tender age but definitely not unheard of. One of the ventricles is completely compressed. I don’t think she has a lot of time despite her perfectly healthy appearance. I know that you’ll be dying to see her. But I’ll have to warn you, Dr. Gerald. The girl has plenty of surprises up her sleeve, so you and your staff must exercise strict caution when approaching her. Keep her chained at all times, and I won’t be surprised if she already knows where she’s heading. Only the other day I overheard her telling the nurse that she was going to be home soon.
With due respect and regards,
Dr. Paula Bethlem
Associate Professor of Psychiatry and Neurology
P.S She keeps talking to something in a very peculiar language. Our speech therapist couldn’t make much of it. I’ve tried to ask her about it several times, but she becomes extremely petulant. I thought that you should know about it. Keep in touch!
The Haunting At Barry's Lodge (Gripping Paranormal Private Investigator Suspense Novel): Unexplained Eerie Story of the Supernatural and A Dark Disturbing Psychological Thriller with a Killer Twist Page 8